Winter's Fyre Read online

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  Red Rose Publishing

  www.redrosepublishing.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Carolyn Gregg

  First published in 2007-11-15, 2007

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Winter's Fyre

  By

  Carolyn Gregg

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Winter's Fyre by Carolyn Gregg

  Red Rose Publishing

  Copyright© 2007 Carolyn Gregg

  ISBN: 978-1-60435-046-3

  ISBN: 1-60435-046-6

  Cover Artist: Rene Lyons

  Editor: Lea Schizas

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you can not trade, sell or give any ebooks away.

  Red Rose Publishing

  www.redrosepublishing.com

  Forestport, NY 13338

  Winter's Fyre

  By

  Carolyn Gregg

  Winter's Fyre

  "...and the weather man's predicting another good six to eight inches of fine powder before morning."

  Shelby clicked off the radio with a grunt. “The only six to eight inches that would help me would be money in a pile that high.” Or a good, thick dick with those dimensions, her subconscious added.

  Damn that little devil sitting on her shoulder!

  Shrugging it off, she hurried upstairs and double-checked all the rooms she'd closed down for the season. It was imperative everything was nice and tight before this next big Arctic blast came down and covered the world in white. “Gee. Just in time for a white Christmas", she mused aloud. Oh, joy.

  She was doing a lot more of that now, talking to herself. If she didn't, there wouldn't be anything to listen to other than the television or radio, or her cassette player.

  When her father had died the week before the beginning of tourist season in May, Shelby had tackled running the little bed and breakfast with a vengeance. Of course, with his onset of emphysema last year, it had only been a matter of time before he would pass on. She could remember with painful clarity how frail and withered Stan Fyre had become. And how quickly his lungs had failed, until even the twenty-four hours a day oxygen failed to keep him going.

  A slamming noise alerted her with its constant and almost rhythmic like hammering. Again? Dammit, it was occurring more and more frequently. Most of the time she couldn't figure out where it was coming from, and the unexpected banging was becoming an annoyance. Shelby went in search of its location, only this time to find out it was a loose shutter in the Rose Room.

  The tourist season was over. This part of the country did not get the skiers and snow bunnies like most places did who lived off of the trade. The hectic heyday of running the business was over, and for the first time in her life Shelby was facing the holidays alone.

  Needless to say, she was dreading it.

  The top bedrooms and baths were finally secure. They were also colder than ice. Making sure the windows were firmly closed and locked, Shelby shut each door behind her without worrying about locking them. With the vacationers gone, there was no need to keep the doors locked. It would only impede her ability to run in and out when cleaning. Taking one last look around, the last one until next March, Shelby hurried downstairs to check on her dinner nuking in the microwave.

  The bottom floor held the open parlor, the kitchen, the dining room, a bathroom, and two bedrooms—actually a bedroom with a smaller room adjacent to it, which had originally been the nursery. Shelby had slept upstairs until her mother's death, and then in the tiny antechamber so she could be near her father whenever he needed her for anything. After the funeral, she had taken the master bedroom for herself.

  The soup was ready. Throwing some bread into the toaster, Shelby dug out the last of the bologna to make a sandwich. She didn't particularly care for bologna, but she loathed throwing away perfectly good food. “Leftover Shelby,” she muttered, mouthing the words her mother often spoke after meals when scraping together a plate she could warm up later.

  It was bad enough that her mother had guilted her into moving back to help them with the inn once Shelby had earned her degree in business. Her father had just been diagnosed, and Vera Fyre couldn't take care of him and the inn at the same time. Neither did they have enough money to hire a full-time nurse or housekeeper. Thus Shelby had resumed the familiar routines she had grown up doing with the belief it would be temporary. Get the inn ready and out of the starting gate, hopefully there would be enough monies coming in for them to get Stan some hospice care.

  That had been her hope in January. In February her mother suffered a sudden stroke and died two days later. Stan followed his wife in late April.

  Of course, the temptation not to open the Fyreside Inn at the end of May had been overwhelming. If it were not for the dozens of phone calls from people who made a point to stay at the cozy B and B part of their yearly pilgrimage, Shelby would have left out the closed sign.

  She ate her meal while standing over the sink and stared from the kitchen window at the back yard. The inn was definitely too much for one person to handle. Thank goodness, she had been able to obtain part-time help from two old friends of the family. Still, it was too damn quiet around here. And too much empty time was already dangling in front of her. The last guest had departed almost two months ago, but it had taken her this long to finish the minor repairs and get the place boarded down and ready for the winter.

  "Get a hobby,” she said aloud, surprised by her burst of rhetoric. “Oh, yeah. Easier said than done. What can I do?” Once the snows began, there might be days without electricity. In the past on those cold winter nights, she remembered sleeping huddled around the fireplace. Having to go without electricity was a big reason why the stove and water heater were gas lit.

  "Maybe I could trudge over to the public library to get a couple hundred books to help tide me over until spring. Oh, I know!” she playfully brightened up. “Let me go rent as many videos as Damon at Movie Vue will let me carry. Then I can trade off between books and videos.” And while I'm at it, is there a place in town where I can rent a boyfriend?

  "Oh, God, face it, Shelby. You had no social life when you were growing up in a little one-horse town like Maple Cove. And when you went off to college, you were too damn driven to get your degree to ever date. And now here you are, stuck back in the cove with only two prospects left to you. You can stay here for the rest of your life, or you can sell the inn and seek your fortune elsewhere."

  Shit. Some choice. If truth be told, she loved the inn, problems, headaches, hard work, and all. She had lived here since she was three, when her parents bought the two-story Victorian and took over the business. This was the only home she'd ever known, and selling the place would be the same as tearing her heart out of her chest.

  Which left her with one very real outlook for the future—old maid-ism. A non-lethal disease, but one which left the infected with an acute case of horniness and a morose attitude toward life.

  She glanced at
the calendar on the wall by the back door. The day after tomorrow was Christmas. There would be no presents to unwrap. No visit from Santa. Hell, she didn't even have a tree up.

  Come Christmas morning, after she got up, she would watch the parade on television and eat her turkey potpie she'd bought for the occasion. Since there was no one else to cook for, and the visitors were out of her hair, Shelby planned to fix as few meals as she could get away with. Besides, there were those extra stray pounds still clinging to her hips that she would love to get rid of.

  Sighing loudly, Shelby washed her few dishes and laid them on the drain board to dry. Stretching, she scratched an itch around her belly button and walked into the parlor to see if there was anything interesting on TV.

  It was the first night of her self-imposed solitude. She might as well accept it and get ready for one hell of a long winter.

  * * * *

  It was the sound of a log falling out of the grate that awoke her. Shelby jerked out of sleep and made her way over to where the piece of wood was merrily burning on the hearth. Thank goodness, she had put up the screen before falling unconscious on the couch.

  She straightened, trying to pop the kink out of her back. Might as well call it a night. The bed would be cold—so what else was new? However, it wasn't anything an electric blanket couldn't fix while she was in the shower.

  Shelby glanced at her watch as she turned out the lights and made her way to the rear of the inn. “Man, it's nearly one in the morning. I must've been tired!” Yawning, she paused only long enough to hear the steady howling of the wind. The weather had kicked up as predicted. “Good thing I don't need to set the alarm. Since we're closed for the season, why should I?"

  She made her way to the back bedroom, shedding her clothes and dumping them in the hamper as she climbed into the shower. If she was going to start a list of positives for living alone in a six-bedroom inn, Seven if you count the baby room, her little voice reminded her. It was that there was enough hot water to last for a three-hour shower if she wanted to stay in that long.

  The little gas heater in the bathroom had the place comfy cozy when she climbed out of the tub. Throwing on a pair of aged soft flannel pajamas, Shelby went back into the kitchen for a glass of water. She started to reach for the upper cabinet door to get a glass when she heard humming.

  What...?

  It was soft. Indistinct. Definitely a tune, although she couldn't identify it. It sounded as if it was coming from far away, but her intuition told her it was closer than that.

  A thin ribbon of fear curled up inside her stomach. Could someone have broken in while she was in the shower? It was common knowledge places around here sealed themselves up for the season. What if a vagrant or miscreant was looking for a quick item to pawn and had managed to get into the house?

  But something about the humming didn't sound menacing or threatening. In fact, it almost had a light-hearted appeal to it. Shelby blinked. A happy burglar?

  Didn't matter. She started to grab one of the butcher knives, then hesitated. With her luck, she would accidentally stab herself instead of the intruder. No, go with the broom, Shelby. Just beat the shit out of him.

  Carefully, slowly, she advanced into the dining room adjacent to the kitchen, but the area was empty. Same for the parlor. Furthermore, the humming sound was completely gone. Faded away, as if she had separated herself from it rather than the hummer ceasing the tune.

  "Spooky, girlfriend. Definitely Twilight Zone material."

  Her mother used to declare that Fyreside Inn was haunted, but neither Shelby nor her father had ever come across or heard anything unusual in all the years they'd lived there.

  Not until now.

  She found the front door still securely bolted and the windows in the parlor airtight. Outside the snow was beginning to fall, slanting sideways in the wind. For a few seconds the clouds parted, giving her a brief glimpse of a single bright star shining above them. Impulsively, Shelby chanted softly, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight."

  Okay, doofus. What do you wish for?

  "Someone to love,” she responded almost automatically. “I'm not going to be picky. Not at this point in time."

  If she expected an answer, she got none. The wind whipped around the corner of the house, making the window panes rattle. Shivering, Shelby hurried back to the bedroom, foregoing her drink of water, and propped the broom next to the headboard before she climbed underneath the warm covers.

  She was asleep almost instantly.

  * * * *

  Bacon. Someone was frying bacon.

  "What the...” Sitting up in bed, Shelby took another sniff, then another. Yep. Someone was definitely frying bacon. There was no way she mistake that smell.

  The room was freezing cold, and the wood panel floors were like stepping on a sheet of ice. Still, she grabbed the broom and began to tiptoe into the kitchen to accost the cook, or whoever had the audacity to break into her home to fix breakfast.

  Strangely, though, the closer she got to the kitchen the fainter the scent became. Definitely not right. Peeking around the corner, she took in the spotless, empty room in the gray dawn light. No one was there, but, dammit, she had smelled bacon frying!

  At the thought of bacon, her stomach gurgled for attention. Obediently, Shelby lowered the broom and went to answer the call of nature first before tackling breakfast.

  The radio announced the road outside the cove had been shut down until the snow plows could arrive. Munching on a piece of toast, Shelby built a fresh fire in the living room to help ward off the worst of the chill. A glance out the front door let her know a good six inches had fallen during the night. If she wanted a paper, she would have to bundle up tight and trudge over to Mike's Mercantile.

  Shelby shrugged. If she got desperate, she might consider it. But in the meantime, she wasn't bored out of her mind. Not yet, anyway.

  The fire crackled nicely. Standing in front of it, she let it heat her front and tush. After she finished the dishes, she would need to bring another load of logs into room. That meant she had to dress warmly. “Might as well go over to the store and pick up a couple of things, since they'll be closed tomorrow anyway,” she observed aloud. Tomorrow was Christmas. If the weather wasn't reason enough to bring everything to a complete standstill, the holiday would be.

  Taking a deep breath, Shelby put up the fireplace screen and went back into the kitchen to wash the few items she'd used. That done, she headed for the bedroom—never expecting to see the nude man standing by her bed. His face was lifted, eyes closed, a blissful expression on his face as his hand pumped away on the turgid cock in his hand.

  Shelby screamed. The man's eyes snapped open in alarm and his face went pasty white in shock.

  "What the fuck! Who the hell are you?"

  Shelby screamed again, taking a step backwards and bumping into the door jamb by mistake. She was trapped, cornered, and unable to move. The man took two steps toward her as he reached out to grab her. Reaching with the same hand, he'd been using to jack himself off over her bed!

  "What are you doing he—"

  His hand went through her arm and wrist, and the figure vanished from view.

  Too upset to think about what she'd just witnessed, Shelby ran to the living room and straight to the phone.

  "9-1-1. What is your emergency?"

  "Help me! There's a man in my bedroom!"

  "Excuse me?"

  "My name's Shelby Fyre. I own Fyreside Inn, and some strange man has broken into my house! He tried to attack me! Help me, please!"

  Her body wouldn't stop shivering. Neither could she stop the terror flooding her system. With her back pressed to the wall, Shelby kept her eyes glued to the hallway leading to the back bedroom. There was no way the guy could get into the kitchen or into any other part of the house without entering the hallway first.

  Oh, fuck! She'd left the broom in the kitchen!
r />   "Miss Fyre, a sheriff's deputy is on his way, but it may take a few minutes with all the snow. I don't think the plows have made it down your way yet, so please hold on. Don't hang up,” the operator instructed her.

  "Please hurry!"

  "We're doing the best we can. Can you describe your assailant?"

  "Assailant? Uhh, tall. Dark hair.” She was stammering, nearly petrified. Thank God the phones still worked.

  "Young? Old?"

  "Uhh, young. I mean, maybe in his thirties."

  "So he's an adult?” the operator asked.

  "Yes. Yes, he's a grown man.” And good looking, the devil on her shoulder commented. Not to mention HUNG.

  Screw you, Shelby silently reprimanded.

  So far, nothing moved or made a sound in the hallway. Still, Shelby continued to clutch the receiver to her ear.

  "Miss? The deputy should be there shortly. Where are you? Is he armed?"

  "I'm in the alcove, but if he comes out of my bedroom he'll be able to see me."

  "Can you move someplace where he can't see you?"

  "No! This is my only other phone, except for the one in the kitchen, but that one's closer to the bedroom."

  "Is he armed?” the operator asked again.

  "Not that I saw, but he has access to my broom,” Shelby answered without thinking.

  "To your what?"

  A sudden knock at the front door startled her. She must have given a little shriek because the emergency operator tried to calm her ragged nerves. “It's all right, Miss. That's the deputy. Please let him in."

  "I'll have to hang up to answer the door. I can't reach it from here,” Shelby told her.

  "No, don't hang up! Just lay the receiver down."

  "Oh. Okay.” She placed the receiver down beside the phone and went to unlock the front door. Dennis Labb stood on the porch, shivering in the cold.

  "Shelby? You okay?” he whispered.

  "Yeah. For now. Thanks for coming,” she answered, ushering him inside. The deputy glanced around the foyer, cautious and prepared.