Nestled against the sparkling shores of Lake Superior, the tiny village of Moonstone is anything but ordinary. Between romantic entanglements, quirky neighbors, and mysteries that seem to pop up with every season, the locals know life here comes with a generous dose of laughter and surprise. From silkie chickens and a giant prehistoric beaver skeleton to kidnapped reindeer and holiday hijinks, mischief is always waiting just around the corner. Fall in love with the humorous, heartwarming adventures of Moonstone–where romance meets mayhem in the most delightful ways.

 

 

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Chapter 1

 

Minutes after winning another bull-riding event in Las Vegas, Kincaid Hunter’s mind switched with his usual precision to the next thing he had to achieve:  stopping the Christmastime wedding of his buddy John “Bozeman” Hall. Jason and I looked into her past, Boze, and there’s something I gotta tell ya. You’re gonna lose your ranch.

It took three airplanes to get to northern Wisconsin, which gave him plenty of time to practice his speech. After landing in Superior, Kincaid drove east on a snow-covered road that split a pine forest into a desolate canyon. It was past three on Friday afternoon with temperatures dropping into the teens, something he wasn’t used to anymore. A sky pock-marked with gray clouds spit beebie-sized snow at him. Kincaid shivered inside his ski jacket and heavy sweater.

Kincaid planned to get back to the Vegas lights and glitter mighty soon. Just as he dispatched a two-thousand-pound bull in eight seconds, he would shake sense into Boze and get them both back to the parties.

The champion bull rider even had a date lined up for the party at Bellagio’s this Sunday night. She was the latest one-name, blond singing sensation. Honey? Honesty? Honda? No, the latter was a car. He enjoyed precision, but that didn’t include remembering the names of all the women he dated. Dating the same woman more than once was, well, downright wasteful. There were plenty of good-smellin’ gals interested in helping the tall, dark, handsome cowboy off with his tan Stetson and finely-tooled, black boots.

His buddy’s wedding was scheduled to take place a week from tomorrow, on the Saturday after Thursday’s Christmas. Kincaid planned to take only this weekend to show Boze what he’d been missing with the guys. They’d go snowmobiling tonight, skiing tomorrow morning, then ice fishing. They would shoot pool and shoot the breeze in country bars, and shoot down this ridiculous idea of Boze marrying a divorcee with a checkered past. Don’t you see you’re about to land in a nest full of rattlesnakes?

As soon as his rental car hit the west edge of Moonstone, Kincaid sensed trouble. “Holy crap,” he muttered, “this town is…quaint.” This mission might be tougher than he expected.

He stopped the car next to a snowbank lining the snowy street. Since his military days he’d always checked out the “lay of the land” before venturing into danger. This place reeked of quaintness. And quaintness was for old people, not for Boze and Kincaid who were only thirty-two and who still had all their natural-color, thick, brown hair.

Kincaid cringed at the wreaths and red ribbons adorning every door in sight as well as the pumps at the two-pump gas station and auto body shop across the street. Banners hanging off light poles said “Merry Christmas” and “Joy to the World” instead of the generic “Happy Holidays”. Snowmen stood at cockeyed angles in every yard.

Kincaid wheeled across the street to the gas station, parking next to a semi-trailer truck with its diesel engine running. To face all the quaintness, Kincaid needed black coffee, the kind that put hair on a man’s chest. He knew he’d find it here. Truckers were like ranchers–hard-working men who rode the road instead of bulls.

Inside, a swarthy, weathered guy with a thick, dark mustache and black stocking cap was helping himself to coffee at a rickety card table in the window corner. A little creature of maybe six and in pink was with him. Kincaid didn’t see many little kids in Vegas. This imp had messy, curly black hair that got in her eyes. Using her fingers, she was mixing a styrofoam cup of what looked like instant cocoa. Her threadbare, pink coat was a moment away from being soaked in cocoa. A bulging pink and purple backpack with faeries flying on it sat on the floor next to the girl’s booted feet.

“Howdy,” Kincaid said to the man, taking off his Stetson. “Cold out there.” He kept his ski jacket on against the chill. The trucker still wore his coat, too.

“Oui, mon ami, but we get used to it.” The trucker settled on a folding chair to slurp his coffee. “The truck stays warm at night.”

“You sleep in the truck?”

“Many times, if the roads are bad and we can’t get back to Superior after one of our hauls.” The man tousled the girl’s hair.

Kincaid marveled that she slept in the truck. For some reason, that troubled him. “What’re they predicting for weather?”

“Five-below tonight. It’ll put an early end to the live Nativity celebration on the other end of Main Street.”

“Live? People are standing outside in this?”

“A real Mary and Joseph, and a baby bundled up. They have real animals, too. Anybody who wants to can sing hymns with them at this very moment. We stopped for ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’. If you miss it, there’s always next year.”

“They do this every year?”

“Oui. This town lives and breathes traditional customs.”

Traditional quaint crap. Kincaid filled a styrofoam cup with steaming coffee. It scalded his mouth and throat; hairs sprouted on his chest. The little girl stared up at him, her mouth agape like a guppy.

Kincaid said to her, “Santa coming to your house this Christmas?”

“He’s only bringing one present and I have five things on my list.” She showed him one, then five fingers. “Can you tell him to bring me all the things?”

Her dad rose. “Shandra Leigh, that’s not nice.” He proffered a hand toward Kincaid. “I’m Philippe Montreaux, and this is my daughter. We’ve had discussions about how one gift is enough. Santa has to have enough presents for all the kids and not just her.”

Kincaid had no wisdom on the issue. He’d never bought gifts for kids his entire life, and he’d never believed in Santa. These days he was showered with sponsorship gifts, something he wasn’t about to mention here. “I’m Kincaid Hunter. Call me Kade.” He liked Philippe’s firm, warm handshake.

Shandra kept gawking.

Philippe plopped a hand on her head. “Shandra Leigh, please watch your manners.”

She went back to stirring the cocoa, sloshing it onto the table.

“Use the spoon, Shandra Leigh,” Philippe admonished, grabbing napkins.

While Philippe mopped the table, Kade looked about the small shop. A handmade, patchwork cloth wreath hung on the wall behind the register. A price tag said two dollars. Kade remembered high school fund-raisers in Montana where such things were sold around the holidays. Thank goodness he’d left that pitiful existence far behind.

Philippe asked, “Driving through?”

“I wish. Here for a wedding. You know a John Hall?”

Philippe laughed. “Had breakfast with the poor guy this morning at The Jingle Bell Inn. He was up at five baking sugar cookies.”

“What the heck for?”

“Mon ami, I heard that all the decorations throughout The Jingle Bell Inn restaurant and the North Pole mansion have to be homemade. Your buddy was making sugar cookie stars to hang on the trees. John said they’ve got six trees.”

Aarrgh. “I’ll rescue him for a little bachelor party stuff this weekend.”

“Good luck. That fiancée Dolly’s something else. John’s in for a wild ride.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

Shandra spouted, “Two creepy boys from Italy are visiting them. Renzo and Romeo. They get like a hundred Christmas presents.”

“Please, Shandra Leigh.” Philippe’s stern look sent her back to her cocoa cup before he smiled at Kade again. “Watch your step over there or you’ll be putting together gingerbread houses tonight for your entertainment. There was some wedding planner gal looking for volunteers.”

“I plan to take my buddy out for a good time on the snowmobile trails followed by a few brews.”

“First ya gotta get him out of his toga.”

“Toga?”

“He’s playing Joseph this Christmas over in the park. If you hurry, mon ami, you shall find him there with his fiancée who’s playing Mary. Her kid’s a shepherd boy.” The trucker pulled Shandra’s coat hood up over her head. “We gotta get back on the road.”

Shandra said, “I don’t wanna go back. I wanna finish my cocoa.”

“Come along, cheri.” Philippe picked up the stuffed pink and purple backpack.

After Philippe and Shandra left, Kade realized that to stop this wedding he had to break up the “Holy Family”. That certainly had an icky taint to it. Dolly O’Toole, you’re good at this game of snagging a man.

Back in his car, Kincaid inched down Main Street. Snowflakes the size of goose feathers fluttered onto his windshield. The town’s main drag was barely as long as a Vegas casino. As Kade approached the mansion on the other end of town where he’d be staying and where the wedding was supposed to take place, the singing of “Away in the Manger” drifted into his car.

Across the street, about a hundred people huddled in the cold around a tiny, three-sided stable. It appeared Moonstone’s town fathers allowed religious events on public property. Strings of lights illuminated the crèche. Kincaid spotted Boze in his flowing blue sheet. He sat amid yellow straw bales with a woman in a pink toga. Some kid in costume–probably Finn–appeared to be helping other children pet a donkey, goats, and an alpaca, the latter likely sufficing as a camel. Everybody sang from song books.

And to think I missed the party at the Wynn casino for this. But I’ll be back by Sunday night, in time to take Honey-Honesty-Honda-what’s-her-name to Bellagio’s bash.

Kade was even thirstier now for a beer and a fast blast on a snowmobile. He drove into a tiny parking lot that held about ten cars, presumably owned by patrons of The Jingle Bell Inn restaurant at the back of the mansion. One look at the three-story Victorian house made him groan again. Oh, man, do I have my work cut out for me. The place is right out of a fairy tale.

The white house had a green roof and red trim. It sported a front verandah with railings decked out with red bows. Glass sconces flickered with real candles. His buddy Boze said the place had been dubbed the North Pole because the elderly owner, Henri LeBarron, had played Santa for several years for the town’s celebrations. The old geezer had married a former nun in her late twenties. She’d given birth last spring to a baby girl. Kincaid planned to tell Boze to follow Henri’s lead: Wait to settle down until you’re in your eighties.

Before he could ring the bell, the front door opened wide to reveal a tall, pleasingly plump but shapely, young woman maybe his own age dressed in red and white with a blinking head. A blinking head?

“You’re early,” she said with wide brown eyes. “But come on in. We’ll need to make this a quickie before they all come over from the park and catch us.” She grabbed his bag and his arm, pulling him inside as she said, “What position do you want me in first?”