by Jan Springer
PEPPERMINT CREEK INN
An Ellora’s Cave Publication, July 2005
Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
1337 Commerce Drive, #13
Stow, OH 44224
ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0171-0
Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):
Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML
PEPPERMINT CREEK INN Copyright© 2005 JAN SPRINGER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Edited by Mary Moran.
Cover art by Syneca.
Warning:
The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Peppermint Creek Inn has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).
S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.
E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.
X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.
PEPPERMINT CREEK INN
Jan Springer
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Jell-O: Kraft Foods Holdings, Inc.
Chevy Nova: General Motors Corporation
Coleman Lantern: Coleman Company, Inc.
Harley-Davidson Motorcycle: H-D Michigan, Inc.
Mustang: Ford Motor Company Peppermint Creek Inn
Prologue
The hum of a car’s motor drifted through the early morning mist sending a searing jolt through him. Instantly he was airborne, crashing shoulder-first into the deep muddy ditch, flattening himself like a chameleon against the ice-cold earth. Groaning at the blinding pain ripping through the wound in his back and the throbbing pain pounding his temples, he reached into the pocket of his tattered black leather jacket, his stiff, swollen fingers sliding past the icy handle of the gun to wrap securely around the note.
He knew he was taking a chance carrying the piece of paper around like this, but it was his only clue. If he got caught, he’d have to sink it deep into the cold muddy grave beneath him.
It was the only way to protect her.
The vibrations in the dirt grew. The smooth rumble of the motor swooped closer. He wanted to close his eyes. Wanted to pray he wouldn’t be seen. But he could only stare up from the ditch. Stare up and face death head-on.
The police cruiser whipped by him at breakneck speed making him gag at the acrid smell of gas fumes. He held his breath as the officer’s laser-sharp gaze sifted right over him, eagerly studying the nearby forest then the muddy road ahead. Within a blink of an eye the cruiser was swallowed up by the rustic kissing bridge he himself had crossed just moments ago.
Letting out a long, painful breath, he dropped facedown into the wet, cold dirt.
This time it had been too close. Next time he might not be so lucky.
Shards of pain racked against his splitting skull. The deafening roar of his heartbeat reassured him he was still alive.
But he needed some rest. Only one minute. Just one lousy minute and then he’d go looking for her again.
His eyes closed and he sifted into unconsciousness…
A twig snapped like gunfire through the still night air. His eyes popped wide open. His heart thundered in his ears as he scrambled out of the sleeping bag. His leather coat crinkled loudly and he cursed silently at the racket it made. He should have taken it off, but he hadn’t been able to get warm after the swim.
He fought the bitterness of fear hunched at the back of his throat. Silence drifted around him like a cloak. Yet he could sense something—or someone—lurking around outside the abandoned cabin he’d been hiding in.
He dared a glance out the yawning, glassless window, and noticed the night grow darker as the moon slipped under a blanket of black rolling clouds. Lightning flittered excitedly in the sky.
That’s when he saw it. A figure silently sneaking toward the building. Toward him.
Anxiety grabbed at the pit of his stomach, squeezing hard. Cold dread slithered up his spine and nestled onto the back of his neck like a coiled snake.
Suddenly a floorboard creaked right behind him.
Shit!
Out of nowhere, brilliant silver stars popped behind his eyes. The world tilted crazily and everything began to spin wildly.
He groaned in surprise as a pain so intense he never even knew something like it existed, shot through his head. His legs went rubbery and instinctively he reached out for support.
Wooden slivers sliced roughly into his hands. He winced at their intrusion and his brain tried to comprehend the overwhelming pain shooting through his skull.
“I got him! I got him!” An excited high-pitched man’s voice screamed in his ears.
Dammit! How in the world had they found him? He’d been so careful. Made sure no one had followed him here.
Cold sweat blistered across his face. The urgency of his situation slammed into his gut. He had to get out of here. Now! Before it was too late.
Something slammed against the back of his thighs. His legs gave out and he crashed to his knees.
Nausea swept over him and he lost his dinner.
Trembling, he tried to stand.
Tried to move… To run!
Nothing happened. His legs didn’t budge. The intensity of the pain grew intolerable.
He grabbed his fragmenting head in his shaking hands. A strangled curse broke from his dry throat.
The truth would die with him he suddenly realized with a shattering awareness.
The truth would die…
His eyelids fluttered open.
Bright sunlight streamed through the dense forest, blinding him. His mouth still tasted sour from the sickness. His head still hurt like a son of a bitch.
He tried to move, but the pain slicing through his back made him gasp, stopping him cold.
Oh, man! He was in big trouble.
Taking a moment to catch his breath, he then tried again. This time he managed to drag himself to his feet. Digging his injured fingers into the dirt, he climbed crab-style up the embankment and out of the ditch, stumbling like a drunkard onto the soggy dirt road.
He cursed silently at the fresh tire marks. The cop car hadn’t been a nightmare as he’d secretly hoped—it had been reality.
He had to get moving. Had to stay ahead of them. Or else he was a dead man.
Forcing his legs to move, he headed in the direction the cop car had come from, keeping a firm grip on the note nestled safely in his pocket.
The small patches of sky shining through the towering pine trees turned from a brilliant blue into a gunmetal gray, ready to pump cold bullets of rain. The sky was falling and it was bringing with it an early Spring stor
m.
His teeth chattered uncontrollably as the wind wound tightly around him, forcing its way into his nostrils, down his sore throat and into his fire-racked lungs.
It was so damn cold.
Every which way he turned, the cold found him. He was so busy fighting to stay warm, he didn’t see the fog-enshrouded meadow until he’d stomped ten feet into the opening.
It took him a few seconds of rapid blinking before he fully comprehended that, yes indeed, through the fading dusk, and behind the monstrous beech tree, he could see the silhouette of a giant two-story rustic log house. It stood proudly, smack-dab in the middle of the meadow.
It had to be her place.
Excitement pounded through him forcing much-needed adrenaline to surge through his veins.
He dragged himself forward.
The house was handcrafted with chinked square pine log siding, a rather steep new-looking sheet-metal roof, and several rugged-rock chimneys. Drawing closer, he stopped short when he spotted a snug-looking porch swing creaking on the wraparound veranda. His gaze lingered on the heavenly retreat, then flew with quiet desperation to the pretty lace-covered windows. Hopelessness flooded him and his heart fell into his stomach.
No lights greeted him from the house. And to make matters worse, one of the front windows had been smashed—leaving him with the distinct impression the place might be deserted. To verify his feelings, he spotted the charred remains of a massive log structure amidst a spattering of pine trees a few hundred feet away.
Despair descended over him with an icy shiver and he reached up to shove a frustrated hand threw his long dark hair, grimacing at the pain the gesture caused.
He was in a real heap of shit now. This place had been his last hope. Hell, his only hope. And it looked as though she wasn’t home.
He’d better figure out what to do next or he’d be easy pickings for the nearest pack of wolves, black bears or—a hot edge of panic sliced into him—or he’d be easy prey for the cops.
Quickly he dug the note out of his pocket. It took a good minute before his wildly shaking hands were steady enough so he could read the scrawled words Peppermint Creek Inn and the one name hurriedly written beneath it. Sara Clarke.
Who was she? Had she given him the note? Or had it been someone else? When? Why?
No answers came to him. His memory remained a stubborn blank slate.
He’d looked at the words on the note dozens of times since he’d escaped from those two cops last night. He’d hoped for some sort of clue in the note. Nothing tipped him off. Not even the number “28” glowering in the bottom left-hand corner.
Within the blink of an eye, a monstrous raindrop obliterated the two numbers into a giant splotch of blue ink. Another drop quickly followed, splattering upon the paper. Without hesitation, he folded the note and jammed it back into the protective covering of his pocket.
He glanced pleadingly at the darkening sky but as luck would have it, a fierce, jagged lightning bolt slithered through the swollen gray clouds.
He needed cover. Fast!
He made it to the front porch a split second before the sky fell.
Chapter One
Sara Clarke wiped away the hot tears streaming down her cheeks and breathed a heavy sigh of relief as the yellow headlights sliced through the blinding torrents of midnight rain barely illuminating her two-story log house. When she got inside, she’d build the biggest, most cheerful fire in her bedroom hearth, curl under her snug comforters and sip on some refreshing peppermint tea to calm her frazzled nerves.
She’d force herself to stop thinking about the howling wind that threatened to send her screaming like a mad woman into the nearby isolated wilderness and she’d forget the scary racket the hard raindrops caused as they pummeled against the truck’s windshield.
Most of all, she’d push away the memory of the gunshot slicing through another dark stormy night, a gunshot that had changed her life forever…
Blinking back her tears, she forced her attention upon swerving her vehicle around the giant potholes littering the deserted parking lot. A moment later, she pulled into her favorite spot beneath Peppermint Creek Inn’s romance tree, the monstrous beech standing guard over her home. Leaving the truck lights on, she automatically searched through the silvery downpour to gaze upon the various sizes and shapes of hearts carved into the thick, smooth gray tree bark. When she spotted her heart, a rare smile curved her rosebud lips.
Jack Loves Sara, Forever.
Her husband had trapped the promise with a slightly off-center plump heart and a sizzling arrow with his Swiss jackknife the same day they’d purchased Peppermint Creek Inn.
Sara bit her bottom lip as the hot tears threatened to burst free. She didn’t want to cry. Not again. If she did, she just might not be able to stop this time.
Taking a deep steadying breath she popped open the door to her truck. Damp, shrieking wind slapped cruelly against her as she stumbled from the pickup cab into the angry spring storm. Her trembling knees almost crumpled as they touched the ground. Cold, thick, gooey mud burst over her shoes and nestled uncomfortably inside her socks. Rain dropped like a cold bucket of water over her body, instantly drenching her.
In a flash, she grabbed her purse and slammed the door shut behind her. Using the truck’s headlights as a beacon she darted up the slippery wooden wheelchair ramp and dashed across the wide veranda.
She wanted to believe it was merely the storm’s fury that set her teeth to chattering uncontrollably and her body trembling like a leaf as she unlocked the front door. Or maybe it was the fact the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled with some eerie premonition as she imagined someone reaching out and grabbing her from behind.
She shook her head at the crazy thought.
The storm had spooked her. Once she got inside, she’d be fine.
A cool blast of air splashed a greeting as she opened the door. Pale yellow light from the truck’s headlights sprayed a friendly glow through the doorway illuminating her cozy French-style kitchen and splashing spooky shadows over her furniture in the adjoining living room.
Walking a few steps inside, she dropped her purse and keys onto the countertop and smiled despite all her troubles.
She was home. Home sweet home. And that’s all that counted.
Running her hand along the kitchen wall her fingers brushed against the light switch and flicked it on.
Nothing happened.
A feeling of unease swooped over her, and she stood still listening for any signs of trouble, but only the sounds of the howling wind rattling against the windows and the insistent tapping of raindrops splashing into the wood-planked veranda reached her ears.
It wasn’t unusual for the electricity to go out when the wild Spring storms of Northern Ontario hit. Lines went down all the time, due to falling trees and lightning strikes in the transformers. So why were her instincts yelling at her to back out the doorway, climb into her pickup truck and get the hell out of here? And why wasn’t she doing it?
Leaving the door wide open behind her, Sara defiantly squared her shoulders and stepped further into her kitchen. She sniffed the cold night air again, wrinkling her nose in disgust as a rancid breeze hit her nostrils.
Had something spoiled in the freezer?
She opened the refrigerator door. Inside, the air smelled cool and fresh. The electricity had gone out very recently, but where was the awful smell coming from?
Immediately she spotted the white lace curtains flailing in the wind and her broken windowpane.
And that’s when she saw it. Lying on her kitchen counter.
Bloated and ugly. Black beady eyes stared unseeing at her.
Oh, gross!
The horrific smell came from a giant dead rat! She didn’t have to ask who’d broken her window and thrown in the decaying rodent.
She knew.
It was the shadow! He’d been lurking around in the shadows vandalizing her property since her husband died.
&n
bsp; Sara took a deep breath in a futile attempt to steady her pounding heart. It was the wrong thing to do. The disgusting smell made her stomach lurch.
She had to report this to the police. They’d probably laugh at her, pat her on the head and say, “There, there, dear, it’s only the shadow again”.
She’d heard the rumors about her. The lonely lady living deep in the wilderness, trashed her place every once in a while, just to get attention.
To hell with them! Someone had invaded her space. Again. And she wouldn’t let them get away with it. As much as she hated to do it, she had to call the police. She lifted the receiver and tensed.
Dammit! The line was dead.
Suddenly she became as angry as the howling wind outside and slammed the telephone back into the cradle.
She was so mad she could wring someone’s—
A dusky shadow splashed across the pine floor.
Sara froze.
Oh, shit!
Lifting her gaze, she spotted the tall, menacing figure silhouetted against the suddenly unwelcome glare of her truck’s headlights in the open doorway.
The shadow!
It had to be!
She opened her mouth to scream, readied herself to run but he was faster. Within a split second, he flew to her side. A strong muscular arm slipped securely around her slender waist, pulling her against his rock-hard body. A large, hot hand clamped tightly over her mouth. It was a powerful hand. Strong enough to snap her neck like a chicken’s wishbone.
She tried to fight against his grip but realized she’d only waste her strength. She stopped struggling and stiffened like a corpse in his arms.
“Don’t scream.” His voice sounded low and hoarse in her ears. Ragged, as if caught in the grips of a massive cold. “I’m not going to hurt you. Do you understand?”
Sara nodded weakly, wishing she could believe him.
He removed his hand from her mouth, leaving the other one to linger steadfast around her waist.