Quinn’s Christmas Wish
A Bandit Creek Paranormal
By Lawna Mackie
As far as twelve-year old Quinn is concerned Christmas has lost its magic. Since his father’s death life has lost its sparkle. His mom is now a widow struggling to put food on the table. Quinn is no help, and the mysterious illness afflicting him only makes things worse.
Even Christmas, complete with decorated trees, ribbons and bows has no meaning…then along comes Jazira.
Jazira doesn’t know what happened to her former self, the eleven-year old little girl. She drowned, didn’t she, along with half the other folk of Bandit Creek in 1911? Somehow, she’s grown four furry legs complimented with a large wolf head and body. Scared and alone, she reaches out to Quinn and a strong bond is formed. Jazira learns Quinn, and his mother, are threatened by a wealthy powerful citizen of Bandit Creek. She is determined to protect her new family, no matter what.
Christmas Eve finds Quinn staring up at the adorned tree and muttering a quiet prayer. Will the Spirits of Christmas grant his wish, or will the evil surrounding Bandit Creek prevail once again?
I have always believed in fairy tales and when I got tired of the old ones I made up my own. Each story would have a hero and heroine, but they were anything but typical. I devoured my first romance novel when I was a teenager. I couldn’t read them fast enough. Years later I stumbled across my first paranormal romance…an injustice would be done if I tried to explain my joy when I found this genre of romance. My passion was finally in print.
Now, with the help of my bizarre dreams and crazy imagination, I have started to write and intend to share my stories with you. I hope you’ll love them as much as I do. I am truly blessed. My husband and my animals are my inspiration. We live on a small acreage in Didsbury, Alberta, with our most beloved companions, Dozer, Daisy and Mandarin. Happy reading everyone, I sure would love to hear from you. www.lawnamackie.ca
BANDIT CREEK, MONTANA, 1912
Dried leaves crunched beneath twelve-year old Quinn’s weight as he sank to his knees. His throat burned and he swallowed hard, his breath catching in his chest. He would not cry. He wouldn’t! In slow motion, he watched a drop of his crimson blood splatter against the carpet of fallen leaves. Anger and hurt brought unshed tears to his eyes.
The wind gusted amongst the trees, blowing the hair away from his face and forcing him to sit up. Whatever leaves were left on the poplars rustled and the tall spruce groaned and cracked, swaying along in the breeze.
Quinn shook his head and pounded the ground with his fist.
The flood of Bandit Creek a year ago had stolen his hopes, dreams and happiness. Despite the rebuilding of the town, evil thrived in many forms.
Countless bodies had never been recovered. Men, women and children, drowned, trapped at the bottom of the lake…Lost Lake as it was now called. A year later, murder, superstition, possession, and mysterious illnesses engulfed the town and survivors of the flood.
Choking back the painful memories, his fingertips traced his father’s name etched in the tombstone. With the back of his hand, he wiped the blood away from his nose and mouth. He could almost hear his Pa’s deep soothing voice. You’re strong, Quinn. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Deep down he hoped his father was right.
Samuel Campton sat silently on his horse Roman while the gelding carefully plodded along the winding trail towards Lost Lake. Fresh snow during the night left a white carpet over the dirt and covered the boughs of the evergreens.
He hated Lost Lake and the unusual feeling he felt every time he checked his trap line near its shoreline. Roman even slowed his already leisurely pace as they neared the water. Samuel touched a spur to the animal’s flank, hurrying him forward along the darkened trail. Ahead beams of light streamed through the canopy of close knit branches.
What broke the eerie silence was a large splash and splutter of water followed by terrified whimpers. Without hesitation, Samuel kicked Roman into a full gallop, dashing toward the noise and the lake. Fifty feet from the edge of the shore, he pulled the horse to a halt and dismounted. He slid his Winchester rifle free from the scabbard. The trees crowded the shore and blocked a clear view of the water. All too soon, he found himself at the edge of the lake staring at the largest wolf he’d ever seen.
An ice chunk floated about twenty-five feet from shore, and clinging to it by its paws was a