Chapter One
I’m a survivor.
I’m a survivor.
I mean, I survived being married to an ex-con, who was now a dead husband, for which I was the number one murder suspect. I survived owning a run-down campground in the middle of the Daniel Boone National Forest and turning it into a thriving business. I even got the key to the city once. Granted, the city only consists of a few hundred people, but that’s saying something.
Getting the key to the city, not the few hundred people.
Plus, I survived more situations where I could’ve been murdered than I can count. Oh, and let’s not forget how I survived my husband’s mother. That woman was and still was a doozy.
Trust me when I said the biggest survival of all—getting Dottie Swaggert to like me. It took months of hard work, patience, and maybe a few bribes of returning Happy Trails Campground around where she’d still be the campground manager with even more salary. But I did it.
“I’m a survivor,” I whispered, trying to convince myself this was no different than any of those other life-threatening situations. I just needed to get down this hill in one piece.
How hard could it be?
Deep, slow breaths. My mantra played in my head with each inhale and exhale, the condensation from the frigid air fogging up my snow goggles.
I stared down the mountain. Well, it felt like a mountain.
All around me, seasoned skiers zipped by like they were born with skis attached to their feet. Conversations around me were muffled by the loud thump of my heart pounding in my ears.
“Lady,” someone poked me with the end of their ski pole. “Are you going or not?”
I turned around and faced a line of little folks. By little folks, I meant children. A dozen tiny, impatient skiers with way too much confidence for their size.
“You’ve got this, Mae,” said Alvin Deters, his voice gentle like he was coaxing a nervous deer. He was the instructor, but honestly, he looked more like a kindergarten teacher trying to keep a rowdy class in line.
I bit my lip and glanced over his shoulder at the rest of my “classmates.” All their beady little eyes were fixed on me, staring through their ski goggles, shifting their weight from one foot to the other in perfect unison.
“Can’t we just leave her here?” one of the boys muttered.
“We are a class. We will have plenty of time to go out on our own,” Alvin said firmly, trying to restore order. The little boy, now glaring at me as if I was personally holding up his Olympic career, just huffed.
I snarled my nose and glared back. I wasn’t going to let a ten-year-old bully me off this mountain or bunny hill, or whatever this was. It still looked big to me.
“What are you waitin’ on, May-bell-ine?” Dottie Swaggert’s voice echoed from halfway down the slope. She was standing at the bottom, one hand on her hip, the other holding her cigarette aloft. “Stop piddlin’ ‘round the yard!”
“Yeah, stop piddlin’!” the kid behind me echoed, as if he and Dottie were some kind of motivational tag team.
I turned back to look at Dottie. She was now waving her cigarette wildly, the smoke trailing off in the winter breeze.
Before I could even think of a clever retort, my skis betrayed me. One second, they were under me, and the next, they shot out from under my body like they had a mind of their own. My arms flailed, my legs twisted, and I let out a high-pitched scream that echoed through the crisp forest air.
The next few moments were a blur of white snow, muffled shrieks, and my limbs flopping around like a rag doll.
I skidded, spun, and tumbled down the hill, gaining speed in the most undignified way possible. My skis, now detached, shot off in different directions, one nearly taking out an unsuspecting snowman.
“Get out of the way!” I shouted, though I wasn’t sure who I was warning, myself or the children I was barreling towards.
By some miracle, I managed to stop at the bottom of the hill, sprawled out like a snow angel that had been caught in a tornado. I opened my eyes to find Dottie Swaggert standing over me, one eyebrow raised, a fresh cloud of smoke circling her bright red curls. Kids zipped by, effortlessly swerving around my fallen form, a few even tossing snowballs my way for good measure.
“Big mountain, huh?” I croaked, my voice barely audible through the snow still stuck in my goggles and mouth.
Dottie leaned in, cigarette dangling between her fingers. “That was the bunny slope, darlin’.”
Instead of crying, I laughed.
A deep, hearty, uncontrollable laugh.
It bubbled up from my belly, echoing off the snow-covered hills around me. I was sprawled out on my back, staring up at the sky, and I figured, if I was going to make a fool of myself, I might as well embrace it. So, I wiggled my arms and legs, creating a snow angel right there at the bottom of the bunny slope.
The little ski brats whooshed by, some of them giggling, others giving me confused glances as if they’d never seen an adult make a snow angel before.
A few even tossed snow at me, probably just to see if I’d react. But I didn’t care. I was too busy carving out my masterpiece, giggling like a kid who’d just been let out for recess.
“Mae, you okay down there?” Alvin Deters skidded to a stop beside me, expertly balancing on his skis. He leaned down, peering through his goggles with a concerned yet amused look on his face.
“Oh, just perfect,” I said between laughs, still flapping my arms. “Didn’t you see? I’m making snow art.” I grinned. “And I have a cute snowsuit to boot.”
“Dang tootin’ you do,” Dottie agreed, the bedazzled ear muffs sparkled in the afternoon sunlight.
“Well, your technique could use a little work, but I’ll give you points for enthusiasm.” Alvin shook his head, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Come on, up you go.”
He stuck out a hand, offering to help me up.
I reached up, and he hoisted me to my feet with ease, though I still felt a bit wobbly.
“Thanks, Alvin,” I said, trying to regain my balance. My skis were long gone, somewhere off on their own adventure, and my hair had escaped from under my hat, sticking out in wild, curly clumps.
“Listen, Mae,” Alvin said, his tone kind but hesitant. “I appreciate you volunteering as a member of the National Park Committee to help with this event, I really do. But, uh… maybe ski lessons for kids aren’t your calling.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, blinking up at him, trying to play innocent. “I was getting the hang of it… right before I wiped out.”
“Sure,” he said, dragging the word out a little longer than necessary. “But the thing is, the kids need someone who can, well… lead by example. And I don’t think plowing through a snowman and taking out two safety markers is quite what we had in mind.”
I snorted, then tried to cover it up by clearing my throat, “Fine. I get it. You want me off the bunny slope.”
“It’s not just that,” Alvin said, and I could tell he was trying to be gentle. “We still need volunteers for other parts of the event. Maybe you could help at the welcome tent or assist with the hot cocoa station? I mean, you’re great at talking to people, and I’m sure the parents would love to see a friendly face when they drop off their kids.”
“So… you’re firing me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Reassigning,” he corrected, with a good-natured grin. “Look, Mae, you’ve done so much for this town and for the park. I just don’t want to see you get hurt. Skiing can be dangerous, even on the bunny slope.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Fair enough. I’ll consider my options. But just so you know, I’m adding ‘attempted ski instructor’ to my list of survival skills,” I noted.
“I’d expect nothing less.” Alvin laughed and gave me a little salute. “And for what it’s worth, you make a pretty good snow angel.”
I grinned and looked down at the attempt.
“I think I’ll stick to that.” I nodded.
Alvin skied off to check on the rest of the class, I took a moment to brush the snow off my jacket and straighten my hat. The air was crisp, my cheeks were flushed, and I felt more alive than I had in a long time.
Sure, I’d just embarrassed myself in front of a bunch of kids, but I’d survived far worse. Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a ski instructor, but there was still plenty of mischief I could get into at this event.
I took one last look up at the bunny slope, a little mound of a hill that had managed to defeat me, and shook my head.
“Bunny slope,” I muttered to myself. “More like a mountain, if you ask me.”
“Come on,” Dottie curled her hand in the crock of my elbow. “Let’s go get some of that hot chocolate Alvin was yammerin’ on about.”
I took one last look up at the bunny slope, a little mound of a hill that had managed to defeat me, and shook my head.
“Bunny slope,” I muttered to myself. “More like a mountain, if you ask me.”
“Come on,” Dottie said, curling her arm through the crook of my elbow. “Let’s go get some of that hot chocolate Alvin was yammerin’ on about.”
I let her lead me away, grateful for the warm promise of a hot drink. Luckily for us, the makeshift ski slopes were only temporary. When the National Park Committee had put in a bid to host the Southeast semi-finals for the Olympic ski trials, none of us ever truly thought we’d get it. We were always on the hunt for activities and events—any excuse, really, to draw tourists to the Daniel Boone National Forest during the harshest months in Kentucky: winter.
Normally, the snow-covered trails, icy cliffs, and bitter, below-freezing temperatures meant we had to close off much of the forest to hikers. The steep, rugged terrain that made the area perfect for adventurers in the warmer months became treacherous in the winter. So, each year, we tried to come up with new ways to bring people here, even if it meant chasing after what seemed like Olympic-sized dreams.
When we submitted the application for the ski trials, we’d also approached the T. Elliot family, who owned a sprawling piece of land on the edge of the park, to see if they’d be willing to let us transform some of their old bourbon buildings into a makeshift ski lodge. To our surprise, they agreed. After all, they hadn’t been using those buildings for years, and the family was always eager to find new ways to support local businesses and the community.
We followed the snow-dusted path toward the lodge, Dottie’s arm still looped through mine. I could see the warm lights glowing from inside, beckoning us to come in and thaw out.
“You know, this was a crazy idea,” Dottie said, her breath visible in the frosty air. “But I gotta hand it to you, Mae. You and the committee pulled it off. Who’d have thought we’d be hosting an Olympic qualifier out here?” She took a long drag from her cigarette, blowing out the smoke in a stream that disappeared into the cold. “Not bad for a bunch of small-town folks.”
“Yeah, not bad at all,” I said, smiling as the lodge doors opened, and the comforting aroma of hot chocolate wafted out to greet us.
It was going to be a good week.
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This is a fun wintery storyline that you will want to curl up with a cozy blanket and favorite beverage and lose yourself in. The mystery is full of twists, turns, and surprises. I did not figure out who the killer was or why until the end. The char...
This is a fun wintery storyline that you will want to curl up with a cozy blanket and favorite beverage and lose yourself in. The mystery is full of twists, turns, and surprises. I did not figure out who the killer was or why until the end. The characters are your best southern girlfriends, you can't wait to catch up with all the drama and gossip they have to tell you. Normal, Kentucky and Happy Trails Campground is a great setting you will want to visit over and over.
All thoughts and opinions are my own and have not been influenced by anyone.
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It turns out Cyril was pois...
It turns out Cyril was poisoned and had several enemies, including his sponsor and both past and current rivals. Cyril might not have been the best man, but that doesn't stop Mae and her ever-faithful Laundry Ladies from jumping on the case to figure out who killed him as quickly as possible.
This was a fun story. I love the Laundry Ladies and Mae, and how descriptive every page is. You feel like you're right there when you're reading. It was a fun mystery!
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