October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1)

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October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1) Page 1

by Valerie Power




  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Monday, October 1

  Tuesday, October 2

  Wednesday, October 3

  Thursday, October 4

  Friday, October 5

  Saturday, October 6

  Sunday, October 7

  Monday, October 8

  Tuesday, October 9

  Wednesday, October 10

  Thursday, October 11

  Friday, October 12

  Saturday, October 13

  Sunday, October 14

  Monday, October 15

  Tuesday, October 16

  Wednesday, October 17

  Thursday, October 18

  Friday, October 19

  Saturday, October 20

  Sunday, October 21

  Monday, October 22

  Tuesday, October 23

  Wednesday, October 24

  Thursday, October 25

  Friday, October 26

  Saturday, October 27

  Sunday, October 28

  Monday, October 29

  Tuesday, October 30

  Wednesday, October 31

  Epilogue

  Thursday, November 1

  Thanks for Reading!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  OCTOBER’S FIRE

  Valerie Power

  Copyright © 2021 Valerie Power

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7367395-0-1

  This book was inspired by the brave horsewomen of the real enchanted forest.

  And Allah took a handful of southerly wind, blew His breath over it, and created the horse…Thou shall fly without wings, and conquer without any sword.

  Oh, horse.

  ~Bedouin Legend

  Gypsy gold does not chink and glitter.

  It gleams in the sun and neighs in the dark.

  ~Attributed to the Claddagh Gypsies of Galway

  Prologue

  WELCOME TO FAIRY GLEN.

  A dusky little gem of a valley near the Pacific, as shapely as a lover’s body. Miles and miles of trails to explore through the chaparral covered hills and oak-tangled canyons. Believed to hold magic, as far back as anyone can remember. Native Americans, Spanish conquistadors, Californios, freedmen, shepherds, tinkers, goldminers, spiritualists. They’ve all called this place home, and fought to protect it.

  But what kind of a name is Fairy Glen, you might ask?

  It is a real name, I assure you, although where it came from is a mystery. Some say it’s named for the fairy oaks—miniature, hardy trees no taller than a person that flourish on the windswept ridges. Others say it’s named after the fantastical beings rumored to haunt these woods. But that’s neither here nor there.

  Nowadays, it’s a throwback to pioneer times. A community with no town center, just a collection of small ranches with fiercely independent owners, regular everyday folks looking for a respite from the eight-lane freeways and big-box stores that surround them on all sides. These modern residents—we’ll call them Southern Californians—sometimes see glimpses of Fairy Glen’s magic, but to them, the real magic is that such a place can exist at all.

  See, it’s harder and harder to find free land anymore. No fences, roads, or manmade anything to stand in your way. To a horsewoman, that’s everything.

  And yet, on this warm fall evening in the year 2007, above the unspoiled heart of the valley, the intrusion has begun. On the towering peak east of Fairy Glen, plants have been torn up, animals evicted, the earth flattened. Construction is underway.

  And a new predator has arrived.

  Monday, October 1

  THE FADED GREEN 1968 Dodge Dart rolled to a stop at the construction site high on the mountain. The driver cut the engine, then the headlights. He stepped out of the car, spent a few moments letting his eyes adjust, listening to the ticking of the big old engine block as it cooled.

  This hour was the sole domain of insomniacs. Even the crickets were asleep.

  Looking down from this great height, Hector admired the undulating blackness of the wild scrub forest. Farther west, lights from the boxy tract homes billowed into the night sky.

  His mission here was an organizational restructuring. Take over operations from the man he was supposed to meet in—he looked at his watch—three minutes. The man who’d boasted to Hector’s bosses about having a market share for distribution. And yet, the supply they’d fronted him was missing, unpaid for. Add to that all his other debts, and, well, the cartel had sent Hector to fix it. Get in, get the debt paid, get out.

  In order to do that, he’d be calling upon long unused skills. It felt good to be in the field again, flexing his muscles.

  He checked his watch. The urge to get this meeting over, get things settled, pressed on him like a heavy weight. He hadn’t gotten where he was—the pinnacle of his profession—by taking it easy.

  One month. He had one month to straighten out the mess. Then back to Dos Arroyos for November’s festivals, a well-earned rest. A warm winter in Sinaloa, a landscape not unlike this one, but virginal, unspoiled. His mouth watered—he could smell the smoke from the pig in the ground, hear the pop-pop of fireworks. Feel the crisp linen sheets of Antonia’s bed.

  He realized he’d closed his eyes, possibly dozed off. As he opened them, a streak of white soared across the depth of the canyon below, disappeared into the trees. He shook off his stupor, looked at his watch. Seventeen minutes past the hour.

  The man wasn’t coming. Hector hated being stood up. It was so rude.

  He stretched, cracked his knuckles, and got back in the car. Maybe he’d have to do this the hard way.

  Tuesday, October 2

  DEIRDRE TRIED TO GET Scarlet on the bit, but the mare was being willful. She readjusted the reins, and gripped tighter with her legs.

  A deceptively sweet voice echoed from the edge of the arena, “Don’t grip with your thighs, you’ll pop up like a clothes pin! Cuddle her sides with your calves. She’ll round up and give to you.”

  Bonnie and her perfect powers of observation. How could she see the difference between a grip and a cuddle from ten yards away, when Deirdre couldn’t even feel the difference herself?

  “You had it, you had it! Keep going!” Bonnie cheered.

  Up down up down, Deirdre posted to Scarlet’s disjointed trot. With every step the mare flipped her burnished red mane. Finally, Deirdre let out a defeated breath, and Scarlet, sensing she’d won the battle of the wills, slowed to a stately walk without being asked.

  Sunlight dappled the arena, filtering through the eucalyptus in magical golden motes. It was too nice a day to be struggling like this. She guided Scarlet to the gazebo where Bonnie sat on her director’s chair, knitting a fuzzy yellow hat for her next grandchild.

  “I’m not ready for Saturday, Bonnie. We’ll get laughed out of the arena.” A single bead of sweat trickled from under the high-tech ultra-cool carbon fiber helmet she’d borrowed from Bonnie. The boots, she’d bought herself, last week at Mariah’s Tack and Feed. The cheapest pair she could find, but they were almost three hundred dollars. Big ones, clams, smackaroos. What was she thinking? She didn’t have money to throw away. Besides, all she wanted to do was trail ride.

  Bonnie’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled. She was beautiful despite, or maybe because of, her 60 plus years on this earth. Although she had the money, she didn’t go in for plastic surgery, laser resurfacing, or any of that crap. Her face was a map of joy, framed by short blond waves streaked with silver, like natural highlights. An ang
el in disguise, or Marilyn Monroe as a grandma. In her baby sweet voice, she said, “There’s no reason not to go. You know these dinky local shows, it’s not a win-lose thing. Remember what dressage means? Training."

  “She was being a total B!” Deirdre said, and then hung her head. Maybe I’m the total B.

  Bonnie tilted her head, and Deirdre squirmed under her scrutiny. “Think of Saturday as practice for Del Rio,” Bonnie said, and Deirdre’s stomach flipped. In a moment of temporary insanity, she’d entered another show, this one at the racetrack and fairgrounds down the coast, on the 27th of this month. She could make a fool of herself in front of a huge crowd there, instead of a few onlookers. Yippee.

  “You wanna give her a whirl? I don’t want her to think she can get away with—” The words tumbled out, but Bonnie interrupted the cascade.

  “No honey, Lina’s lesson starts in a few minutes. Poor thing, she took the whole week off work to get ready, she’s so nervous. I’ll see you again on Friday, we can iron out the kinks then.” Bonnie paused, then turned serious. “You don’t need to be enemies, Dee. No judge wants to see a fight in the ring—dinky show or not.”

  Darn. She knew it would take Bonnie—a retired Grand Prix dressage champion—about five seconds onboard Scarlet to set her straight. But, Deirdre was the one that had to ride her on Saturday, not Bonnie.

  “Take her out on the trail, it’ll clear your head—and hers,” Bonnie said. Despite the sugary voice, it was an order.

  “By myself?” Deirdre rested a hand on Scarlet’s neck. The chestnut Arab was six years old, with 60 days of professional training on her, and a complete lack of discipline. Probably because after that training, she’d languished, unridden, for nearly two years at a breeding barn on the verge of bankruptcy, until Deirdre had the wacky idea to ‘rescue’ her three months ago. “I—I can’t, I’ll be late to pick up Justin,” Deirdre said, feeling a sense of relief and disappointment at the same time. She loved those trails more than anything, but—

  “You’re scared she’ll pull something funny,” Bonnie said. “Let me take the suspense out of it—she will. But you have to be the leader. You have be able to go out alone sometimes, and handle whatever comes your way, or she’ll never trust you.”

  Never trust me? It was this fleet-footed bonkers little Arab that she didn’t trust yet. Bowie would’ve carried me through hell or high water, she thought. But he’s gone.

  Her cellphone buzzed in her sports bra. She reached through the neck of her t-shirt, pulled it out and flipped it open, even though the number screen was too sweaty to read. She couldn’t afford not to answer the phone. “Boyd Bookkeeping.”

  “Mom?”

  “Justin, what’s wrong? Are you sick?” She wasn’t late to pick him up, she confirmed with a quick glance at her watch, so that wasn’t it.

  “No, I’m fine,” he said. “I called to ask if I can go golfing with Brian and his dad at The Ramparts.”

  “Golfing?” The word felt alien. Golfing. This must be a side effect of sending him to the private academy in Rancho Alto. Good thing he was a gifted student on full scholarship, or else he wouldn’t be there. But golf? She wasn’t prepared for that. “Wait a minute. Whose phone are you on?”

  “Brian’s.”

  Great. His new friend had his own cell phone. “Does this Brian have a last name?”

  “Uh, Bartley?”

  Everything in her constricted. Scarlet took a few dancing steps forward. “That Brian Bartley?” she hissed, pulling back on the reins.

  In a lowered voice, he said, “I guess, yeah, that one.”

  “You—you don’t have any clubs,” she protested.

  “They’ve got some I can use.” He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Please Mom can I go? Dad says he’ll pick me up.”

  When she didn’t answer, he said, “Mom?”

  It took more than a second to release her resentment. “Ok, honey, have fun. Love you. Remember it’s taco night.”

  “Thanks! Love you too.” He hung up.

  It would be fine. It really would be fine. Justin was one of the most level-headed people she knew, even if he was only 12. Hopefully he wouldn’t pick up any bad habits from the rich kids of Rancho Alto.

  “Who’s Justin golfing with?” Bonnie tried to hide her smile.

  Deirdre dropped her head. “Brian Bartley. Junior.”

  “Really!” It was Lina behind her. Speaking of level-headed, and not being it. Lina was leading Walker, her sedate brown-and-white Paint. She put a cowboy hat over her dark glossy hair and continued in her Eastern European accent. “Brian Bartley? I met him at a charity event at the Institute a few years ago.” Lina was, believe it or not, a biochemist. Well, a junior assistant biochemist, but still. Whatever she lacked in common sense, she made up for in brains. Lina continued, “His wife was quite stuck-up, she wouldn’t even talk to me. And so much younger. She’s like, what do you call them here…statue wives?”

  “Trophy wives,” Deirdre corrected her. She had a sick feeling. “I should’ve said no.”

  Bonnie broke in. “Don’t be silly. I know we all had him on our shit list because of San Amaro, but that’s water under the bridge now. We’re not a bunch of villagers with pitchforks,” she said. “Are we?”

  Deirdre and Lina looked at each other.

  Lina spoke first. “I’m only saying what’s common knowledge.” She fiddled with Walker’s bedazzled bridle, and Walker sighed patiently. She’d taken up Western riding in a strange attempt to honor her very American husband. “I mean, what did you think of them Deedee?”

  “I haven’t met the Bartleys.”

  “What? You mean you let Justin go without meeting The Parents?” Lina was so into the rules of parenting. Easy when you don’t have any kids of your own.

  “Lina, he’s in junior high now. I have to give him some freedom.”

  Bonnie said, “Well, in any case, now you have no excuse. Get out there on the trail.” She gave Scarlet an affectionate pat on the rump.

  Deirdre’s whole body tensed up as her excuse vanished. But a new idea was forming, and at least it would give her a goal to ride towards.

  She left Bonnie’s and headed west on the manicured trail along Fairy Glen Road. There was a little split-rail fence separating the trail from the road, which was a good thing since she didn’t trust Scarlet not to spook at something and jump into oncoming traffic. At least it was still early afternoon. At rush hour, commuters sped through here, trying to circumvent the jam-packed freeways.

  Where the trail petered out before San Amaro Hills, she turned left onto a narrow track that meandered south over the dry hillsides. So far so good. Scarlet was behaving herself, although she was still tense with unspent energy.

  Deirdre channeled her younger, braver self, and asked Scarlet to pick up a trot. Nothing to spook at out here, unless there was a rattler hiding in the low brush. And to her surprise, Bonnie’s deep-seated dressage saddle felt more secure than her Western one.

  She’d always been fearless, until Scarlet came into her life. Growing up in the Los Angeles hills, she’d worked at the local stables in exchange for any chance to ride. Later, it was off-road motorcycles in Baja with her first husband. It was almost like a different life, a different person.

  The trail descended into oak trees and welcome shade. Here was one of the unofficial dirt roads that connected Fairy Glen to Rancho Alto—a shortcut to Justin’s school, if you had four-wheel drive. The stream that crossed the lowest part of the road was dry this time of year—well most times of year, except when torrential rains hit in January and February and made it impassable.

  But now it was October. After months on end of no rain, the hillsides were primed. All it took was a reversal of the coastal breeze, low humidity, high heat. Fire weather could happen any day now.

  Fire weather. Even the words made her cringe. Days so dry and gusty, they made her nerves snap like the static in the air, the static in her hair. Set her jumping, jangling, ji
ttering, made her want to jump out of herself, claw at something, crawl under a rock. Maybe set something on fire, so she wouldn’t be waiting, waiting for it to come.

  Because it always came. She knew that better than anyone.

  The trail went uphill again, out of the trees, and a hot breeze replaced the cool shadiness. She leaned forward as Scarlet scrabbled up the eroded embankment and came out on a plateau.

  The old rock quarry cut a gash into the granite below. Beyond it, directly to the south, lush foliage protected the old growth mansions of Rancho Alto, one of the wealthiest zip codes in the country. To the southwest, the low bungalows of the coastal towns, with the dull silver ocean reflecting the afternoon sun beyond.

  Due west was the sprawl of San Amaro Hills, postage stamp plots and red roofs in miniature, streets like some circuit board or circulatory diagram.

  Deirdre had ridden this land before San Amaro Hills was a glimmer in a real estate developer’s eye. Brian Bartley’s eye, to be precise.

  That was on Bowie, her old buckskin quarter horse with the bad conformation and million-dollar disposition. Along with her daughter Rebecca on Ginny, their gray Arab mare, they would stay out all day sometimes, meandering the empty hills.

  Now there were houses where the open land used to be, Ginny was swaybacked and arthritic, and Rebecca was a teenager that only rode her BMX and barely talked to her.

  She turned away from the mushrooming Spanish tile monstrosities. The chaparral asserted itself again, blooming like moss, dark dusty green, covering the rolling hills of Fairy Glen and the bouldered slopes of Mount Richardson to the east. She couldn’t see her house, and that was how she liked it.

  Fairy Glen’s acreages were big, its homes small. The average income was, well, decidedly average. The little rural enclave blended into its surroundings. Most people had never heard of it. Or worse, thought it was a made up place, and you were a crazy person. “Oh you ride your horse in Fairy Glen dear? Is it a unicorn?”

 

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