The trail emerged onto an empty plain of waving yellow grass, and she checked her watch. She asked Scarlet to canter to get to the edge of Hidden Creek Chasm, seeking the peninsula of land that would give her a view of the golf course. Soon they were on the canyon-edge trail, and she slowed to a walk. Below, the creek was completely hidden (maybe that was why it was named Hidden Creek?) by the dense growth of old oaks. The ribbon of green made it obvious that even this time of year, Hidden Creek flowed.
The Ramparts golf course was on the other side in Rancho Alto, on a series of sandstone plateaus that had been landscaped, watered, pruned and planted to a garish emerald that looked about as natural as Astroturf in this environment. She squinted at the colorful clown-like forms of the golfers.
Who was she fooling, there was no chance she’d recognize Justin, or anyone else. But, it had been a good way to keep herself and Scarlet focused on a destination. Besides, she had to break in her boots before Saturday. They were so stiff they felt like armor.
A flock of quail exploded out of a bush on her left. Deirdre’s stomach dropped as Scarlet planted all four feet wide, dipped her back and jacked her head up. Then, she took off at a fast trot. Left behind the momentum, Deirdre’s muscle memory took over and she was able to rebalance and bring Scarlet under control after a few strides. Belatedly, her heart picked up a triple-time beat, setting off a painful pinching deep in her breast.
She closed her eyes, put her hand over her heart. As always when she got chest pains, she saw her dad, clear as yesterday, lying in the hospital bed—the first time. Oxygen tubes in his nose, tugging one of her red braids, saying, “Nothing to worry about, Pumpkin,” through his Cary Grant smile.
No no no. She willed her heart rate down.
Her dad had lied. There was always something to worry about. A trace of smoke infiltrated her nostrils. Her eyes popped open.
As alarms went off in her brain, she scanned the slopes of Richardson Peak, dense with fuel—fairy oak, manzanita, creosote, sagebrush—her eyes like military instruments, seeking a bloom of smoke, an orange skirt of fire, any signal so she could pinpoint the blaze and call it in.
No smoke visible. But the sinuous horizontal line where mountain met sky was marred by blocky shapes protruding into the clear blue.
Buildings on the ridge. Those were new. The last time she’d ridden out here must’ve been on Bowie, so that would’ve been at least six months ago. She urged Scarlet forward, trying to get to where she could see better, forgetting about the golfers. Tall brush lined the trail, forming a passageway that Scarlet couldn’t deviate from. She kept her eyes on the mountaintop as they trotted along. A hot wind picked up, carrying the smell of dried grass and sage—and more smoke.
But while her mind raced to make a plan, the smoky odor snaked around Deirdre’s vision of her dad, coming home from the hospital, convalescing in the den. The dark, wood paneled, smoke-filled den.
She wanted to smack her head. It was cigar smoke.
Relieved it wasn’t a brush fire, she then worried she was having olfactory hallucinations. She’d heard people say that’s a sign of a brain tumor. Or maybe she was crazy.
She sniffed again. No, she wasn't crazy. Definitely cigar, not cigarette, traveling on the warm downslope wind from Richardson Peak. Who would smoke out here, when the brush was so dry that looking at it sideways could spark it up? The drought had been parching the land for nine long years, longer than Clara, her youngest, had been on this earth, since before the last giant blaze swept through this valley.
She went into full-on Mom Mode, ready to track down the delinquent, grab him by the ear and take him back to his parents. Or hers. I guess it could be a her, she thought, envisioning Rebecca. Gabe hadn’t told her everything about the trouble Rebecca had gotten into up in LA. He didn’t have to. The juvenile court system had done that for him.
But no, how many teenage girls sneak their dad’s cigars? Cigars were a universally male affectation.
Scarlet’s legs splayed and she came to an abrupt halt. This was getting old. “Now what is it?” she asked out loud, hoping the words would calm her horse.
They both flinched when a deep male voice answered, “No more excuses.” The voice carried on the same wind as the smoke. Scarlet took a few steps, ears pricked forward, neck arched.
Someone was there below her, on the jutting piece of land with the best view of the golf course. A pea-soup green sedan with long Mad Men style lines, and leaning back on it, looking out over the expanse, was a man.
He was big, bulging out of his light gray suit jacket. Dark hair, military short on the sides, thick and full on top. High cheekbones reddened by the sun, under which a pallor of stress gleamed. A flattish bent nose, like a boxer.
A small phone was pressed to his ear. He laughed, displaying a mouth full of strong white teeth. “Okay, see you soon.”
He pocketed the phone as he swung around to face her, smiling still. His eyes shone dark gold in the afternoon sun.
The incongruity held her spellbound.
Here was this man, who looked straight out of a GQ magazine. Fancy shoes—and not American shoes, European tourist shoes. A serene, masculine, frankly beautiful face. He could be a model, but his car was…well, it might be considered a classic, but with the dull paint and ripped vinyl, just looked like a junker.
And. There was something viscerally terrifying about him, something about him that made her go still to the core, like when she got too close to the tigers at the zoo. A lazy disinterest that disguised the ability to casually rend flesh. Scarlet breathed in and out, blowing hard through her nostrils.
Quit with the paranoia, Dee.
She broke the surface of her spell. “Hi,” she called out, not knowing what else to say. What’s the etiquette for stumbling across a strange man in the middle of nowhere, dressed all high fashion, out in the dust and weeds?
He nodded, then turned his face to the sun again, and brought the cigar up to his mouth, pulling the silk suit fabric tight across his back.
“Please be careful,” she called down to him.
He turned to her again, his face changing from amusement to confusion.
“Your cigar,” she clarified. “It’s fire weather and it only takes one spark.”
“Ah. Aha.” He smiled and nodded. With a trace of an unplaceable accent, he said, “I’m always careful.” He took another puff and turned to look across the gorge again.
Oh well, what could she do? At least she’d found the source of the smoke, and it wasn’t a wildfire. She glanced up at Richardson Peak again searching for the structures she’d seen earlier, but her vantage point had changed and all she saw now was olive drab folds of mountainside. If she wanted to get a better view, there was another trail she’d have to go on, but she stayed, not wanting to leave, if only to claim her right to be out there on that promontory with him.
If he wanted to smoke a leisurely cigar, why here? Scouting home sites? No, as far as she knew this land was some sort of preserve that would never be built on. And no self-respecting real-estate developer would drive a car like that. At the same time, his clothes were several leagues above the average nouveau-riche Californian.
A few minutes that felt like a silent eternity went by, with Scarlet as fascinated by him as she was. She followed his gaze to the golf course, fortified behind a huge stone wall. A black wrought-iron gate slid open, allowing a low, sleek black car to exit.
The man seemed to snap out of his reverie. He turned, got into his car, nodded goodbye, and drove down the dirt road away from her, to the creek crossing, leaving a trail of dust that climbed up her nostrils.
Maybe she could get a different view of the new buildings if she followed him. Across the creek and up the other side a short way was a trail that circled around the backside of Fairy Glen’s central hill, following Hidden Creek northeast towards Encantadino. On her all-day rides with Bowie that would’ve been just the beginning of their adventures, but now, she checked her watc
h—she’d only be able to go partway before heading back if she wanted to pick up Clara from ballet on time.
Scarlet willingly followed the car down the short dirt drive that led from the promontory. At the bottom was the dirt road that crossed Hidden Creek, then passed by The Ramparts.
Down in the trees, it was almost cold. Dim green light filtered through the canopy of oaks.
The creek ran over a concrete road base here, shallow enough for cars to drive through. Little fingers of algae waved like mermaid’s hair under the six inches of rushing water. On the right side of the road, the water dropped off into the wild creek, swirling dark around boulders that looked like the skulls of submerged giants.
Before Deirdre could stop her, Scarlet took a step into the creek. Her hoof slid on the algae and she backed up and whirled, blowing through her nostrils, unsure what had just happened. Deirdre hadn’t tried water crossing with her yet, and this was not a good introduction. She turned Scarlet around to face the creek again, put a hand on her neck. She might’ve tried to urge her across if the surface wasn’t so slippery. But if she convinced Scarlet to trust her and that trust turned out to be misplaced, it would be hard—if not impossible—to get back. This was not the place to push it. Instead, she made Scarlet wait there until she felt the mare’s fear subside.
As she turned to head back up the main dirt road towards home, something caught her attention on the deep olive hillside above her. Flashing reflection. Movement.
Scarlet’s neck shot straight up. She saw it too.
At the top of the hill, they got on the same trail they’d come on, and continued home along the edge of the canyon, past the view of the golf course. Deirdre looked to the west across the rocky gash of the quarry. That same blocky car was now on the other side near San Amaro Hills. It sat alongside a sleeker car. Two men together, silhouetted in the late afternoon sun.
She turned away from them, and saw the flash on the hill again.
Someone was definitely up there. She looked closer. Wait, was that her neighbor, Vivian? A horse—a stocky Mustang, shimmering gray-brown with a wild black mane, forelock practically covering his eyes. Yes, that was her horse. Apache was his name. Vivian was looking through binoculars straight at her.
Deirdre waved, but there was no reaction. She sat perfectly still, legs dangling out of the stirrups, like some kind of horseback warrior.
Vivian was a strange bird.
* * *
UP ON THE HILL, Apache perked his ears and arched his neck, appreciating the red mare’s femininity.
He knew her. She’d passed by his place a few times. She was almost a silly looking thing. Those delicate legs, the big eyes, the long silky mane that she flipped and tossed around. He doubted she would last long on the open range, but you never knew. She could have hidden reserves of strength, like her forebears. They both shared the same blood, it was just a question of how many generations back.
She had always ignored him, despite his dignity and proud posture. Nevertheless, he nickered softly to her.
She responded, raising her head to the full height of her neck while continuing along the trail on the edge of the chasm.
“Oh, Apache,” Vivian said. She was amused. “Patch, look. It’s my old friend!” She laughed, verging on hysteria. He was worried about her lately. She seemed sick, too floppy in the saddle. He rolled his eyes to the back to watch her movements. She took another swig from the flask she always tied to the saddle when they went out, then raised the binoculars again.
Vivian wasn’t looking at the mare and rider. Her attention was farther in the distance, and he followed it, focusing on the far side of the quarry.
Two men, two vehicles, next to a giant metal tower. His body tensed. They were about to fight like stallions, except not for practice and not for play. For real, for dominance…for territory. They posed and postured, pacing around each other. He flared his nostrils, but they were too far away to smell.
Didn’t matter. Even at this distance he knew they were dangerous. He’d seen serious fights end in the slow death of one or both stallions. And these were men, not horses, so who knows what kind of carnage this could bring. He needed to get his tribe to safety. He drew a quick breath and trumpeted to warn the red mare. To his surprise, she looked at him again, and whinnied back.
Both men’s heads swiveled to look.
“Patch, you blew my cover,” Vivian whispered, lowering the binoculars and hunching her tall body. She was disappointed in him, but he didn’t care. He squealed and snorted, then whirled around, making sure she stayed with his motion.
Down below, the mare took off into a gallop.
* * *
A FEW MOMENTS AFTER Deirdre waved to her, Vivian whirled her horse and disappeared into the undergrowth, and then Scarlet bolted, this time in a flat out run.
She got her under control by the time they got to the paved street, thankfully. Deirdre got off to walk her the rest of the way home, lingering in front of Vivian’s house, but there was no sign of her. The house was up on a hill though, and it was impossible to tell if she was home or not. By the time Deirdre got back to her place, she was running behind schedule.
This week, she was only a few minutes late picking up Clara from ballet. But the teacher made that face again, like Clara was some poor, homeless orphan, instead of a middle class kid with a perpetually late mother.
That night, the family gathered around the table in their cramped kitchen, Justin talking incessantly about the golf game. He was so excited he was talking more than eating. He’d actually won, which stirred up a small current of pride in her. She was more competitive than she liked to admit. Pride is one of the seven deadly sins, she heard her mother shouting, and cringed.
“What’s his dad like?” she asked, remembering what Lina had said about the Bartleys.
Justin stopped and thought for a second. His round face and brown hair mirrored his dad sitting next to him. “He’s pretty cool. He has this awesome car. He says, ‘Golf is the international language of business.’” Justin imitated a deep, authoritative voice. “But he didn’t stay for the game, he had to leave for a meeting,” he added.
“So you played alone, just you boys?”
Justin nodded.
That didn’t sit right with her. “Did you meet Mr. Bartley?” she asked Walt.
“Nope, he wasn’t back yet,” he said. “I met Brian though. Nice kid.” He crunched into his taco again, his mustache circling his broad face as he chewed.
“So you just left him there alone?”
“It is a country club hon. I’m sure he’s safe.” Walt was so damn reasonable.
“You mean he won’t get eaten by coyotes?” Clara asked, opening her denim-colored eyes wide. She was still in her pink tights and black leotard, her dusty blonde hair in two pigtails that were somehow all fuzzy and tangled as though she’d been in a wrestling match instead of dance class. At almost eight years old, she was unusually interested in the bizarre and macabre, always seeking out stories of people getting eaten by wild animals, and voraciously consuming the legends of Fairy Glen—its ghosts, witches, and insane asylums.
Clara broke into a coyote’s yip-yip howl, and Justin and Walt joined in.
When Buck, their goofy yellow lab, and Granger, the serious bloodhound, started howling too, Deirdre shivered, remembering the man with the cigar, and Vivian spying on her from above.
The front door slammed. Rebecca walked in, still in her work uniform, a black polo shirt embroidered on the back with a red rooster sporting a mohawk and playing guitar. Her teased black hair fell across her eyeliner-rimmed eyes as she assessed the howling. “What are you guys doing?”
“You’re home early. Grab a plate,” Deidre said.
“Work was slow.” Rebecca put a couple of tortillas on a plate, sat down and started piling taco fillings on top.
“You should’ve called me for a ride,” Deirdre said.
Rebecca gave a look that encompassed the entire table—t
he tacos, her two step-siblings, her step-dad, the dogs, and finally, Deirdre. A look full of enough skepticism to make Deirdre a little indignant. All Rebecca had to do was call her, and she’d drop everything and give her a ride. She would. But she shouldn’t have to. Rebecca was almost 17.
“I wish you’d get your driver’s license already. I don’t like you riding your bike all over creation.”
Rebecca bit into her taco. Clara’s eyes darted back and forth between them.
When she was done chewing Rebecca said, “I like my bike.”
Riding her bike was dangerous, but not as dangerous as letting her stay in LA with her dad, so Deirdre didn’t push the issue. Now that she had all of her children under one roof, as small and rented as it was, she didn’t want to lose them.
Wednesday, October 3
REBECCA SLAMMED HER WEIGHT into the pedals, rocking the bike side to side as she climbed the hill.
She was sweating. Not from the effort, she was used to that. From the infernal October sun turning her black hoodie into her own personal sauna. But who cares, she’d rather be sweaty than late.
Rebecca was never late—even on the way to this job that she hated, that her mom made her take when she moved back home last May. She picked up her pace.
To her left was the quarry. To the right, a view straight down into the backyards of one of the 36 sub-developments of San Amaro Hills, the master-planned utopia, where her new high school was. Patches of bright green lawn and sliding glass doors shaded by white lattice patio covers. Plastic tricycles and kid’s toys in some, others with the latest Home Depot yard fashions—tan brick fire rings and generic, unimaginative patio furniture.
She paused at the top of the hill. Beside her, 150 feet tall, a transformer tower spread its legs like a giant, arms holding swooping cables that carried thousands of volts, passing them to the next giant in line, the whole procession marching down the slope into the conglomeration of subdivisions, which gobbled up all that power like some hungry feeding beast.
October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1) Page 2
