October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1)

by Valerie Power

  Deirdre looked at the $400 riding pants and the impossibly long legs. No way.

  The young woman continued, “Do you have any muck boots? I thought I packed mine this morning, but they’re not here. I have big feet—size nine and a half.”

  “Oh. My feet! No, sorry, I—don’t think I have any,” Deirdre said. Did she? She might have some in her trailer but she couldn’t remember.

  “Deirdre!” she heard Bonnie call, “It’s almost time. Are you ready?” and she rushed back, dragging a balky Scarlet behind her. She went through her mental inventory of accessories, trying to remember if she had everything. Dressage whip, helmet…gloves!

  She opened the tack room door, snatched up the pair of gloves from where they’d fallen on the floor. There, crammed in the corner, covered with dust and spider webs, was her old pair of rubber muck boots.

  “Hey wait!” she called, peering around the trailer, but the leggy woman was gone. Her mare blinked at her with those soft, kind eyes. Oh well. She would’ve been too embarrassed to loan those dusty old boots to someone like that polished, put-together—and probably filthy-rich—young woman.

  Lina was heaving her giant Western saddle up over Walker’s back as Deirdre left for the dressage arena. “Break your neck!” Lina said, with a gleam in her eye.

  “What?!”

  “It means good luck!”

  “We say break a leg, Lina.” Bonnie said.

  “Oh. In my language we say break your neck.”

  Deirdre growled under her breath.

  Bonnie pep-talked her while they walked. Her mouth went dry. “I’m not ready, Bonnie. Can I bow out?”

  “You are ready. How long have I known you? You work best under pressure.”

  Deirdre thought of all the times she’d turned into a manic, scattered mess. What the hell was Bonnie talking about?

  “You know how to ride, Dee.” Bonnie held Scarlet while she mounted. “She’s just a horse. Ride her.”

  People gathered near the dressage arena, either with their horses waiting their turn, or just watching. She really hoped Walt and the kids hadn’t made it here yet, weren’t in the sea of anonymous flesh-tone ovals that stared at her from the sidelines. She didn’t want them to see her making a fool of herself, see how badly she’d wasted their money.

  “Go ahead and trot her around the arena,” Bonnie said. She did, praying Scarlet behaved herself, waiting for the bell, hearing the judges speaking as she passed near them, shuffling papers, one saying “Deirdre Boyd, on Scarlet’s Fire.”

  The bell rang. She tried not to hurry, knowing she had a full minute to get to the entrance and begin.

  Bonnie’s voice came clear and strong, calling out the first movement. “A. Enter, working trot rising.”

  The first few minutes were a blur. Her heart was pounding in her ears, but she remembered to breathe. Bonnie stood by the edge of the arena and called the moves to her, and at least she was able to read the letters through her haze and get Scarlet to walk and trot at the right places. Her circles were more like off-kilter ovals, but hey. After a few minutes, some kind of internal rhythm took over, and all she heard was Bonnie’s voice, the squeak of the saddle with each stride of the rising trot, the hoofbeats in the soft dirt, Scarlet’s outward snorts as she arched her neck, put her head down, and—could it really be?—rounded up her back. Was it the sheer concentration that gave her this unity she felt with Scarlet, who for all her pre-show antics was finally listening to her? By the time she stopped for her final bow to the judges, she felt some sort of new magic between them.

  “You both did great!” Bonnie said as she dismounted.

  “Well, at least I didn’t fall off. I took care of that beforehand,” she said, but inside, she was amazed.

  “And Miss Scarlet obviously likes showing off.” Bonnie patted Scarlet’s neck. “The judges liked you. Doesn’t hurt that you’re both redheads.” She twinkled a smile at Deirdre, and they began leading Scarlet back towards the parking lot and the trailer. They’d have to stick around awhile to collect her scorecard from the judges and wait for Lina to finish her class.

  They walked past the bigger arena with a stand of bleachers on one side. Horses bounced up and over colorfully striped and beflowered fences, close enough to hear them grunt as they landed.

  She was on a natural high, reliving her experience. Maybe she’d be out there doing stadium jumping someday. She pictured her and Scarlet, flying over the fences.

  They skirted the white tents set up on the lush watered lawn, where vendors sold everything from saddles to hoof-picks to horse shampoo, jewelry and hats, and other things even less related to horsemanship. The smell of grilling sausages filled the air, and she was suddenly ravenous. She thought about what she’d buy herself when she came back through to pick up her scorecard. She didn’t care what the score was. She knew it would be average, or maybe worse than that. But she was happy, looking forward to doing even better at Del Rio at the end of the month.

  After making Scarlet comfortable at the trailer, she came back to the vendor area to shop for a while. When Bonnie was done helping Lina get to her class on time, they took a walk along the edge of the lawn behind the tents, trying to find a little shade.

  Down an embankment, the cross-country course took up the entire dried-up back 40 of the horse park. All the jumps were made to look natural, like logs, brush, hay bales, ditches, tractor tires, and water…all the stuff that as a kid riding a pony all over creation, you just did, naturally. Distant riders sailed silently over the jumps, so far away she could barely make them out through the dusty yellow haze of the unwatered outland.

  Bonnie explained that cross-country portion of eventing was less about the finesse of dressage or the precision of show jumping and more about having balls—for both the horse and the rider.

  That was funny, since 99 percent of all riders Deirdre knew were women. Maybe she’d start saying ‘it takes ovaries’ instead, see if it would catch on. “Maybe I’d rather be doing that. Looks fun.”

  “Patience. You really need to be a team with your horse. That’s what the dressage is about. You two barely know each other—and that could be dangerous out there.”

  “Why do some of those have three jumps side by side?” she asked.

  “They’re different difficulties. I wonder if there’s any higher levels riders here today? Probably not…” Bonnie opened her show program, reading it as they walked.

  Down below, riders on horseback milled around, some sweaty and slouched with loose reins, having just completed the course, others tense, waiting their turn. Most wore body armor, vests with diagonal ribs of padding in shiny royal blue or purple or black, meant to protect their backs, collarbones, and vital organs in case of a fall. Deirdre thought maybe that was overkill for this level of show, but better safe than sorry. It just looked so hot, and she suspected it was more fashion than necessity. On the other hand, she used to feel that way about helmets. Now she never rode without one.

  Lina joined them. “I saw your test, Deedee.” She looked her up and down with pursed lips. Here it comes, here comes the judgment. “Not bad.” Lina said finally, sounding impressed for once in her life.

  Deirdre let out her breath. “Thanks Lina. How’d you do?”

  Lina twisted her mouth down. “No ribbon.”

  “If there was a ribbon for hottest cowgirl, you’d get it,” she said, and was rewarded with a half-smile. Making Lina smile, that was another victory for today.

  “Hi Mrs. Boyd!” A boy that had been sitting on the ground was rising to his feet.

  It was the Bartley kid. “Brian?” She was totally confused, trying to put him in context.

  He brushed the grass off his shorts and came towards them. “I just saw Justin and Clara and Mr. Boyd. They told me you were nervous so they were keeping their distance.” He crinkled his nose, scrunching all his freckles together as he laughed.

  “Well, I’m done now so I’m not nervous anymore,” she said, irritated
that they’d sold her out like that. “But what are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to with my mom—she’s about to start.” He pointed down at the cross country course.

  His mom? Was he talking about ‘the druggie’ that Sally had mentioned? She couldn’t imagine a stringy meth addict in a nightgown (well, that’s how Deirdre had pictured her) having the strength to get on a horse, much less the mental fortitude to fly over five foot solid timber walls on top of one.

  Far in the distance, a light bay horse popped over a fence. She recognized her—the horse with the sweet, soft eyes. “Hey, that’s the girl that helped me up, the one we parked next to.”

  “There she goes!” said Brian, watching intently. “That’s my mom!”

  Bonnie, still looking at the show program, read, “Stephanie Bartley on Swift Justice. Number 23. She’s doing upper-level eventing.”

  “The bimbo?” Lina whispered. While Deirdre tried to make sense of the fact that the kind girl that helped her was the bimbo/drug-addict/statue-wife, she said loudly, to cover up Lina’s comment, “Is your dad here Brian?”

  “No. He’s out of town on business.”

  Hmm. I bet I could be upper-level too, if I was a trophy wife, Deirdre thought, with a millionaire husband working all the time to pay for the best show horses. Although, would she really want to be married to a jerk that plastered houses all over the hillsides? No, she’d take steady old Walt, any day.

  Bonnie started murmuring to herself, things like “that horse is a great jumper,” and “good defensive position.” The horse seemed to hover over each jump, defying gravity, tucking its hind legs and clearing the obstacles easily. Over the table jump, it fully extended its body, front legs stretched forward, back legs flying behind, the rider in a balanced middle position, slouching a bit, reins wide apart. They reminded Deirdre of those old English steeplechase paintings. Soon she was completely transfixed too. They all stood and watched as they leapt a ditch that looked like a freshly dug grave. “The coffin jump,” Bonnie said.

  The horse and rider came round the course towards them, and Brian started whooping and hollering, “Go Mom!” She looked up at him from under her helmet’s visor, sport sunglasses opalescent in the sun, and flashed him a peace sign as they galloped by.

  Next they cleared a straw bale and tire jump, turned in a tight circle, and sped towards a long rectangular pond. In the center of it was a huge log. “The water jump,” Bonnie whispered.

  They were close enough that they could hear the rhythmic outward snorts with each stride, the hooves pounding into the tawny dust as they approached the water jump. Swift Justice leapt down into the pool, rebalanced, and picked up a nice rhythm again as they approached the huge log—it had to be 4 feet around—with splashy determination. A few strides out from the jump, Stephanie collected the reins slightly and sat back. Deirdre remembered the last time she’d jumped a log and leaned forward in anticipation of the take-off.

  But then, in a flurry of motion, the horse stumbled and her head went down, sending up a spray of water. Partly recovering balance but going too fast to abort, she launched. But the stride was off. Her front legs didn’t clear, and crumpled as her chest hit the log with enough force Deirdre felt the thud.

  Stephanie Bartley catapulted forward. Mid-air she wrapped her body into a tight ball, as the horse tumbled behind her, its momentum somersaulting it the rest of the way up and over the log, its big powerful body a twisted, flailing train-wreck in slow motion.

  They all let out a gasp. There was a huge splash on the other side of the log, and Deirdre saw the sickening sight of thrashing legs and hooves pointing skyward.

  “Shit!” Bonnie threw down her program and water bottle. “Shit shit shit!” She took off down the slope at a run.

  Deirdre yelled, “Stay here Brian!” She flew down the slope after Bonnie, faintly aware of judges and other riders running towards the jump from the starting area, but they looked like dolls, so far away. She and Bonnie got there first. The horse was on its back in the water, belly exposed, hooves kicking out for purchase, finding only air.

  Where was the rider?

  Bonnie plowed into the shallow water and splashed across to the horse’s head, placing a hand on her neck to try to calm her. The horse rolled onto her side and struggled to get up, but fell back down.

  “She’s stuck—help me!” Bonnie yelled. Deirdre, half a step behind, jumped into the water and ran towards the horse’s butt, which was wedged against the log jump. Trying to stay clear of the slashing hooves, she pushed with all her strength against the hindquarters. It was then that she saw a gloved hand and a bare arm pressed up against the log. Oh my god. “She’s under here—quick!” she screamed, her voice fracturing.

  Bonnie did something and the horse plunged, righted itself onto its belly, then heaved itself up, only to splash down a few feet away.

  Deirdre saw the body, face down, helmeted head underwater, tucked under the log.

  Jesus! If Stephanie’s neck was broken, she could paralyze her if she moved her. But if she didn’t move her, she’d drown. She lunged closer and carefully turned her over.

  Cradling her head, Deirdre removed the smashed sunglasses. Her eyes were closed, like a sleeping person, her long ponytail mud-plastered like a veil across her face.

  Where was everyone? She looked around but the entire place felt deserted. Seconds passed in what seemed like an eternity.

  Desperately, she cast back to her CPR training and felt for the carotid pulse. Nothing—but that didn’t mean anything, she’d always been bad at finding it.

  Was she breathing? She wiped muddy strands of ponytail away from her perfectly oval face, prepared to do mouth to mouth, and the woman’s eyes fluttered. “Stephanie! Stephanie!” she said, and patted her face.

  The eyes fluttered again, then flew open. “Biscuit? Where is she? Biscuit!” She half sat up before screaming in pain and falling back.

  Finally, another woman, maybe a judge, came to help Deirdre. No ambulance yet.

  Stephanie was breathing, but had lost consciousness again. Deirdre held her, keeping her head above water, “Where’s the ambulance?” she shrieked to the judge, whose face was almost as pale as Stephanie’s.

  Seconds passed, Deirdre’s breath growing ragged from panic. A siren in the distance. She looked down at Stephanie’s body, her leg cocked at an unnatural angle. She was probably in shock, and the cold water wasn’t helping. She patted her face again, called her name. The siren was getting closer, the ambulance rocking over the rough terrain toward them.

  EMTs rushed into the water and knelt around Stephanie. Deirdre lurched out of the way as soon as they had hold of her. They slid her onto a backboard, carefully removing her helmet after putting on a neck brace.

  She backed to the edge of the water jump. Brian was standing there, watching the whole scene, his mouth agape.

  Lying on the gurney with a neck brace on, Stephanie fought to lift her head. Her soaking hair straggled down her face as her eyes scanned back and forth. “Biscuit!” she howled.

  Deirdre climbed out of the water and put her hands on Brian’s shoulders. “I need to go with her,” he said, eerily calm. He ran to the EMTs, who let him hop up beside Stephanie as they loaded her in. There was more wordless wailing from Stephanie, the ambulance doors slammed shut, and it drove away, over the flat yellow grass towards a gate in the far fence.

  Deirdre turned back to the jump. The show vet was just getting there. The mare was curled up like a fawn, legs tucked underneath, head hanging strangely to the side.

  “Deirdre! Come hold her head!” Bonnie shouted.

  She sloshed over, sank to her knees, and put a palm on Swift Justice’s nose, guiding her huge head into her lap. As Bonnie unbuckled the girth and slid the saddle off, the mare rested her big head, inhaled loudly through her nostrils, her liquid eye looking up at her with complete trust. Deirdre kept her palm on the side of her cheek, trying to radiate calm, not daring to move or upset t
he horse even while her legs cramped under her and the cold water chilled her through her soggy breeches. Finally the vet came and gave her a shot in the neck, and Bonnie commanded a team of volunteers to help her stand. Only then did Deirdre rise and stumble on her numb legs to the side, watching as the group tried to get Swift Justice on her feet, pushing her rear end to get her legs under her, and steadying her as she heaved herself up. They led her out of the water, her held hanging low, and she limped onto a trailer.

  Bonnie turned then, almost unrecognizable, her cheery expression drained away. She put an arm around Deirdre, and they helped each other trudge back up the hill.

  * * *

  REBECCA WAS HUNGRY. IT was almost 2 and she got off at 4. She had to take her break. Despite wanting to avoid Jeremy, she sucked it up and went into the kitchen.

  “Mind if I make my lunch?”

  “Be my guest,” he said, and stepped away from the wok to cut vegetables. She finished as quickly as she could, the green beans slightly underdone, grabbed a few fortune cookies, and took her plate out back.

  Wait. Where was her bike?

  It was gone. She looked again, not believing. Who would steal a crappy little BMX bike? She sank onto the milk crate.

  Her stomach was clawing its way out of her, so she started eating, choking down half-raw green beans through her tears.

  Jeremy came outside, his mouth open to say something to her. His face changed. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he said.

  “Somebody stole my fucking bike,” she said, through a mouthful.

  “Huh? Who would steal that old thing?”

  “Exactly. Now, please let me grieve.”

  Jeremy went to sit in his car with the windows down, and turned on some crap fake metal, Limp Bizkit or something terrible like that. They glanced at each other. She sighed, went over to the passenger side, and got in.

  “Sorry I brought up your dad,” she said, handing him a cookie. “You’re right, it’s none of my business.”

  “My dad’s an asshole, end of story. No biggie." He was back to his goofy self. He had been rummaging in his backpack, but stopped and put it on the seat between them, then turned the music down a notch. “He did get me this job, like you said. Him and my mom got together, decided they’d take away my car if I didn’t do it. My mom and step-dork hate this car anyway, but she thinks it’s good motivation to be responsible. Even though I already have a job.” He patted the backpack.