Do Horses Weep?

By JJ Minor

As reports of mystifying horse deaths dot the area newspapers, teenager Raleigh Holmes is curious and concerned, but her attention remains fixed on another mystery – the identity of a stalker tormenting her. He teases her with shocking messages. Threatens her with blood-stained chains. Disguises himself in plain sight. Could the guilty party be an angry new student in history class? She can't help being curious. He is cute and deliciously intriguing. He lives in a mortuary, so he's also decidedly dangerous. Then there's another stalker candidate who lives right next door. He's an obnoxious school mate, suddenly tingling with unwanted interest in the opposite sex, and he's interested in Raleigh. The third suspect is an irate youth who lives with a pack of dogs in an abandoned school bus. Raleigh searches for clues about each suspect as she works to expose the troubling creep making her life miserable.

Raleigh is passionate about righting wrongs. She wants to fight injustice. She can't say no to those in need. However, she isn't always perfect. Doesn't always make the right decisions. Complications swirl around Raleigh. A young boy asks for help finding his mom. A lost dog needs rescuing. An older lady from a prominent family needs help with an unpredictable horse stabled on her estate. Raleigh decides to investigate the problems with the rambunctious horse. Why? Because he’s owned by her grandson, a famous teen rock star. Also, the intriguingly cute, bad guy from school works at the stable. One night Raleigh needs to get to the stable--fast. But she doesn't have transportation. She steals her mother's car. Her decision leads to events that draw Raleigh into the center of the ruthless gang-for-hire killing the area horses, and reveals the identity of one larger-than-life, demented stalker.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JJ Minor
• Release date: Mar 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310402784

JJ Minor

JJ Minor writes award winning fiction. Her work includes YA mystery novels featuring amateur sleuth Raleigh Holmes in Do Horses Weep, Let the Bones Talk, and The Witches of Woolaroc. She’s also won awards for the YA fantasy, An Echo Past the Edge, as well as an adult romantic mystery novel entitled Kiss and Don’t Tell.JJ and her family lived over a decade in London and boarded their own horses at a private stable in Bathurst Mews, riding several times a week in Hyde Park along the Serpentine Lake and on Rotten Row, enjoying the many famous park attractions and trails. They belonged to a riding club that visited equestrian centers all around England. She also enjoyed riding and jumping lessons at a riding school in the ancient and scenic Burnham Beeches Wood, east of London in Buckinghamshire County, as well as many other upscale stables in the English countryside. After they returned to the States, the Minor family chose a country home and continued to enjoy owning several horses, trained in dressage and eventing.JJ leads a creative life. She writes adult and YA mysteries and romantic mysteries. She trained and received a diploma in floristry while in London. She’s a choral singer. She paints. Writes poetry. Embroiders. Crafts collage gifts. For several years, she reviewed books for her local newspaper. She’s especially proud of intricate drill patterns she designed for an equine musical freestyle drill team, featuring her daughter and other teenage girls in her state. She’s lived in Kansas, North Carolina, South Carolina, London England, Texas, and Oklahoma.

Book preview

Do Horses Weep?

JJ Minor

Text copyright 2016 JJ Minor

Revised Edition

All Rights Reserved

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author, except brief passages for review purposes.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the creation of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All references to any company, business, club or organization are used fictitiously.

The beautiful cover art on this book is 3 Wild Horses in Abstract, and is the work of talented artist Marcia Baldwin. Her website is www.mbaldwinfineart.com.

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Author’s Note

Woolaroc Museum and Wildlife Retreat is located on Oklahoma State Highway 123, twelve miles southwest of Bartlesville. It is a 3,500 acre wildlife preserve, which includes a lodge, lake, and a museum dedicated to Southwestern art and artifacts. The name Woolaroc is taken from three words – woods, lakes, and rocks – the terrain of northeastern Oklahoma’s Osage Hills. Frank Phillips (1873-1950), the founder of Phillips Petroleum Company originally established the lodge and ranch for his family and friends. At one time, scenic recreational areas were used for Phillips Petroleum Company annual employee picnics. Today the Woolaroc Museum and Wildlife Preserve are open to the public. Entrance fees and admission hours are listed on its web site.

Chapter One

Colonel Dude, Grand Champion Quarter Horse

Did you bring the axe? Otaktay Dae whispered. He glanced over his shoulder at his companion. As he pushed the stable door open, a loud creak echoed through the night. He jerked to a stop with a muttered oath and glared at the man behind him.

I oiled those hinges yesterday. While nobody was watching. Just before I told them I was quitting, Tank Ward said in a defensive whisper. Hid his halter back behind the partition in his stall, too. Done everything – just like you said.

Shut up. he stuck his hand in Tank’s face to cut off any more words.

The two men remained motionless for several moments. The scent of hay, bedding, and horses swept over them as they stood in the open barn door. The evening remained peaceful. Crickets chirped. Cicadas buzzed. A bird of the night sang mournfully in the distance.

Otaktay relaxed and entered the dark stable aisle.

Nobody heard us. You worry too much. Tank sauntered down the barn walkway, holding a dimmed flashlight low.

What about the axe – did you bring it? Otaktay asked.

Using a sledge hammer this time, Tank said.

That’ll work.

After we get him down to the meadow, I’ll kick out a couple of fence posts. Replace them with some old posts with rotted ends I swiped from their trash pile. It’ll look like the fence collapsed. Everything’s in the pickup bed, Tank said.

Otaktay stopped at a stall a few steps down the aisle. A gleaming brass plate engraved with the name Colonel Dude, Grand Champion Quarter Horse, identified the occupant.

A large, copper bay horse stuck his head out over the open Dutch-door. His curious eyes glimmered as he studied each of the men. Accustomed to friendliness, the bay nuzzled inquisitively at Otaktay’s shirt. The man reached in a pocket and gave the horse a couple of sugar cubes.

Tank buckled a halter and rope lead on the horse. Walk on, Dude. They stepped out, leaving the stable door open.

Give him to me. Otaktay quickly maneuvered the horse onto the soft lawn that edged the farm road. He didn’t want the sound of hoof beats ringing through the night air.

Colonel Dude stopped and lowered his head. He snuffled at a clump of grass.

Hold on, you can graze down in your paddock. Otaktay jerked the rope and led the horse into the black night.

I’ll go change the posts at the edge of the pasture, over near their neighbor’s fence, Tank murmured. Rough up the ground, too.

Otaktay waved an okay.

The stars and bright moonlight shimmered on the coppery highlights of the bay’s coat as he strode along, following the man. The horse glanced back and forth, as if welcoming the unexpected nighttime adventure.

Here comes the Sandman. Tank bit his lower lip to squelch an excited giggle as he went to retrieve his tools.

Chapter Two

Danger signals flashed the minute the new guy sauntered into the classroom. He was cool. Cynical. Cocky. He sported a body-hugging, black tee shirt, black jeans, and a bad attitude. His insolent, blond arrogance screamed trouble.

Our new substitute teacher, Ms. Molly Quickle, didn't spot the obvious warning signs. She read his admittance slip, gave him a brief glance and said, Welcome to Oklahoma History. She turned to our class. Young ladies and gentlemen, this is Marion William Ryan, your new classmate. Marion comes to us from South Carolina. She waved around the room. Marion, take any empty seat.

Marion chose the chair at the teacher's desk.

Wooden seats creaked as bodies slouched low for safety. I took a detour from safe and sound and sat up straight, wide-eyed and expectant.

Marion?

The new guy stared at her. Hard. My name is Bill.

Oh, Ms. Quickle said. Well, then, Billy, take another seat. That one is mine.

Billy did not move.

I glanced from Billy's face to our leader. Ms. Molly Quickle was a tall nightmare in a purple broomstick dress. What would she do?

I meant move to one of the student's chairs, she said.

Billy ignored her.

She squawked like a frustrated chicken hawk, and then covered it with a cough when someone laughed out loud.

I hunkered down in my desk, hiding behind a textbook. My fervent hope? That she didn’t realize the someone who laughed was me.

My name is Raleigh Holmes. My background? I’m on the lookout for villains. Bombers. Terrorists. My future? A criminal justice major in college. Then, law school. Someday I might be attorney general of the United States of America. Head of the FBI. Supreme Court Justice.

Hit the pause button. Okay, I'm an ordinary 14-year-old girl surrounded by 16-year-old teens in this history class. Why am I here? The teachers and counselors decided I wasn’t challenged by my school work so they double-promoted me. Stuck me in advanced placement classes.

Putting it modestly, maybe I’m not so ordinary.

However, sometimes I exaggerate. Magnify. Overreact. However, back to the subject of law and order, I am a detective of sorts on the lookout for lost, abandoned, or abused pets. Sometimes I stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m always prepared for bad guys.

Had one just sauntered through the classroom door? For sure. His attitude screamed trouble.

He emphasized his defiance by tapping one of the teacher's ballpoint pens on the orange desk top. The expectant sparkle in his eyes was more than Ms. Quickle could bear.

Young man?

He yawned, opened one of her drawers, and flicked through the files.

He is toast. I waited for an appropriate reaction from authority. Moments ticked by. Silence from her corner.

A little awed, I stared at the newcomer in disbelief. So did every eye in the classroom. What did we see? Handsome dark-blond swagger. Chiseled-chin bravado. A drop-dead attitude. The equivalent of a sleek sports car in a land of pickup trucks.

My attention shot to Ms. Quickle. My classmates followed my lead and focused on her too, but she appeared oblivious as she marched the room’s perimeter. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. Energy and steam seemed to billow from her as she walked around a second time.

Billy continued to paw through drawers at the teacher’s desk. I peered at our teacher. Her eyes were bulging. She'd either had a stroke or an inspiration. Like heat-seeking missiles, Ms. Quickle's red-rimmed eyes zoomed straight at me.

Raleigh, isn't the desk behind you empty?

Excuse me?

Help your new classmate select a new desk.

What did she mean? Help him? He didn't need assistance. He was doing fine. What did she expect me to do? Surprise froze me to my chair.

Let me repeat my instructions. She strolled down the aisle, and leaned over me. Escort him to his desk.

He's at it, I shot back.

Billy smirked at me in approval. He actually saluted, as if we were partners.

Rrr-rrr-ah . . . . Ms. Quickle rumbled like a bass drum as she struggled to say my name.

Billy folded his arms and leaned back on the rear legs of the teacher's chair and grinned like an observer. Composed. Poised. Sure of himself – and me.

He was looking for trouble, and he'd found it.

I jumped up and shot to the front of the room as if eager to do my duty, intent on dumping one of the teacher’s cactus plants into his lap. Instead, I tripped and skidded into his chair.

Billy prevented a total wipe-out by grabbing the desk. He stood. Glared down at me.

What's your problem? he growled.

I pushed my glasses back up my nose. Straightened my shoulders. Walked to an empty seat in a row against the far wall and pointed. There's your new desk.

My classmates burst into laughter. Billy ignored them as he sauntered across the room. His swagger shouted he liked being the main attraction. I wiggled my fingers, pointing him to his assigned place. He drew abreast of me and bumped my shoulder. Lightly. Just a touch. But from the look on his face as he brushed past, I knew I'd better never take my eyes off of Billy.

A quick scamper took me back to the safety of my seat. The atmosphere in the room sizzled. With averted eyes and cocked ears, I waited. Long seconds ticked by, followed by a creak close to me. I closed my eyes and shuddered. He’d grabbed the empty seat right behind mine.

Cold chills ran down my spine.

I looked for help. My only three friends in class had their heads down, studiously avoiding my predicament. I checked out Ms. Quickle. She concentrated on her desk drawers, shuffling through them frantically as if she was making sure Billy hadn’t swiped anything.

I shivered. Took a deep breath to calm my nerves. Billy smelled like cherry candy.

How could someone that bad, smell so good?

The bell rang and students shot out of the classroom. I joined the rush, emerging into a wide corridor. Doors burst open along the third floor, disgorging streams of chattering teenagers.

I raced to my locker. I was afraid of a rear attack from Billy. None came, but hoards of Oklahoma History students clustered around me. Chatter and giggles popped like flashbulbs. Christy, Nicole and Emilie, my three closest friends, shoved their way forward.

Like, wow. I was so proud of you. Christy's vivacious, cheerleader smile flashed. Her blonde hair shimmered as she tossed it back over one shoulder.

You showed him, Nicole agreed enthusiastically. Nicole's mountain-stream purity found goodness under any rock.

Hey, a male voice broke the girlish chorus.

Uh oh, watch out. Emilie, who’d been standing silently to the side, frowned at someone behind me. She’s a pessimist. Her moods have gray linings or ice storms, or, if she’s crossed, tornados.

I was talking to you. The husky-voiced person grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. I gulped and looked up into the forbidding face of Marion William Ryan.

You and I have unfinished business, he said.

What kind? My knees knocked.

You need to be taught a good lesson. He thumped me on the forehead. Bang!

Oh, go away. I glared at him.

A window opened in his midnight eyes. Something twinkled for an instant. He laughed. The low rich sound rumbled in the air. Billy grabbed my shoulders, pulled me close, and kissed me.

I couldn’t breathe. My heart skipped.

Let her go, Emilie shouted.

Christy’s eyebrows shot up. Her mouth dropped open.

Pervert, I gasped and shoved him away.

Billy disappeared into the hallway’s maze of students.

Oh, my gosh, you’ve got to tell a counselor about him, Emilie said.

Don’t worry. You’re okay. Nicole patted my shoulder.

She should worry. He needs a psychoanalyst. He acted like a sociopath in history class. Emilie’s face turned hard and cold as a sleet storm. And just now, a molester.

Wonder what his problem is? Nicole turned to me. Do you think you need to go to a safe space?

A what? I asked.

To recover. Emilie drilled me with a hard look. After you report his behavior.

He’s so cute, Christy said. He’s got a streak of awesome a mile wide.

I stared at her. She thought Public Enemy Number One was cute?

Don’t tell on him. Christy clasped her hands in supplication."

He’d be expelled. Nicole rubbed her forehead, as if she was worried.

Good. Emilie nodded so hard, her hair bounced.

No, don’t want him to think it bothered me. I turned to go to my locker. Forget him.

Hey, how ‘bout a kiss? one guy asked as he brushed past, wriggling his tongue at me.

Ooh, yuk. Your tongue has yellow patches, you’re diseased, I cried.

Scads of people shouted, French her, French her. Wet, smacking noises pockmarked the air.

Ron Corgan, a popular figure at school because of his athletic prowess, grabbed my arm, flashed an arrogant smile, and said, Watch this. He yelled, Hey, Billy Boy? Oh, gosh, I forgot. Your name is Marion.