Don't Let the Wind Catch You

  Don't Let the Wind Catch You

  A Gus LeGarde Mystery

  Aaron Paul Lazar

  Don’t Let the Wind Catch You by Aaron Paul Lazar

  This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are fiction and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 - 2017 by Aaron Paul Lazar. Originally published by Twilight Times Books of Kingsport, Tennessee.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  Second Edition, June 2017

  Cover art by Kellie Dennis, of Book Covers By Design

  Published in the United States of America.

  Other Books by Aaron Paul Lazar

  LEGARDE MYSTERIES (country mysteries set in the Finger Lakes)

  GREEN MARBLE MYSTERIES (mysteries with time travel and a ghost)

  TALL PINES MYSTERIES (sensual women’s mysteries set in the Adirondacks)

  PAINES CREEK BEACH SERIES (love stories by the sea)

  BITTERSWEET HOLLOW SERIES (romantic suspense involving kidnapping)

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  Devil’s Lake

  Bittersweet Hollow, book 1

  Two years ago, Portia Lamont disappeared from a small town in Vermont, devastating her parents and sister, who spent every waking hour searching for her. When she suddenly shows up on their horse farm in a stolen truck with a little mutt on her lap, they want to know what happened. Was she taken? Or did she run away?

  2015 Finalist Readers’ Favorites Awards

  2015 Semi-finalist in Kindle Book Review Awards

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  Reviews

  You’re about to dive into Don’t Let the Wind Catch You, book 6 in the LeGarde Mystery series. If you enjoy it, I hope you’ll consider leaving a review on Amazon. It doesn’t have to be long or fancy—just a few lines about what you liked best or how the book made you feel is perfectly fine.

  Thanks in advance for taking a few minutes to write a short review!

  Dedication

  To my wife, Dale, who spent many of her own childhood days with me on horseback riding through deep woods on her palomino gelding, Sir Galahad. Although our riding days are over in this lifetime, I can't wait until we get to do it all over again on the next go ‘round.

  Just for the record, Lord, next time I’d like a black Morgan, just like Pancho.

  Chapter One

  We crept toward the old shack on our bellies, crab crawling over moss and leaves. Elsbeth breathed softly to my left, just out of sight. Siegfried took the lead, several feet ahead of me. Behind us, the horses stood tethered to maple saplings; they munched steadily on sweet leaves with a rhythmic crunching sound, their tails swishing against the sting of deerflies.

  "Gus?" Elsbeth's whisper glanced off the air. "Do you think anyone lives here?"

  I pressed a finger to my lips. "Shh. I think I heard something." I was glad I'd left Shadow at home. That little beagle would've betrayed us, running all over the woods baying at every new scent he found.

  Siegfried raised a hand, signaling us to stop. He'd heard it, too. It was a keening sound, a high-pitched wail that was speech but not speech, closer to song, but with no melody I recognized.

  Ice crawled down my spine and tingled in my toes. My heart pounded against the soft earth. I chanced a look at Elsbeth, whose eyes had gone wide with what some people might think was fear. But I knew better. Excitement lurked behind those big brown eyes. She didn't scare easily now that she was eleven.

  Wood smoke escaped the chimney in a lazy tendril, spreading into pewter softness that filled the air with the aroma of campfires on cold winter mornings. Whoever lived in this remote, ramshackle cabin must have just started a cooking fire, for the scent of wood smoke was soon followed by the clanging of a cast iron pan and the distinctive scent of bacon.

  Siegfried glanced back at us, motioning toward a tumbled-down stone wall. He hopped to his feet and scrambled toward the cabin, chest tucked tightly to his knees. Although I was a full year older than the twins, I often let Siegfried lead. He was the one with the compass and the navigational skills, and often took us on excursions into the forests behind the Ambuscade.

  While we lay on our bellies watching the cabin, I couldn't help but remember snatches of Mrs. Wilson's history lessons last year. Even though we'd often played around the Ambuscade Monument, which was back in the field we'd just crossed, I really hadn't appreciated the importance of the area until she started sharing the story.

  She told us George Washington sent John Sullivan and his men to fight for the settlers in 1779. They'd attacked the Indians, and had burned villages, cut down apple orchards, and destroyed families. It had been a real slaughter.

  But it was hard to know who to root for, because some of Sullivan's men had been later ambushed by British troops and some Iroquois Indians. Fifteen men were massacred very close to where we lay. Two of the officers, Boyd and Parker, were captured and tortured in Little Beard's village in a town we now know as Cuylerville.

  A plaque stands there today, marking the spot where they were tortured. Now, in 1965—a hundred and eighty-six years later—I stared at it in fascination whenever my father drove us past it on the way to Letchworth State Park.

  Siegfried elbowed me and pointed to the house, where a shadow crossed the window.

  I nodded and watched.

  Elsbeth lay snug against me behind the stone wall. She whispered so close to my ear it tickled. "Someone's in there."

  A one-sided conversation had started up inside the cabin. I strained to hear, trying to calm the heartbeat in my ears that pounded over the words I couldn't make out.

  I listened to the deep male voice. Gruff and playful, he seemed to be discussing plans for the day. But no one answered him.

  I scanned the area. Siegfried noticed and followed my gaze. No telephone poles or wires. No electricity. Unless he had one of those walkie-talkies like they used in the war, he must be talking to a mute person or to someone with a very soft voice.

  I noticed several cracked windows and wondered why the man hadn't fixed them. The front door looked solid, made from rough planks, but the roof dipped and waved near the chimney. I imagined when it rained it probably dripped from the ceiling into buckets. Globs of tar and different colored shingles plastered the roof in various spots. A beat-up Ford pickup was parked under the trees in the back.

  Siegfried crawled around the edge of the wall. We followed him, creeping closer to the side of the shack until we were directly under the window with two cracked panes.

  Now we could hear better. The man's rumbling voice gave me chills.

  "Why don't you want me to go?"

  Silence.

  "Okay. So come with me. What's the big deal?"

  More silence.

  The man groaned. "Nobody will see you. You can wait outside."

  The twins and I exchanged puzzled looks.

  The deep voice spoke again. "What? Who's outside?"

  Siegfried's eyes grew round as fireballs. I tensed. Elsbeth grabbed my arm and squeezed. Heavy footfalls thundered across the floor and the window above us flew open.

  The blast of his voice came milliseconds before his head poked out. "What in tarnation are you kids doing?"

  Frozen in place, we stared at the man, whose grizzled face twisted in fury. A tangled white beard hung six inches beneath his chin, resting on a red-and-white checkered flannel shirt. Black suspenders looped o
ver his shoulders, and his gnarled hands batted the air.

  He yelled louder this time. "Well, speak up! What the hell's going on here?"

  Three crows cawed and abandoned their perch in the giant cottonwood overhead.

  Elsbeth spoke first, shocked into her native language. "Es tut mir leid."

  When the man squinted his eyes in confusion, she recovered.

  "Um. Sorry, sir. We didn't think anyone lived here."

  We scuttled backwards on our hands and feet, our backsides scraping the earth like bouncing bulldozers. Siegfried jumped up and pulled his sister to her feet.

  I stumbled back against the stone wall, ramming my spine against it. I winced, scrambled to my feet and stared at the ground. "We're sorry, Mister. We were looking for a fort."

  The sound of a rifle cocking made me look up again. A long barrel poked out the window, aimed at my chest.

  "If you kids aren't gone by the time I count to five, you're dead meat. Now scat!"

  I don't know if he actually counted or not. The blood rushed in my ears and drowned out all sounds. We raced to our horses, swung onto their backs, and galloped down the woodland trail to safety.

  Chapter Two

  Pancho thundered beneath me in a steady gallop, close behind the twins’ mounts, Frisbee and Golden Boy. Branches whipped my arms and face. I leaned down on my horse's neck and twisted my fingers into his thick black mane. Heat prickled beneath my bare legs. I gripped harder and the woods flew by in a blur.

  Pancho passed Siegfried's pinto, so close that Sig and I bumped elbows. When we blew past Golden Boy, Elsbeth shot me a smile. It was then I realized she wasn't scared at all by our near escape—she was enjoying herself.

  Pancho had taken the bit before, but this time we were riding in the direction of home, and he took full advantage. Lowering his head, he hardened his mouth and pulled the reins out of my hands.

  Somehow, I didn't care. The faster we got away from the bullets I was sure were flying toward us, the better.

  When we reached the clearing near the Ambuscade, I regained control of my horse. Slowing him to a walk, I slipped off his back and flopped to the grass. I dropped the reins and my trusty black gelding began to graze as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Breathing hard, I rolled onto my back. "Holy mackerel. I've never been so scared in my life."

  Elsbeth slid from Golden Boy's back and tied him to a fencepost. Sig did the same with Frisbee, and they joined me on the grassy hill.

  "How did he know we were out there?" Elsbeth turned to me. "And who was he talking to?"

  Siegfried was quiet for a moment, but I could see his brain working furiously behind half-closed eyes. "Maybe he has a prisoner in there. And their mouth was gagged. That's why we couldn't hear their answers."

  I sat up. "But he heard the answers, right? He was really talking to someone."

  Sig's mouth twisted. "Ja. I guess so."

  When Elsbeth turned on her stomach, her dark brown curls fell forward, nearly obscuring her face. Her cheeks still flushed pink from our gallop to safety. "I think it was a psychic child, his only daughter who can read minds and make spoons bend. She sensed we were outside and told him. Maybe she told him in his head. She didn't even need to talk." Her eyes flashed with excitement, even though Siegfried seemed to dismiss the theory with a half head shake.

  "It could be." I rolled onto my stomach beside her, finally catching my breath. "Or maybe he was talking to a ghost. What the heck was that weird singing sound, anyway?"

  Siegfried snorted and ignored my question. "Let's face it. It's more likely he was delusional. He imagines a friend is with him. He is so lonely he had to make one up. And he has conversations with them on a regular basis."

  "That would make him nuts," I said.

  Siegfried looked at me as if I were a slow student. "Ja, precisely."

  Elsbeth combed her hands through the deep grass, looking for the elusive four-leaf clover. "There's just one problem with that idea."

  Sig sat up and challenged her with his startling blue eyes. "What? It's a perfect theory."

  She pulled her knees close to her chin and narrowed her eyes as if she were about to reveal a secret. "If he's crazy, how'd he know we were out there?"

  Siegfried and I exchanged a glance. I sat up and brushed dirt from my knees. "She's right. He came right over and found us. And we hadn't even made a sound. We were so quiet. And he was shouting about us even before he saw us."

  Siegfried was reaching now, and his hesitant words betrayed his doubt. "Maybe he had a trip wire somewhere. We might have crawled right over it and set an alarm off inside."

  Elsbeth knew she had him. "Nein. We were sitting under the window listening to him talk with whoever it was for quite a while. We didn't move, remember? And it took at least five minutes for him to realize we were there."

  I looked at Siegfried, who had gone silent. "She's right. But I still don't get it. I'm not sure there's such a thing as psychic abilities."

  Elsbeth jumped to her feet and headed for Golden Boy. She untied his reins, grabbed a fistful of mane, and swung onto his broad back. "We'll find out next time, anyway."

  Siegfried got up and headed for Frisbee, who skittered away from him for a few feet. Even the horse seemed nervous. "Next time?"

  "Ja. When we go back to investigate."

  I chuckled and vaulted onto Pancho's back. Although I didn't relish the idea of returning to the shack, I wasn't surprised by her bravado. She'd been showing signs of feistiness over the past few months that made my heart swell with pride.

  I turned Pancho's head and squeezed his bare sides with my legs, leaning forward to urge him into a canter. "Come on. We'll be late for dinner. Race ya to the road."

  We covered the ground where Boyd's men had been slaughtered, and I almost thought I heard the screams of the men being ambushed by the Indians and Brits. I pressed Pancho's sides tighter and pushed him into a gallop. I didn't want to linger where ghosts walked.

  Chapter Three

  Pancho slowed to a trot when we approached home. He leaned into the curve and automatically turned down our winding dirt driveway. I'd said goodbye to the twins a quarter-mile down the hill. They'd cut across a shorn alfalfa field toward the farmhouse they'd lived in since their family moved to East Goodland, New York from East Germany seven years ago. I still pictured them slipping beneath an actual iron curtain when they escaped to freedom.

  If Siegfried and Elsbeth were late for dinner, they didn't eat. Their father, a hardworking man, was the strictest father I'd ever known. He believed in spanking—which my parents only pretended to do—and his punishments were severe. When Siegfried forgot his homework one day, although he had an "A" average in every subject except gym, Mr. Marggrander assigned two weekends of backbreaking weeding as a reprimand. Siegfried never forgot his homework again.

  I gazed at our old place with affection when the house, barn, and carriage house came into view. I also felt a bit of guilty pleasure, knowing my parents would never make me go hungry or beat me for a disobedient act. I felt safe and secure in this world, and knew whatever I did—right or wrong—my parents would always stand behind me.

  Pancho headed toward the barn, turning into the main aisle before I had to guide him. I slid off his sweaty back and landed on my once-white PF Flyers with a light thump. He lowered his head for me to take off his bridle; and with the reins still around his neck so he wouldn't bolt for the field, I pulled the leather halter over his ears. He knew it was dinnertime, so he was especially cooperative.

  He nudged me with his big head, pushing into me until I rubbed his ears and scratched inside them where the bugs had bitten him. When he was satisfied, I put him into his stall, which opened into the fenced field beyond. Following my daily routine, I went into the main aisle to scoop grain from the barrel for his dinner. In order to reach the low grain level, I had to lean over with my feet flailing in the air.

  The sweet mixture of cracked corn, oats, and special vitamins
smelled of molasses when I poured it into his bin. "Here you go, boy. Eat up."

  I didn't have to encourage him. He never hesitated, and this time as always, he dove into the corner bucket with gusto, munching with a hypnotized expression of joy in his eyes. I grabbed a ragged terry towel my mother had donated to the barn and dumped some Absorbine Junior Liniment on it. In broad sweeping strokes, I ran it over his neck, back, and especially around his legs. He looked fat and sassy, all glistening and plump in just the right places so he was an exceptionally comfortable bareback ride. He liked the feeling of the cloth on his neck, and pushed against me when I stroked beneath his thick mane.

  After he was rubbed down, I refilled his water bucket in the stall as well as the large tub in the pasture, and then threw him a few flakes of hay. He didn't really need it since the field was lush with grass, but I liked to give him a little every day just to be sure.

  "See you in the morning, Pancho Villa. Sleep tight."

  He stuck his nose in the water bucket and played with the liquid, sloshing it around and snorting.

  "I'll take that as a thank you."

  Four cats followed me around the barn, mewing and circling my ankles. Momma Kitty, a beautiful longhaired calico, led her three babies to the empty food dish, where she mewed again and looked up at me with recriminating eyes.

  "Sorry, kitty. I'll fill it up." I poured a bag of Purina Cat Chow into her bowl until it overflowed and then refilled their water dish.

  My stomach rumbled when I ran inside. I felt like I could eat ten hamburgers. "I'm home!" I slammed the screen door and—as usual—forgot to take off my dirty sneakers. Shadow barreled into me, jumped onto my legs, and licked my hands with a snuffling little whine, telling me how upset he was that I'd left him home alone.