Page 1 of Forbidden to Fall

A ride through the woods of Carver Maple Farm was high drama.

Then again, everything was high drama with Granite Edge.

To the flea-bitten gelding I was riding today, every snapping twig was a jump-scare. The wind rustling the leaves above us foretold imminent mortal danger. When the crunchy leaves fell to the ground in a few weeks? The apocalypse would be in full swing.

“You’re okay, Granny,” I said softly as his ears twitched every which way. Granite Edge was a mouthful, not to mention being a macho name for a very skittish creature, so I’d shortened it. Granny was one of the new geldings at Horseshoe Holler Stables, and I’d promised my friend Archer to help mellow him out for trail rides. Guests there wanted a tranquil equine experience amongst the maples, not something out of The Man from Snowy River.

I put my hand to Granny’s warm neck and spoke reassuring words to him as we passed through the sugarbush. We were surrounded by rows of scratchy trunks encircled with the tubing that carried maple sap to the sugar shack to be made into syrup.

With my encouragement, Granny seemed to accept that death didn’t loom over us, so I sucked in a breath of the crisp autumn air and looked up. The leaves on the trees above were still their rich summer green, but a few overeager ones at the top had begun to color-shift, which meant we were just weeks away from my favorite season in Autumn Ridge.

Nowhere in Autumn Ridge would be more colorful than these woods. I had a lot of idyllic memories here, but there was a subtle sense of being in enemy territory whenever my rides took me close to the Carver home.

If that sounded dramatic, it was, and yet my brother Ryan had used the words enemy territory once in reference to Carver Maple Farm. If anyone ever challenged him on the characterization, he’d remind them about James Carver trying to steal his wife (his girlfriend back then), with possible profanity sprinkled in for good measure.

Granny shifted suddenly, jerking me out of my thoughts.

“Whoa, boy.” I looked around for the source of his fear—a twig daring to be crooked or a ladybug crawling too aggressively.

My gaze fixed on a woman two dozen feet away, crouched by a trunk. Her brown hair was sprinkled with a few wiry grays that dusted the quilted vest she wore over a long-sleeved white shirt.

May Carver.

I saw her in town now and then, but since the falling out between our families years ago, I hadn’t done much besides smile weakly and from a distance—my subtle way of acknowledging that I felt it was a shame how things had turned out. The same went for the times our paths crossed on the maple farm. Quick pleasantries. Nothing more.

May had always had a warm smile for me, though.

Face screwed up in concentration, she fiddled with the tubing she held. She let out a sound of frustration, let go of the tube, and shook out her fingers.

Granny gave a little huff, and May glanced up.

Her mouth stretched into a surprised smile, and she pulled an earbud from her ear. “Miss Sadie Stevenson! In the flesh. Hello there, darlin’.” She’d been in Autumn Ridge for two decades, but her warm southern drawl was as potent as ever.

“Hi, Mrs. Carver.”

“It’s May to you.” She made another attempt to fit the tubing into the black dropline, only to give up again and flex her hands. “These silly fingers don’t cooperate like they used to.”

“Can I help?” I swung down from Granny without waiting for an answer, then looped the reins over his head and guided him toward May.

May was making another attempt—she was sweet as pie but stubborn as an ox. “Darn tubes. Seems as though a quarter of ‘em have come disconnected since I was last out here. Guess that’s my just desserts for neglectin’ ‘em.” She let out a sigh, then took Granny’s reins to free up my hands. She ran her hand along his face, reminding me that she’d grown up with horses of her own in Georgia—that, and her nephew ran Horseshoe Holler. “Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing?”

He nipped at her vest.

“We had some intense storms last month,” I said, slipping the tube into the dropline with ease. “That wind can’t be easy on the farm.” I stole a sidelong glance at May as she rubbed her right knee. I’d seen her at the grocery store last week and noticed her doing the same thing while she browsed the cereal aisle.

She was in her mid-fifties, but farm work was hard work, and it seemed like her body was keeping score.

“There,” I said. “Can I reattach some others for you?”

She picked up a pair of gloves on the ground. “Oh, you’re sweet as syrup, but I’ll manage.”

“It’s no bother, I promise. I’m inside most of the day, you know, so this is a nice change.” That, and I was confident she couldn’t do it herself. She’d probably reattached thousands of these tubes over the years. Her fingers must be worn out.

It was a task her son—or her husband—should have been helping her with. Her husband had passed almost a decade ago, and her son, James, had all but vanished a year after that, leaving her to handle the farm largely on her own. According to May, the town had driven her sweet James away. I couldn’t blame a woman for siding with her son, but she was the only one who had.

Besides Archer, maybe, though he hadn’t been around at the time. He helped his aunt where he could, but Horseshoe Holler kept him plenty busy.

I led Granny through the grove, reconnecting tubes as needed while May inspected the lines running between trees. It was months before sap season would begin in February, but there were miles of tubing to inspect.