Page 1 of The Magic of Provence (A Year in France #3)

The flashback came from nowhere.

In the last place that Fiona Gilchrist would have expected it to happen.

Her happy place.

Nearly midnight, so she was alone in the stables with the smell of the horses and the sounds of the big animals shifting in their stalls as they settled to sleep.

A soft, welcoming nicker came from a big, warmblood gelding as she lifted her hand to stroke the glossy, dark-chestnut coat that was almost a perfect match for the colour of her own hair.

‘How’s that poor sore foot of yours?’ she asked quietly. ‘I’ve come to give it a wee bath with some Epsom salts.’

The horse swung his enormous head around to watch her put down a stainless-steel bucket and a pile of clean bandages.

She could feel the warmth and the huff of his breath on the back of her neck but, as she straightened again to lay the palm of her hand on his neck, she could feel the shiver that rippled across the horse’s skin.

It was the kind of movement that would be there if the animal had simply been annoyed by the touch of a fly, but she could sense muscles tensing below her hand and she’d been around horses long enough to know that it was the seed of a fight-or-flight response to something deemed dangerous.

It wasn’t just this horse, she realised suddenly. It felt like every living creature in these stables was holding its breath. Even the black and white cat who lived in the shadows and the mice who would be sniffing around the bins for any fallen grains or oats.

Everything was on alert. Waiting…

Later, much later, when she could think about it clearly, Fi realised that had been the trigger. That feeling like the world had paused because something terrible was about to happen.

The familiar, comforting aromas of clean straw, warm horses and fresh manure morphed into a memory she’d never been able to escape.

A sickening, smoky smell of aftershave interrupted by rapid panting of breath laced with whisky.

The sounds had become an echo of heavy footsteps on a wooden floor and a key turning in a lock.

The soundtrack of being trapped in that room with him.

She could even feel the pain.

Fear was digging sharp claws into her skin now, reaching for something that lay even deeper than her bones.

A horse nearer the main doors to the stables made the kind of snorting sound that suggested it was spooked.

Another stamped hard enough for a solid steel horseshoe, which Fi had recently nailed onto its hoof, to thump loudly on the concrete beneath the layer of straw.

She could hear – and feel – an even louder thump of her heart against her ribs.

She edged around the door of the stall and found she had her hands wrapped around the handle of one of the large metal shovels that were used for scooping up soiled straw.

What happened next was a blur. She saw the shape of the man coming out of the shadows of the unlit entrance to the huge barn.

The horse behind kicked out at the metal bucket in its stall and a high-pitched neigh of alarm from a stablemate joined the clatter of the bucket hitting the wall.

The next thing Fi was clearly aware of was that the man was lying on the cobbles of the central walkway.

A man she recognised as the stable manager. Her boss.

He wasn’t moving. Oh, dear Lord… had she killed him?

She stood there, frozen, the horror sinking in. Was this history repeating itself?

Had she finally shown her true colours – as her father’s daughter?

But, only seconds later, she heard the man groan. Then he swore vehemently as he pushed himself onto all fours and got, unsteadily, to his feet. Fi stepped back slowly under the glare from his narrowed eyes.

‘What the hell …?’

‘I–I’m so sorry, Ron… I didn’t know it was you…’

‘Who did you think would be wandering around here at this time of night?’ He was touching what was probably a large lump on the back of his head. ‘You’ve always been a bit weird, Gilchrist, but this really takes the cake. I should call the police. This is assault. You tried to bloody kill me!’

‘No… please …’ Fi backed away even further. The confusion of the flashback was fading. The adrenaline levels in her body were dropping. The absolute panic was gone but the fear was still there. A different sort of fear but still powerful enough to be crippling. A fear of being locked away.

Powerless…

‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.’ The words came out in almost a whisper. ‘It was… it was… self-defence.’

‘From what?’ His gaze flicked up to the wild curls on her head and then his lip curled as the blatant stare dropped to rake her entire body.

The snort of laughter that followed held no amusement.

‘You think anyone would believe that I was that desperate?’ He started to shake his head but winced visibly as he spat out his next words. ‘Who’d want you ?’

The thought came from nowhere, but Fi realised that whoever had made up that saying about sticks and stones being able to break you but that words could never harm you couldn’t have been more wrong.

This was a physical pain that could only come from injury.

It was tearing open old wounds that had never really healed, but at least she’d learned that it was possible to survive.

She just needed to think of how she could escape.

To get as far away as possible from what she had mistakenly believed was a sanctuary.

It was, ironically, the stable manager who provided exactly what she was looking for.

His eyes were no more than slits as he stared at her.

‘You’re finished ,’ he snarled. ‘You’ll never work in this industry again if I have anything to do with it.

Get your stuff and get off the property or I will be calling the cops.

’ He turned away. ‘I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, and you’d better be long gone. ’

There was no point in trying to apologise again and there was no way Fi was going to try and offer an explanation. She’d never told anyone. Ever.

She certainly wasn’t going to tell someone who embodied the very reason she’d kept it secret. When just three of the words he’d thrown at her were still echoing in the back of her head.

‘Who’d want you…?’

* * *

The small quarters on the mezzanine floor of these stables had been a bonus when Fi had applied for the job as the in-house farrier and stable hand for this prestigious livery. She’d loved living right in the stables like this but her room offered no comfort when she reached it now.

The clock was ticking.

She had no idea of where she could go. The first place that came to mind was her childhood home in Oban, but that was no more than a fleeting pang of the homesickness she’d never allowed herself to act on.

It was not an option. She couldn’t do that to her mother.

She would be far too ashamed to confess that she’d done something so horribly similar to the crime her father had committed in nearly killing someone before he’d destroyed their world by walking out and never returning.

Besides, there was no time to think of anything other than the most important things she wanted to pack. She had limited time and knew there was no way she would ever be able to come back here.

She sucked in a quick breath. It helped that this felt as if she was trying to run from a fire and could only take what was most precious to her, like the leather tool bag full of her farrier tools.

She rolled up her well-worn leather apron and tucked the heavy roll between the sturdy handles of the bag.

Then she hurriedly stuffed some clothes into a waxed canvas holdall.

She grabbed the personal items from the top of her chest of drawers, including a family photo of herself with her two sisters and their mother.

With no real idea of how many minutes had already gone by, Fi moved towards the door again but then stopped abruptly. Her wallet and her phone were in a top drawer. And her passport. Thank goodness she’d remembered them.

She had also almost forgotten what else was in that drawer, hidden under some underwear that had long since become too tight to be comfortable.

A key.

A large, old-fashioned kind of key that wasn’t going to open any door on this side of the English Channel. This key belonged to a little house in the South of France, called La Maisonette, and it had been her sister Ellie who had told her to keep it when Fi had been there last Christmas.

‘ You never know ,’ she’d said. ‘ You might need it one day .’

Right now, she couldn’t remember much about the little stone cottage, enveloped by the mist of fear that was pushing her to flee while she still had time.

She could, however, remember the donkeys that lived in the olive grove beside the cottage. She might not be able to catch the thought enough to define it but she knew the memory was significant.

Important.

In this moment, with her world tipped upside down from having been brutally shoved back into a past she’d thought she’d finally put to rest, it felt like it could even be lifesaving.

Fi was clutching the key in her hand as she left the stables behind her, threw the holdall into the back of her little hatchback and drove away without a backward glance.

She was leaving the life she’d been living long enough for it to feel safe. To feel like home.

But it wasn’t safe any longer.

It had become part of what she’d run from a long, long time ago.

She knew she had to escape. She hadn’t known where to go, but now she did.

She had a direction. Something to aim for. Fi knew where she needed to be.

La Maisonette.