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“Yes. Do you suppose he would sell a few?” Roman asked.
“Well, if’n we aren’t going to be chasing Belgrano, we might as well be looking at a few fine horses,” Dewey said.
They turned the horses and sauntered up the lane toward a fairly large house with numerous outbuildings. A stable hand, ajornalero, ran to them to help with the horses while they dismounted.
“Water them, if you would,” Roman said in Spanish, pulling off the leather panniers that contained his vitals, including gold and silver coin used for bribes, information and incidentals. “I’d like to speak to someone about your horses.”
“Sí. Señor Madrigalas or one of his sons. They are at home today.”
“Gracias.”
Roman removed his battered black bolero hat and swatted it against his dusty pant legs and shirtsleeves. Earlier, he’d tossed his jacket over the back of his saddle, but he grabbed that and shook it out as well.
“You want us to wait here or ride on ahead?” Rousseau leaned against his saddle horn.
Roman looked up at the sky to see it wasn’t quite mid-day. “Why don’t you inquire at a few more towns along the road to Ubrique and we’ll meet there tonight?
Roman watched them ride away before he propped the hat back on his head and walked toward the house. An older man opened the door and strolled outside. The sun glinted off a full head of gray hair before he put his hat on, completing hisvaqueroensemble. A true horseman, then.
“Señor Madrigalas,” Roman said, and introduced himself.
“English?”
“Sí. I’m looking at your fine horses and wonder if some of your Arabians are for sale?”
“All my horses are for sale at the right price. Where are you from?” Madrigalas asked, switching to English.
“England. North of London. But I live in Spain now, near Arco de la Frontera. My wife is Shelene Hightower of Las Colinas.”
“The name is familiar. Las Colinas is the Belgrano estate, is it not?”
“Yes, at one time. My wife’s mother was a Belgrano.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Is Belgrano widely known in this area?”
“Only as a traitor.”
“The king pardoned him, if it is Francisco you are talking about.”
“If it is Belgrano money buying my horses, I am not so sure I am selling. He is no son of Spain.”
“The money is mine, and I happen to agree with you. The horses will be a present to my wife. I have been away for some months and want to make a suitable gift. We have good horses and good stock, but we can always breed a better quality. I am very interested in the bays with the white socks. They look nearly identical.”
“Same father. A strong sire with good lines.”
“Darley Arabians?”
“No. Godolphin’s Arabian. The Godolphin, before he was known as Godolphin, stood stud for the Bey of Tunis, where I purchased these beauties from.” They walked toward the fenced-in pasture. Arabians were generally genial horses with powerful, lean muscles. Madrigalas grabbed a handful of oats from a bucket hanging on a fence post and opened his hand. The first horse nuzzled gently and devoured the small gift, but immediately began asking for more. “Would you like to ride?”
“No, not really. I’ve been in the saddle for three-and-a-half days. I’m perfectly fine watching them. Can one of your men put the horses through their paces?”
“Diego! Pablo!” Madrigalas called. Two young boys came out of the house, looking much like their father, in features and dress.
“Sí, Papa?”
“Saddle up the Arabians and show Señor Forrester what quality they are.”
