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“I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show up.” Santos is waiting for me when I step out the front door. He’s already mounted on a beautiful large thoroughbred, looking ruggedly handsome in his dusty jeans and cowboy hat.
“You know I love horses,” I say, moving to pluck the cigarette out of his hand and taking a deep puff before tossing it away. Blowing out the smoke and practically moaning in pleasure because it’s been so long since I’ve had one, I say, “Gross habit. I’m sure if I really am your wife, you wouldn’t be doing that still.”
“Ididquit. But since you don’t remember, I thought I’d enjoy one.” He hands me the other set of reins he’s holding, these attached to a white Arabian male. “This is Nieves.”
“Nieves?” I reach out to the medium-sized horse whose name means snow, running my palm over his soft mane. “You couldn’t have come up with something more original?”
“You have only yourself to blame for that. He’s yours.”
My hand stills. “Oh,” I say sadly. “I don’t remember.”
“Maybe once you mount him, it will trigger something. Kind of like I was hoping mounting me would.” He waggles his brows at me and to my shame, I laugh.
“You’re awful.” I place my foot in the stirrup and pull myself up onto the black saddle. Shifting, I squeeze my legs slightly against the horse’s belly. He moves forward a few steps, and I tug on the reins very lightly to stop him. Although there is a familiarity, I can’t say if it’s because I’ve ridden all of my life and it’s deeply ingrained in me, or if it’s Nieves himself.
“Are you ready?” Santos asks.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.” He lets out two short clicks as he presses his heels into the horse’s sides, then takes off at a gallop.
“Oh no you don’t!” I spur Nieves and take off after him.
We race down the gravel drive, beyond the stables and other buildings, turning just before we get to the fields. Santos was right. Riding hard like this, with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, is liberating. It’s almost as if I’m the one running, releasing all of my emotions, leaving them in the dust.
Ahead, the blue-gray hills call to me, reminding me of the ones to the west of Villanueva. I breathe in the fresh air, taking in the land I supposedly own. No, not me. Santos. He owns the land and everything on it.
But that doesn’t matter. Not right now.
I speed ahead, letting my laughter trail behind me as I pass him. But my advantage doesn’t last long. Soon enough, he’s beside me, a grin plastered across his face.
“I’ll give you that win,” he says as we slow to a trot.
“You don’t have to give me anything. Nieves and I beat you fair and square.” I take a sip of water from the canteen he gives me. “So all this is yours, huh?”
“As far as the eye can see.” He swoops his arm in front of him. “And even farther than that.”
“Your wish came true. You own a lot of land.” I scan the area. Though it’s a desert sort of land, there’s enough green—with cactus, roble trees, and spiny bushes—that it doesn’t seem devoid of life. It’s absolutely breathtaking, in fact.
It’s all his, and he made it happen, just like he said he would. “One day, I’ll have it all, Sonia,” he vowed when I finally convinced him to tell me why he worked for my father, a man he claimed to hate.
“You’re not a slave, Santos. You can go wherever you want,” I told him, though the thought of him leaving broke my heart.
“But Iama slave. He took my family’s land, and if I want it back, I have to work for it. And I won’t stop at getting my land back. One day, I’ll have it all, Sonia. No matter what it costs.”
At the time, what he said confused me. It was impossible to reconcile my father with someone who could steal land from anyone. But whatever Santos said was law. I loved him that much. It created a fissure of doubt and animosity toward my father.
One I overcame the day Santos abandoned me, and my father was left to clean up the pieces of my life.
Wishing I could forget that part too, I shake my head in an attempt to rid myself of those memories. “Are we close to where you’re taking me?” I ask, needing to distract myself.
“Yes.”
“You’re not taking me somewhere to murder me, are you?” It’s a joke, but not completely outside the realm of possibility.
“If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t bother taking you out on a date first. I’d just do it at the house.”
“Wait a minute.” I lift my hand. “This isn’t a date.”
