“It goes without saying, Don Tomás, that my sisters are entitled to my portion of the estate,” my brother Alberto said, rubbing his chin.
I still hadn’t gotten used to seeing my baby brother dressed so solemnly. That white cassock made him look older, but his eyes still glistened with the same mischief and curiosity they had when he was a child.
“In that case, Padre Alberto, the law requires that your portion be divided among your three sisters.”
“But Alberto doesn’t even know Purificación,” I said. “It wouldn’t be fair! Didn’t she get enough already?” My voice cracked.
“I’m just stating the facts according to the law, se?ora. You are certainly within your right to contest the will.” Aquilino shut his briefcase. “In the meantime, I shall write a letter to your sister in Spain notifying her of your father’s passing and his final will.”
Laurent grasped my arm, shaking his head slightly. He leaned toward me, his warm, wine breath tickling my ear.
“Don’t worry, ma chère,” he whispered, “we’ll take care of this.”
CHAPTER 7
Puri April 1920
“English or Western saddle?” Martin asked me.
At Angélica’s request, my father’s right-hand man was going to take me on a tour of the plantation while the maid, Julia, prepared my room. I wouldn’t have accepted if I knew I would have to get on a horse.
Were all men supposed to know how to ride? I knew for a fact that Cristóbal had never climbed on one of these four-legged giants. He was as urban as they came. But I didn’t want to look like a chicken in front of Martin. Something told me he didn’t respect weakness.
“English,” I said, which apparently was the wrong decision as the saddle was much too small and didn’t have a horn to hold on to.
Martin smiled for the first time since I’d met him, but it didn’t seem like a friendly gesture to me, more like a personal victory of sorts. He set a minuscule black saddle on the horse’s back and pulled the leather girth under to tighten it around the belly. He’d chosen a white mare for me called Pacha, like the Incan queen, he said.
I stared at her long legs. How on earth was I going to climb this creature without tearing my pants in two?
Martin adjusted his own saddle, which was significantly larger than mine and made of a rougher leather with intricate leaf designs carved throughout. It also had a big horn sticking up on top. Was it too late to change my mind?
My pride didn’t let me. I would climb on this horse and ride it even if it killed me.
In one swift move, Martin got on his horse. The saddle seemed to mold to his body. He made curious sounds with his tongue that communicated something to the animal. I had no idea what the message was, but the gelding must have understood because he shook his ears lightly and turned toward the trail.
Mimicking Martin, I rested both of my hands on Pacha’s back and squeezed my left foot in the stirrup. I hoisted myself up, but the mare pulled away every time. I could sense Martin’s eyes on me. My face burned. I gripped a mass of Pacha’s hair with my left hand to hold her still and rested my right hand on the saddle. Then, I pulled myself up and crossed my leg over her back.
Finally!
Without letting go of Pacha’s hair with one hand, I reached out for the reins, but before I could touch them, she reared. Like a marble, I slid all the way to the ground, where I landed right next to a pile of manure.
My pride hurt more than my back and buttocks, which is saying a lot because I had little cushion to muffle the fall and the pain throbbed from my tailbone to the top of my spine.
“Are you all right?” Martin asked me. His voice came out as though he were laughing. It only angered me more.
Yes, laugh all you want, Sabater, but the first thing I’m going to do when I’m the rightful owner of this hacienda is kick you out!
I supposed it would be of no use to expect him to help me up.
Being a man was dreadful.
I stood up, trying to shake the dirt off my bottom, but it was filled with mud. Pacha glanced at me with defiance. I would show her who was boss! Seizing the saddle, I hoisted myself up again, this time with more energy.
“We can switch horses if you’d like,” Martin said. “Some people find it easier to ride in this kind of saddle.”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Don Armand liked English saddles. He said it was the only saddle a gentleman should use. He used to say Western was for the lower class.”
From his tone, I perceived some resentment toward my father. But to me, knowing that my father made the same choice was reassuring. By God, I would learn to ride as well as this man!