The Santana Heir

Dolores had come outside with a tray of beautifully cut tropical fruits—pineapple, mango, melon and banana. “It’s almost too pretty to eat!” Grace speared several pieces for her plate.

“Get used to it. When it comes to food, Dolores is a true artist. The two girls you met are her nieces. She’s training them to take her place one day—as her father trained her in this very kitchen.”

The food kept coming—airy scrambled eggs, crisp slabs of bacon, seasoned black beans, fried potatoes and buttered corn muffins. Everything was so delicious that Grace had to push herself away from the table. “Heavens, do you eat like this every day?” she asked.

Emilio had been watching her devour breakfast, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “Again, you’ll get accustomed to it. In the city, meals are more like what you’re used to. But here in Urubamba we follow tradition—a hearty breakfast to start the day, a light lunch around two o’clock followed by a siesta—when there’s time for it, at least. Then at night, around nine o’clock, we dress up and gather for dinner. It’s all very civilized.”

He finished his plate and put his napkin on the table. “If you’re finished I’d like to show you the countryside. By chance, do you ride?”

Ride? Grace’s stomach clenched with instinctive fear. She forced her mouth into a smile. “I rode as a teenager. But I haven’t been on a horse in fifteen years. I’m not sure if I even remember how. If you don’t mind, I’ll walk.”

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed, his insistence tightening the knot in her stomach. “We’ll have a lot of ground to cover—too much to travel on foot—and nobody forgets how to ride. I’ll find you the gentlest horse in the stable.” He glanced down at her bare legs. “You’ll want to put on long pants.”

Grace rose. It would be simpler to tell him the truth. But the truth was too private, too personal to share. The only other choice was facing stark, paralyzing panic.

“See you back here in fifteen minutes,” he said. “I’ll find you a hat, and I’ll check on the boy for you.”

His name is Zac, she wanted to remind him. But her fear-constricted throat refused to form the words.

Four

In the bedroom, Grace shed her shorts and found her blue jeans. Her legs quivered as she stood on the rug to pull them on. Maybe she could tell Emilio she was ill, or make some excuse about Zac needing her. Anything to save her from mounting a horse again.

As she tugged the jeans over her hips, her fingers skimmed the puckered scar that slashed across her belly at the bikini line. Grace had tried to block the old accident from her memory, but the ugly scar would always be there to remind her.

Now the nightmare flashed again—the crunch of hard gravel against her back, the screaming horse, the plummeting hooves and the awful crushing sensation between her hip bones...

Pressing her lips together, she willed the memory to fade. Still it lingered, as sickening as if it had happened yesterday. What she wouldn’t give to make it go away?

Maybe Emilio had offered her an answer. For the past fifteen years, she’d avoided anything to do with horses and riding. Was it time she faced her fear?

Her hands shook as she refastened her sandals, wishing she’d packed something sturdier for her feet. No, she couldn’t do it. She would tell Emilio the truth—or at least as much as she felt comfortable sharing. Once he knew, he would never invite her to ride again.

Tucking in her shirt and strapping on her belt, she closed her room and found her way back to the patio. Emilio was waiting for her with a canvas vest over his shirt. “Let’s go!” he said, grinning as he plopped a straw hat on her head. “You’re going to enjoy this.”

She hung back. “Emilio, I can’t—”

“Come on!” He caught her hand, pulling her alongside him. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine!”

Skirting the pool, they moved across a patch of open lawn. Beyond the trees Grace could see a long, low building that framed one side of a fenced paddock—unmistakably a stable. Her pulse ripped into a frenzied cadence.

“Emilio, stop!” She yanked his arm, jerking him to a halt. Brows furrowed in confusion, he glanced back over his shoulder.

“Listen to me,” she said. “Fifteen years ago I had an accident with a horse. I won’t go into the details but I was hurt—badly. I haven’t ridden since.”

Understanding lit his features, and Grace let out a sigh of relief. He’d let this go now.

“Did you ride often before the accident?” he asked.

“Yes, I used to ride all the time.”

“Then it’s high time you did so again.” He turned to face her fully, his eyes riveting her in place. “If you give up something you loved because it hurt you once, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

He extended his hand, inviting her to take it. Grace hung back, hesitating. “You don’t understand. I’m afraid of horses—terrified if you want to know the truth.”

“Do you like being terrified, Grace?”

His question stunned her. She shook her head. “Of course not. I hate it. But how can I change the way I feel?”

A smile teased the corner of his sensual mouth. His hand captured hers and held it gently but firmly. “Come,” he said. “Come and meet my beautiful horses.”

He led her through the trees to the paddock fence. Beyond the rails, three dark-coated mares grazed while their foals frolicked in the sunlight. They raised their heads at the humans’ approach—elegant, compact creatures with tapered muzzles, silky manes and tails that hung straight down between their ample haunches.

As a horse-loving girl, she’d learned to recognize common breeds. These animals, she realized, were all of a kind. But she’d never seen anything like them.

Emilio gave a low whistle. The mares pricked their ears and moved toward him—not trotting but flowing, with a level gait that alternated left and right sides.

“They’re Peruvian Pasos,” Emilio said, “bred for long days in the saddle. Arturo handled the family business, but these babies are mine.”

The mares were nearing the fence. Grace felt the icy band of fear constricting her chest. She tried to back away, but Emilio’s hand, pressing the small of her back, stopped her.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “They’re as gentle as kittens.”

The mares crowded the fence, their long-lashed eyes like liquid amber. Their noses butted Emilio’s vest, nuzzling at the pockets. He laughed, the sound of a man in his element. “One at a time, ladies. I know you all love me. Here you are—”

He pulled three carrots out of his pockets and fed two of the mares. The third mare nickered impatiently as Emilio handed the last carrot to Grace. “Go ahead. She won’t bite you.”

Feeding a horse was nothing like riding one, Grace told herself. But her hand shook as she held out the carrot. The mare took it with whoosh of warm breath and the brush of a velvety muzzle. Grace stepped back, limp-kneed with relief.

“Was that so bad?” Emilio asked.

Grace’s heart was pounding. Her fear was irrational, but she couldn’t help her gut reaction. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Then don’t think. Just do it. Our horses are saddled and waiting.” His insistent hand propelled her toward the stables. “When the morning’s over, you’ll thank me.”

Grace allowed him to guide her. Emilio had flung down a challenge. If she gave in to her fear he would lose a hefty measure of respect for her—respect she was going to need in the days ahead.

Somehow she would have to conquer her terror.

As they came into the stable yard Grace saw two saddled horses. Both were Peruvian Pasos, the smaller one a silver-gray gelding, the larger a stallion, a magnificent golden palomino.

“Those foals in the paddock are his sons,” Emilio said. “He sires fine babies, but not yet one of his color.”

“A stud? And you ride him?” Grace willed herself not to flinch as the palomino snorted and tossed his handsome head.

“Pasos are the gentlest of horses, even the stallions,” Emilio said. “You’ll see.”

“Me?” Grace swallowed a gasp. “You’re going to put me on that horse?”