She could see glimpses of neat white fences through the trees and the occasional flash of a chestnut or bay coat gleaming in the setting sun. There must be an easier way to get to the stables, she thought, as she struggled through the grass and underbrush. Obviously this was not the usual way, but finally she broke into the fenced clearing. The mares and foals looked up in mild surprise at her approach and then resumed their contented grazing, except for one bright-eyed filly that advanced curiously and then, with a flick of her heels, retreated to the safety of the mare’s side. Trish laughed delightedly.
She wandered around, surprised to see so many apparently well-bred animals. Armando had casually mentioned a stable but this was obviously a well-kept breeding establishment as well. Then she heard again the excited whinny that had first attracted her attention and realized it came from a paddock set off by itself a little distance away. A magnificent chestnut stallion thundered along the high wooden fence, whirled, shook his head in equine anger, and stormed back to the far side of the paddock. His attention was on a mare a few fences away, who was watching his performance with interest.
Trish approached more closely, curious and a little awed by the lithe, gleaming animal so different from the docile creatures she had ridden bareback in her girl-hood days. She peered through the boards and then climbed to the top of the wooden fence to get a better view, slinging one leg over the top board for balance.
The stallion whinnied again, earning a soft reply from the mare, and his frustration increased. He galloped along the well-worn path beside the fence and then, for the first time, he spotted Trish. He faced her from across the paddock, ears alert, eyes intent.
“Come here, boy,” she coaxed. “I didn’t bring a lump of sugar, but I promise I will next time.”
She broke off, astonished, as the alert ears suddenly flattened against the sleek head and the horse charged across the paddock, pure fury in every line of his gleaming body. He slid to a stop in front of her, one foot pawing the ground angrily.
“There, there, it’s okay, fellow,” Trish soothed shakily. The horses she had known had never behaved like this. Carefully, never taking her eyes off the unpredictable animal, she drew her leg back over the fence, and just in time because, without warning, the big horse suddenly reared, his forefeet slashing the air where her leg had been only moments before.
She clung to the fence, feeling it shake as the horse’s hooves hit the ground and rose again.
“What the hell are you doing up there? Get down!”
Trish’s already shaky grip on the fence loosened when she heard the angry, commanding shout, and she tumbled to the ground. Somehow one foot caught between the boards and she hung there, trapped, while the stallion plummeted up and down and wood splintered as his flashing hooves connected with the board fence.
“Demonio! Back! Get back!”
The horse retreated, still shaking his head angrily, and Trish looked up into the no less angry face of Marcantonio de la Barca. He stood there with hands on lean hips, feet spread arrogantly, his height and breadth of shoulder distorted and emphasized to a frightening degree by Trish’s awkward position on the ground. He wore a white shirt, open at the throat, tan pants, and gleaming riding boots. His hair was as black as that of his female companion at the restaurant, his complexion smoothly tan both by sun and heritage. His eyes, broodingly suspicious of her earlier, flashed with fiery anger now.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Trish, thoroughly frightened at first by the unexpected behavior of the stallion and this man’s angry shout, was beginning to get a little angry herself. Whatever she had done scarcely warranted letting her dangle there by one foot until she came up with some acceptable explanation. Her ankle was beginning to hurt too, bent at an awkward angle as it was. She twisted to a sitting position, trying to relieve the pain and free the foot, determined not to ask him for assistance.
Finally, scowling, he bent over and with a quick touch of capable hands released her imprisoned foot. She rubbed it, trying to revive the circulation, keeping her eyes on him as warily as she had the angry stallion.
“I ask you again, what are you doing here?” he said arrogantly.
“And I might ask the same thing,” Trish retorted. “What are you doing here?” She couldn’t possibly make her voice as arrogant as his, but she made it as icily aloof as possible.
“I happen to be here to supervise the breeding of my stallion to one of my more temperamental mares,” he said coolly.
“These are your horses?” Trish asked, dismayed. “But I thought… I mean, Armando mentioned a stable.”
Marcantonio de la Barca looked down his aristocratic nose at her. “Armando keeps a few riding horses,” he said, dismissing the stable with a negligent shrug. “The quality has decreased since he took over management from Seňor Hepler.”
Trish scrambled to her feet, realizing she had evidently made a thoroughly gauche mistake in wandering onto the property of this neighbor, with whom relations were obviously already strained for some unknown reason. “I suppose I must apologize,” she said reluctantly. “Edith and Armando told me you were their neighbor, but I didn’t realize you lived so close. I knew the place has hundreds of acres and I thought the house was probably in the middle…” Her voice trailed off uncertainly under his unrelenting gaze and he offered no acceptance of her apology. A bit belligerently she added, “You must mistreat your horses or they wouldn’t act that way.”
“Demonio is, as his name indicates, something of a devil,” Marcantonio de la Barca said calmly. “I can assure you that he is very well treated indeed. However, as I’m sure you’ll understand, his disposition may be under some strain during the periods of breeding. In addition, he has always exhibited a certain contempt for women.”
“Perhaps learned from his master?” Trish snapped.
His lips tightened momentarily but he merely shrugged again and said, “Perhaps.” He gave Trish a thorough up-and-down look of appraisal that brought a flush of color to her cheeks, and there was a hint of wicked amusement in his voice when he added, “But that does not prevent either of us from being properly appreciative of female grace and beauty and its… ah… inherent usefulness.”
Trish gasped, but he merely flashed a smile.
“What I mean, of course, is, where would we be without the beauty of women to brighten our homes and offices and beaches?”
Trish was reasonably certain that was not what he had meant, and she had a pretty good idea what he considered a woman’s usefulness, but this was a subject she certainly did not care to pursue.
“It would seem to me,” she said coldly, “that if you have a dangerous horse on the place, it would be wise to post signs to that effect.”
“My people know of my stallion’s disposition, and we do not generally have people from the Hepler property carelessly wandering over this way.”
Trish glanced back the way she had come, realizing now why there had been no trail or path. It also appeared she would have to battle her way back through that underbrush, since she certainly would not ask this arrogant man for permission to cross his property and take some easier way around.
“If you’ll excuse me then, I’ll just get back to the house,” she said with all the haughtiness she could muster. “I’m probably late for dinner already.”
She took one step and the foot crumpled beneath her.
Chapter Two
Again Trish lay inelegantly on the ground, Marcantonio de la Barca’s powerful figure towering over her. They stared at each other, eyes locked, neither of them moving, and suddenly, unexplainably, Trish was no longer just humiliated and angry. She was frightened by this dark-haired stranger, as dangerous and unpredictable as the stallion he possessed. She scrambled toward the underbrush, but her awkward progress was no match for his lithe stride.
Unexpectedly he leaned over her and jerked her around by the shoulders to face him. “Who the hell are you anyway?” he demanded rou
ghly. “What are you doing here?”
The sharp retort died on Trish’s bloodless lips. “I . I’m Trish… Patricia Bellingham. Edith Hepler is my half-sister. We’ve never met before, and she invited me to come down from the States to get acquainted and help her with wedding plans and arrangements and then stay for the wedding.” The words tumbled out of their own accord with Trish scarcely thinking what she was saying, unable to stop the flood of words even if she had tried.
His look was still calculating, but the steely grip on her shoulders relaxed slightly. “Have you sprained your ankle?”
Trish pulled back out of his grasp, her eyes still watching him warily. “I don’t think so. I just twisted my foot.”
“We’d better have a look and see. Maria up at the house used to take care of all my cuts and bruises when I was a boy.”
Before Trish even had time to protest, he reached out and scooped her up in his arms. For a moment she was too shocked to protest, even after it had happened. Then she struggled wildly in his arms. “Put me down! Put me down now!” she insisted.
“Oh, no, Seňorita Bellingham. I have no intention of letting one of you sue-crazy Americans drag me through court saying you were injured and disabled for life on my property.” He looked down at her struggling figure, smiled slightly, and calmly tightened his grip so she could scarcely move.
“I have no intention of suing you! And, as a matter of fact, I did get injured on your property. I could have gotten killed by your crazy horse or by your yelling and scaring me half to death!”
The storm of words brought no response from Marcantonio de la Barca, and in utter frustration Trish pounded on his chest with her closed fists. It had no more effect than pounding on a stone wall. Suddenly, instead of twisting and turning in his arms, she jerked her body straight and flat, almost hitting him in the face. The movement caught him by surprise and he stumbled forward, tumbling both of them to the ground.
But he didn’t let go and his body was half over hers as they struggled on the ground. She rolled from side to side, brought her knees up and tried to shove him away, elbowed him in the throat. But she was no match for his greater weight and strength, and in moments she was pinned to the ground, panting. One of his powerful hands held both of hers over her head and her body was trapped beneath his.
She had only one weapon left and she started to use it, sinking her teeth into the flesh of his arm. But then their eyes met and there was a dancing light in his, and in furious dismay Trish realized he was enjoying this! She further realized that she had no idea what else he might decide to do, that they were alone and out of sight, and that even if she screamed, the inhabitants of the coffee plantation would probably not interfere in their patron’s activities.
Carefully she released the grip of her teeth on his arm. “Well?” she said icily, as if this were merely some sort of awkward social situation.
“If you think you are ready now, Seňorita Bellingham, we will go to see Maria,” he said mockingly.
She didn’t reply, and he cautiously released her hands, separated his body from hers, and gathered her up in his arms again. She didn’t resist this time, simply lay there passively and regarded the whole situation with remote detachment, her arms folded against her chest. They moved toward the house in silence, his lithe stride not even slowed by her weight in his arms.
In spite of her determination to remain coolly detached, she was too curious not to twist her head and inspect the house as they approached. It appeared to be very similar to Edith’s house, though it was hard to tell for certain, since they were approaching from the rear. It did have the same two stories in back, she was certain, plus the rambling wings attached at right angles. It was probably older, she decided, though that was difficult to tell for certain with the lush drape of bougainvillea covering everything.
He carried her through a garden and to a back door where an elderly woman rushed out to meet them with an excited torrent of Spanish that went far beyond Trish’s limited comprehension of the language. But the woman’s genuine concern was obvious and she led the way through the house, past a dining room with heavy, ornate furnishings, to a comfortable sofa. She motioned to Marcantonio de la Barca to set Trish there. He explained the problem in Spanish to Maria.
“Really, this isn’t necessary,” Trish protested. “I just twisted my foot a little. I’m sure I can walk on it now.”
He smiled faintly. “You are in Maria’s hands now. You had better do as she says.”
The woman was already bustling around, tsk-tsking over Trish’s flimsy sandals, running gentle, capable hands over the tender foot. Shortly she disappeared and in a moment returned with towels and a basin of cold water. She wrapped the foot in cold compresses, which Trish grudgingly admitted to Marcantonio de la Barca felt very soothing. Darkness was almost upon them and he switched on several soft lamps.
The room was large, with a wooden-beamed ceiling, and enormous fireplace, and an abundance of lush in-door plants. The floor was tile, warmed and softened by colorful throw rugs. Trish wondered if the courtyard in this house also contained a swimming pool or if it were of the more conventional variety. Maria disappeared again, and Trish eyed her tormentor/benefactor warily. He offered her a cigarette, lit it for her when she nodded, then lit one for himself. He blew smoke lazily, his eyes following the blue drift.
“I take it you and the Heplers don’t get along,” she said tentatively.
He shrugged. “Robert Hepler is a fine man. When his health was better, we cooperated in many ways in growing and marketing our crops.” He paused. “Armando is competent and efficient as a manager. And ambitious.”
“He seems very deeply in love with my half-sister,” Trish commented defensively. “And she is certainly madly in love with him.”
He shrugged again. “They plan to be married,” he said without interest, as if neither love nor marriage were of particular concern to him. He turned from the window where he was standing and unexpectedly added, “Did you know Armando before you came down here?”
“Of course not,” Trish said, puzzled. She raised herself up on one elbow to look at him. “What in the world would make you think that?”
Again the negligent shrug. “Armando spent some time up in the States before he came to manage the Hepler cafetal.”
Silence again. Marcantonio de la Barca did not seem to feel it necessary to fill silences with polite small talk. Finally Trish could stand it no longer.
“What do people call you?” she burst out curiously. “I mean, somehow I can’t imagine that beautiful woman in the restaurant saying, ‘Marcantonio, my dear, would you pass the salt, please?’ “
He walked over and looked down at her, smiling faintly. “Women have called me many things,” he said softly.
“I’m sure that’s true. I was thinking of a few choice names for you myself today,” Trish said tartly. “Though I suppose you are referring to more… ah… intimate terms of endearment.”
Their eyes met again, but his were in shadow and she could not read their expression. He turned away and said briskly, “My fellow students at the university in the States also seemed to have trouble with my name. They shortened it to Marc. I suppose that is as good as anything.”
“You went to a university in the States?” Trish asked, surprised. “Which one?”
“Princeton.”
Trish would have liked to ask more questions, but Maria bustled back then, bringing a soothing salve to apply to Trish’s foot and ankle. A few minutes later, when Trish stood up, she found there was only a slight tenderness and she was quite able to walk. She thanked Maria with rather awkward Spanish.
“And thank you too,” she said to Marc, unable to keep from adding under her breath, I suppose, since she still felt the whole situation was mostly his fault. “I’d better get back to Edith’s. She’ll be wondering what happened to me.”
“I’ll drive you,” Marc said decisively. “You’ll never be able to find your way in the dark
now.”
Trish started to protest, but realized he was correct, and remained silent. As they drove away from the house she could see the lights from Edith’s house glimmering faintly through the trees. The drive seemed a long way around, past what appeared to be warehouses of some sort, and then back up to the Hepler house. Without waiting to see whether or not Marc would open the car door, Trish jumped out the moment the car stopped.
“Thank you for the ride,” she said a little breathlessly. The night was surprisingly cool and she shivered. “Well, good night.”
He was still regarding her thoughtfully. “When you see Robert Hepler, you might tell him my offer is still open,” he called after her.
“Offer?” Trish repeated doubtfully.
“He’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“Your offer, seňor, is no more welcome now than it has ever been!”
The sharp words came out of the darkness of the veranda and Trish whirled, startled. Armando walked out, his posture rigid with anger. Someone from inside switched on an outdoor light and Trish could see the set expression on his face, the angry flare of his nostrils as he approached the car.
“And what, may I ask, are you doing on this property?” he demanded of Marc.
“It’s my fault, Armando,” Trish said hurriedly. “I wandered onto his property by mistake and—” She broke off and shot a glance at Marc’s face hidden in the shadows of the car. “And I accidentally twisted my foot and he gave me a lift back.”
Armando bent his head in a none too gracious gesture of thanks toward Marcantonio de la Barca. Trish had a pretty good idea he was just as displeased with her for causing this awkward situation as he was with Marc for coming onto the property. She apologized profusely as Armando opened the heavy carved wooden door to the house. He continued to frown and Trish rattled on until finally he seemed to accept her apologetic babblings.
Shadows of the Heart Page 2