The Santana Heir. Elizabeth Lane
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means the women have brewed a fresh batch of chicha,” Emilio explained. “They’re selling it by the glass.”
“Sort of like the lemonade stand I had as a kid. I could use a cold drink. Is it any good?”
He chuckled. “It’s made from fermented maize. I won’t go into what’s involved, but trust me, it’s an acquired taste.”
“Oh.” Grace raked back her hair and replaced her hat.
“If you’re thirsty, we can get something at one of the tourist hotels in town. Or if you’ve had enough riding, we could turn around and go home. It’s up to you.”
“I really should get back to Zac. He’s not used to being away from me.”
“That’s fine. I’ve got a mountain of paperwork waiting, so I need to get back, too. Dolores keeps cold sodas in the fridge. I’ll see that you get one.”
He turned the palomino toward the trail. Grace followed on Manso. Riding the placid horse had been a good experience, but enough was enough. She’d be relieved to get her feet on solid ground again.
Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that because she hadn’t immediately given in to his request for an answer, she’d been dismissed. It seemed his interest in spending time with her waned when she proved less tractable than he’d expected. Not that she cared, Grace reminded herself. Emilio had more urgent things to do than spend time with her. He was only being a polite host.
They’d crested the trail and were headed downhill through the trees when she heard playful shouts and the sound of boyish laughter. “Just some kids from the village,” Emilio said. “See, there they are.”
Grace caught sight of two ragged half-grown boys through the trees. Armed with slingshots, they appeared to be shooting at birds. But as soon as they spotted the two riders, the boys came dashing toward the trail.
“Señor...Señorita...por favor.” They held out grubby hands.
“Ignore them,” Emilio growled. “Once they learn to beg, they won’t work. They’ll graduate to thievery.”
His advice made sense. But as they passed the two ragamuffins, it was all Grace could do to turn her face away. If she’d had money in her pocket, she would have flung it at the young wretches. But there was nothing she could do. Even in this beautiful country, poverty was woven into the landscape.
She needed to know more, to make sense of what she’d just seen. “Emilio?”
He turned at the sound of his name. As he looked at her—then past her—his face froze. “No!” he shouted.
Grace glanced back in time to see one of the boys pull back the rubber on his slingshot and release a thumb-sized rock. The rock sang through the air and whacked into Manso’s haunch.
The startled gelding screamed, reared and started to buck. Caught off guard, Grace lost her hold on the reins and lurched partway out of the saddle. Only a death grip on the horse’s mane kept her from slamming to the ground.
Hold on! Through a fog of terror, her brain shrilled one command. As Manso broke into a run Grace wrapped her arms around the sturdy neck. Gripping the saddle with her knees, she clung for dear life. Limbs and brush clawed her skin as they tore down the wooded slope.
Was Emilio calling her name? Was he coming up from behind, thundering closer on the big palomino? Or was it only the wind she heard and the pounding of her own heart? To look back would be to risk losing her grip and being dragged or crushed.
The sound of rushing water reached her ears. The river—it had to be close. A plunge over the steep bank could be fatal for both her and the horse. Dared she risk a fall to the ground? But her unyielding grip on Manso’s neck answered that question. She was helpless to do anything but hold on.
“Grace!” She heard Emilio’s voice and felt the palomino’s body pressing in close as he caught her belt. “I’ve got you! Let go!”
Grace struggled against the instinct to hold on. She had to trust him. Her life depended on it.
“Grace, let go! Do it now!” He cursed as he yanked at her waist. Summoning the last of her courage, Grace released her hold on Manso’s neck. Emilio jerked her out of the saddle.
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