His Worst Crime (Barcelona Nights #2)

one

“Listen, la, first thing you have to understand here is that they have two languages, Catalan and Spanish, and let me tell you, best thing you can do for yourself is learn Catalan as soon as you hop off the plane, know what I mean? Much handier—it’ll get you into places where Spanish won’t, you get me? ”

Passing by that big palace, crossing the parking area, he spied a wooded lane over on the right that looked like it might be the ticket.

But as he was walking toward it to explore, a beautiful blue roan filly came trotting out of that very road.

She didn’t look older than a couple of years, too young to be broken for riding, and was unharnessed except for a simple halter around her head, with no trace of a bridle, bit or lead.

She must have got loose from some stable nearby.

As she came out onto the large car park, she halted for a moment, looking around, undecided which way to go.

A car was turning in off the road, with another behind it.

At first she trotted toward them, but the first driver honked.

David swore: that was the last thing she needed.

The filly shied, cantering back in the opposite direction, where another car was nosing its way along, heading out of the parking area.

If she went on like that, she’d turn herself into road kill.

“Here, baby, hey, have I got something for you? You want a little treat? Of course you do, come on, baby, come and see what I’ve got.”

He kept it slow, kept it gentle, and made sure to keep crinkling the packet, piquing the filly’s curiosity.

She could smell him clearly now, this stranger, but also smell the treat in his hand.

When he was sure she had the scent clear, he stopped still, about ten paces from where she was standing undecided, and just let her make all the decisions.

All the time he kept crooning to her in the same babble that had always worked so well with his babies back at Ravenscragg.

The filly lowered her head, nostrils flaring, trying to fathom this fresh situation.

The barley sugar finally tipped the scales, and she took a tentative step toward him.

He stayed still as a tree, just crooning further sweet nothings to her.

She paused a few moments longer, and then, decided, walked the few steps across to his outstretched hand.

“Good girl, that’s the way.”

As she stretched out her muzzle towards his hand, he withdrew his hand slowly, leading her on, letting him bring his other hand up calmly beside her neck to grasp her halter.

“There you go, good girl. Who’s a beautiful girl then?” he crooned as he let her nibble at and then take the barley sugar out of his hand.

A few tourists who had gathered to watch the whole spectacle gave a scattered round of applause.

“No more. Sorry, baby, your boss’d kill me if they saw me giving you all this sugar. Come on, let’s see who you belong to.”

Taking a firm hold on her halter, he began to lead her back toward the tree-covered lane from which she’d appeared.

They hadn’t gone more than a few paces before a woman in her early thirties with cropped blond hair came barreling out of the lane.

Dressed in dirty sweat pants, rubber boots and a ragged sweater, David knew instinctively she was the filly’s owner, or at least trainer.

“Mare de déu santíssima, per on has escapat aquest cop, Boira?”

“Hey, I have her,” David reassured her.

“Moltíssimes gràcies! No sé com t’ha deixat agafar-la, però gràcies!”

“Sorry… English?”

“Ai, yes, sorry, my English is very bad. Thank you very much. Boira is a great escape artist. How did you to catch her?”

“Boira? She likes barley sugar. It’s my—”

He meant to say “secret weapon”, but he didn’t know the Catalan, so he laughed self-consciously as he stroked the filly’s neck. With animals things were fine, but having to deal with people always got him tongue-tied.

“She likes you… She let you take her… that is good.”

“I… yeah, I grew up with horses. I… get them.”

They walked back down the lane, David still leading Boira.

A couple hundred yards in, they came to some stables and a yard, where there were several other horses, and people going about their business, grooming or exercising them.

A three-year-old chestnut colt was being worked on a lunge rein in the dressage yard next door.

At Boira’s reappearance, he faltered in his training and whickered in her direction.

Boira gave an answering whinny and began prancing excitedly, her tail raised.

“Hey, easy girl,” David coaxed her. “You’ll see him soon enough. Calm down now.”

Instead of trying to take over, the woman beside him just stood back watching.

“You are good with her,” she said. “Here…” and she went and grabbed a lead from a hitching post, handing it to him.

David clipped it to Boira’s halter, and led her over to the hitching post.

“Where do you want her, here?” he asked, in his basic Catalan.

“Yes, that’s great. Thanks,” she replied, also switching to Catalan.

He tied her up, using the Stockman’s knot, which keeps your horse secure but lets you release it with one quick pull in case it’s in danger of hurting itself.

The woman nodded, smiling in approval.

“You know your knots.”

“Yeah, horses are… you know, I grew up with them.” Then, totally unlike himself, he had a thought and blurted it out: “I don’t suppose… you know, would you have… like work to do? I can do anything, mucking out, whatever’s going…”

She gave him a hard stare, along with a quick once over, taking in his “lived in” clothes, which he hadn’t had a chance to wash for several days. He was still looking borderline presentable, but would have to spend precious money on a laundromat before long.

“We could use you for a few days, just while Maria’s away. She’s our youngest stablehand, but she’s doing her exams right now. It’s just mucking out and feeding, mind you, sometimes a bit of grooming. Nothing flash. No real contact with the horses.”

“That’s brilliant! Thank you!” Relief washed over him.

“I’m Carme,” she said, pronouncing it like karma.

“David. Thank you so much! You will not be sorry. I promise you!”

“It is minimum wage, the bare minimum, you know?”

“No problem. That’s all good… And… how much is that exactly?”

When she told him, he agreed, it was pretty minimum. As in bare bones. But he didn’t care. It meant he could survive.

“Where are you staying?”

“I… ah, I was…”

Could he really give the hostel’s address? He’d left owing a few days’ rent. He planned to go in there and pay it, as soon as he had it. But…

Carme nodded toward the stable block. “There’s a space above the tack room if you want it. It’s just a mattress on a bed frame, but you can sleep there for a few days. There’s a toilet block down the end, with a shower too, to clean up.”

He took the hint. “Thanks. That would be brilliant.”

Then he remembered his pack.

“I have my stuff. I put it down when I went after Boira. Give me a minute.”

“OK, get your stuff and put it above the tack room. Then I’ll show you around.”

David nodded, and hurried off, jubilant inside. Not only a job, but a place to sleep for a few days, all in one fell swoop! He couldn’t be happier.

That had been two months ago, and here he was, still working at the stables, still sleeping above the tack room, still surviving, and even helping with some of the horses’ training, including breaking in Boira, whose name he now knew meant ‘mist’.

It suited her silvery blue coat. Things couldn’t have gone better for him in Barcelona. But then he’d run into Ned.