Chapter 3
Chapter Three
PAST
There are perfectly fine stables much nearer to my college, but my father has always found clever ways to make me do what he wants me to do. The stables, not far from Mount Hamilton, are far enough east to take me away from the college beach days and the potential for experimentation. Because of the travel, I’m a good girl by default.
I check the girth on Ares, who is likely to act up after being cooped up all week again. To come ride Ares takes up an entire day, not to mention I now do the groom’s job. Of course, as soon as I went away to college, Dad decided I should taste the “real world” and only pays for a groom three days a week, whereas in high school, I had full board. I love taking care of my horse, but on the weekdays when I don’t have a groom, I only have time to muck out and then turn straight back.
My boy is too young not to ride daily, especially as a warmblood. They are easily bored. Ares sneezes, and I wonder if they’re soaking his hay like I asked when I’m not around.
I glance around at the peeling paint on the stables and the rusted hinges on the yard gate. It’s a bit of a ghost town, a far cry from the pristine competition yard I was on in high school. Horse riding is the only thing my dad and I ever agreed on, and it always felt good just having one thing about me he approved of.
When I started spending more time on my art, he told me being an artist was a “waste to society.” It wasn’t easy to convince him to pay for college to do something that wasn’t business or, since we’re Greek, medicine.
But I stuck to my guns on this one. I had to compromise and do my degree in art history, rather than fine arts. It was a degree Dad could imagine taking me on to curate at a prestigious museum or Sotheby’s. I don’t like it as much as creating, but at least there are open credits to do the courses I love best.
I’d thought it was a small victory for me when he agreed. But Dad always takes a little more than he gives, his negotiating skills are more ruthless than mine would ever be. That’s probably what prompted him getting Ares because at least he could brag about the occasional rosette I might bring home while I messed around with a “non-academic” degree.
Dad bought Ares for me and sold my best friend for him. He blamed my beloved Bliss for not winning more. It was me, not her, who lacked capability. Nevertheless, just after college acceptance day back in May, with no warning at all, she was gone.
This feisty, flashy warmblood was in her stable instead.
It broke my heart.
That day I learned that if I don’t give my father what he wants, he will find some way of satisfying his whims even at the expense of my happiness. Ares was trained by the best and could win with a rag doll on his back, so, the next competitions were all mine to take.
I remember my last competition before leaving home, my father clapped at the arena fence, staring at Ares and not me.
I love Ares for what he is, but I miss Bliss every day.
After checking the zip on my backpack so none of my art supplies fall out—Ares is known to spook—I throw the sack over my shoulders, stretch my leg up to get my foot in the stirrup and swing myself over my dark bay. He starts toward the gate before I even give him a click.
I reflect on the fact I no longer have a human friend to ride out with. This yard is full of people who are in and out, a few trail riders, and two full-on retired horses whose only exercise is going to and from the pastures every day. A heavy boulder turns around in my stomach, and the knobby bits tear at my insides. Is this yard less about control and more about the fact I don’t need a competition yard anymore now that I’m at college? Dad abandoning all hope for me as a rider might be worse than his control.
I am sick in the head. Having my every move controlled should be far worse than being a mediocre rider, but I guess I’m just used to it… I’m used to treading on eggshells, not setting off my father’s temper. It’s strange how that can become normal, but I can’t get used to feeling like a disappointment.
Ares’ hooves kick up dust on the sand-colored trail, and he moves with the enthusiasm of a puppy dog out on a first walk. He’s seven now. In his prime. He deserves more than a rider who can only take him off-site twice a week. I feel bad for him. My father never thought about that. Bliss was perfect for me. She wasn’t too much horse or too little, and we were growing in perfect synchrony in our timelines of life. Now, she would be about twenty and starting to wind down. She would have welcomed the weekend rides and nothing more.
And she would have welcomed time at the tree.
Which is where I’m going today and have been going every Saturday and Sunday afternoon. In some ways, it’s better than having someone to chat with on a trail ride. The serenity of that tree has ignited my creativity more than any other place I’ve been with her with its whimsical leaves and perfectly curved trunk, tailor-made for my back.
I come up on the small beaten path, one not much wider than a human can fit and that appears to have been created by either humans or maybe is an animal track. As usual, Ares naps, not wanting his flank to touch the shrub, but as he was taught well before he came to me, he gives in, and we head onto the side trail.
I’m pretty sure it isn’t a horse trail. For weeks now, I’ve started to feel secure in my private sanctuary here. Just over the small hill we climb is an enormous valley with the most beautiful views, which is saying a lot.
I don’t know what it is about that tree, but my creative juices get flowing when I sit in its shade and breathe in the views. I sit there and draw every weekend for as long as Ares lets me. He’s more patient there than in most places because under the canopy of my tree, the shade allows the grass to thrive. It’s a hue of green incomparable to Ares’ pasture, and the sweetness of it finds him grazing without so much as blinking for a long while.
It’s early spring and a soft, warm breeze blows across my cheeks.
As I get closer to our sanctuary, Ares’ ears prick forward and he picks up his pace.
“What is it, boy?” I squint, and under my tree, there are two shadowy figures.
A horse.
And a tall man in a cowboy hat leaning against my tree, staring out into the distance.
Shit. My secret garden has been discovered.
I could turn around but have a huge assignment due next week. I need to make progress. In fact, since coming to the tree, I planned this entire term’s project in my only drawing class to be landscapes. Namely the ones I could see from here. I only get one class I truly want to take every semester. This is important to me.
And I’m as entitled to be here as that guy is.
I’m sure he won’t be long.
I have to hold Ares back from trotting forward; he’s eager to see who’s eating his grass. When we arrive about ten feet from my tree, the man finally notices me. A deep, dark pair of playful eyes stare at me from under a Stetson.
The cowboy is one of those handsome, rugged men mothers and grandmas tell you to stay away from but animal magnetism draws you straight toward. He can’t be much older than I am and yet is so much more man than any of the boys I’ve met so far at college.
If I was interested in sharing my tree, it sure would be with a man who looks like him. A half-drunk beer bottle dangles loosely from his tanned fingers. I don’t get an unfriendly vibe, but equally, it’s as if I interrupted some deep thoughts, and there is a dangerous glint in his eye. Not danger like ending up in someone’s basement. Danger like wind in your hair on the back of a motorcycle.
My nerves are on fire.
The cowboy leans back against the trunk and crosses his arms casually. “Afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” I reply.
His voice was as hot as the full lips it came from. Shockwaves blast through my system. Is my intuition telling me to leave? Or to stay?
I’ve never been good at reading my gut. When every aspect of your life is controlled, there are no opportunities to learn to trust yourself. Do I really know what’s best right now? I’m in the middle of nowhere with a guy who probably eats girls like me for breakfast and I’m not sure it’s the kind of eating that uses cutlery. I should turn around, right?
I can’t translate what the goosebumps on my arms mean and the fullness in my chest, but this man has given me a visceral reaction. It only grows stronger as he seems so much more comfortable than I am with the beat of silence that passes between us.
I cut through my nerves with a joke. “If you want to stay here. You’ll have to pay rent. That’s my tree.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Is that so?”
He smirks as if he likes what I said. Likes what he sees … butterflies explode in my rib cage, and my heart races. I want more than just that smile. I want to hear his voice again.
A stunning, painted horse, a picture-perfect cowboy’s sidekick, ambles up next to him. The cowboy raises his hand to pat the horse’s neck then pushes himself up to standing off the tree and walks toward me, all broad shoulders, rolled-up sleeves, and tattooed arms.
Yup. There are no men like this at college.
Hell, there have never been any men like this in my entire life.
My mouth goes dry. I’m infinitely nervous and yet brave enough to try to impress him again.
His voice is like melted chocolate. “So this is your tree?”
He’s at the end of Ares now and runs his hand from my horse’s forehead to his nose. When he stops stroking, Ares nudges him for more of his touch.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” he adds. “If this is your tree, I might have to report you for neglect.”
I suppress my smile. I think we’re flirting, and I love it. I swear he seems to want to talk to me as much as I do him. By the way he stalks one step closer, he might want more than just a talk, but then, maybe I’m reading into it because my body is telling me I want more.
I pat my horse’s neck, but it’s like I no longer exist to Ares anymore. He’s completely concentrated on nudging the cowboy’s arm. This man is either a horse whisperer or has pony nuts in his pocket. My gaze falls to the cowboy’s hands, the enticing ink on the backs of them…
I shrug like some carefree girl I’m not. One who always has conversations with sexy strangers. “I come here every weekend.”
“Good thing someone is here to keep the tree company on the weekdays then.”
He steps around Ares’ head, into my personal space, and I just about manage not to pull Ares back. The handsome stranger is so close. He doesn’t touch me, but heat sears up my thigh with him so near. He stares up at me from under the brim of his hat. This man was etched by God, with a voice marinated in molasses.
He licks his lips and when he smiles a dimple appears. Fuck me.
“Why don’t you hop down and we can work out a joint custody arrangement?” He smirks.
My stomach flops again. I’m not sure if it’s telling me I’m going to enjoy what happens when my feet hit the ground or if I should kick them into Ares’ flanks and turn around.
There’s something both welcoming and dangerous about him. I don’t have a lot of experience with anything but private school boys who are tremendously predictable. There’s an edge about this man, though my intuition tells me he’s kind. What do I know about following my instincts? I’ve been on train tracks since my dad set me on them at birth. We are in the middle of nowhere. Dad told me never to trust strangers, especially if they’re men.
But for some reason I work hard to dismount elegantly. When my feet hit the ground, I can now see he’s quite a lot taller than I am. I wish I wasn’t wearing a hard helmet and had on a cute felt hat instead. Dad always made me wear a helmet. But I feel like a dweeb now, standing next to this sexy cowboy, head-to-toe tumbleweed and duels and brothels and whiskey.
He smells nice, too.
I unstrap my helmet and remove it, loosening my hair by running my fingers through it, attempting to match his appeal. I perch my helmet on the side of my hip. “So what brings you here on my day… sorry… I didn’t catch your name.”
“Santiago Mendez. ”
He places his hand between us, and I take it in mine. Instantly, I get how Ares couldn’t let go.
“Friends call me Santi.”
His hand envelops mine; tattoos wrap around my pale skin; his calluses scrape delightfully against my palm.
“Katinka. You can call me Kat.”
Our handshake should naturally come to an end, but Santi gives me a few more shakes than most people would, all the while staring into my eyes like he’s trying to figure me out. Like he can read my mind.
When he lets go, he wanders over to the tree where his horse has now gone back to grazing.
“Kat, let’s determine who needs this tree more. What brings you here every weekend?”
I sling my backpack off my shoulders. “I’m an art student and I’m using these landscapes in my project.”
He raises his eyebrows as if impressed, and damn does that feel nice.
“You any good?” he asks.
It bothers me that the first answer that comes to mind is no. Maybe I’m decent. I suppose Santi can decide for himself. I take out my sketch pad, open it to last week’s work.
He examines the page, carefully, not at all the cursory glance I expected.
“Damn. That’s…” Santi stares for a while then takes it out of my hands and turns the pad to the left, to the right. “You did this all with… is that paint?”
“It’s oil pastels. They’re kind of like fancy crayons.”
He flips to the page behind and soaks in another piece with a faint smile. My heart comes alive with his approval.
“This was when the Bird’s Eyes were there?” He points to the exact spot where the purple flowers were weeks ago.
His gaze flicks up to mine, and his expression is different now. Like I’ve impressed him. Like he’s… intrigued with more than whatever it was he focused on before.
I nod. “You know your flowers.”
I had to search for their name myself a few weeks back.
“My mom…” Santi coughs as though he was going to say something else but couldn’t. Or didn’t want to.
I take my sketch pad back. “So why do you come here on weekdays?”
He stares at me for a moment as if contemplating how much truth to give.
Santi lifts his beer and points it at his horse. “Hector likes the grass in the shade. Best spot around.”
I guess he didn’t want to give me much, but there’s a story behind his eyes. It’s fair enough he doesn’t want to tell me why he’s here. I’m not telling this stranger my life story either.
Hector is bareback, bridle off, and it only seems fair we should settle in and I give Ares the same freedom, so I work off his girth. “Hector? That’s Greek.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah…” I take off Ares’ bridle and reins. “This is Ares.”
Santi lets out a long, sharp whistle. “Fancy.”
He eyes my saddle now standing on its end on the grass and focuses on the helmet I’ve thrown down, considering it.
I glance to the other side of the tree where he’s left his very worn saddle. This guy could probably ride circles around me, and apart from his Stetson, the rest of the tack seems like it walked straight off a cattle drive.
Suddenly, I’m insecure about all my flashy brand-name gear.
I brush it off and get back to our negotiation. “I’m pretty sure my college project trumps Hector’s sweet grass. The tree is mine on weekends. I think that’s more than fair custody. You get five, I get two?”
I walk around Santi and sit at the base of the trunk, placing my bag down and my sketch pad on bent knees like an easel. I’m not sure what else to say but I can’t have his eyes on me anymore. Or mine on him. My cheeks are burning, and I forgot to put on deodorant this morning before heading out, so I know I don’t smell as fuckable as he does.
I stare into the distance for a while, picking out the colors I should start with, figuring he’ll probably leave soon.
“Mind if I see how you do that?”
Did he just ask to watch me draw?
“I promise my process isn’t that interesting. Surely you have better options?”
I’m prying a little. Doesn’t he have anyone else to be with?
He crouches next to me, smelling of soap and spicy cologne. Santi produces a dazzling smile that I’m sure tastes like sweet mint.
He lifts his beer. “Care to join me?”
I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. “I’m only eighteen.”
“I thought as much.”
My jaw goes slack. “Oh, you guessed my age, did you? How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Right. You're telling me you’re a handsome, twenty-one-year-old man and you have nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon than watch me paint that hill over there?”
He wets his lips, and sinks his teeth into the bottom one. “Handsome?”
I roll my eyes but I love the way he’s trying to get more from me. His attention is like basking in the sun. “You know you are.”
“But now I know you know it, too.”
Flirting is not a good idea, but it’s so effortless with him. He’s an expert; knowing exactly how to gaze at a woman so she lets her guard down. I should remember the warnings my dad gave me. If this feels too good, it probably is.
He points to my sketch pad. “Will I make you nervous if I watch?”
“Not at all.” Just nervous to have you that close.
“Well then…” He sits flush to my side so he can lean against the trunk, too. “Just pretend I’m not here.”
But that would be impossible. The warmth of his arm radiates against mine, and the magnetism is powerful. There is no reason I should feel this way. Yes, the man is hot as sin, yes, he does have good taste in trees… but also…
I lift my chin to steal a glance. He’s staring at my hand on the parchment.
Nobody has ever taken an interest in my art before. This man is a flirt, I’m flattered to be on the receiving end. But him furrowing his brow as he watches each stroke of my color pastel… that sets off a feeling I’ve never experienced.
I’ve always been an artist. I always was the child bringing home doodles and more. Every one ended up in the trash by the next day. Dad thought refrigerator magnets were tacky, and there were no places in our perfectly designed house to display silly little drawings.
Emotions tug at my heartstrings. Wow, this is sad. Some stranger with nothing better to do is bringing me to my knees just taking some interest in my art.
I’m not doing a very good job on my sketch, distracted by his warm breath on my ear. The gentle rolling movement of his arm on mine every time he breathes. He sure has no concept of personal space, but then I guess he needs to peer over my shoulder to see how I do this.
I take up a tawny pastel and make long strokes. “So, Santi, have you always liked art?”
“Never knew I had an interest. Well, tattoos are art, I guess.”
“They most definitely are.”
“Tell my dad that,” he scoffs.
I laugh.
We sit in silence. Ares is being better behaved than ever for once. Maybe he’s extra hungry. Maybe he likes Hector. Maybe he knows there’s an alpha male around. No matter what, I’m more grateful than he could know for grazing peacefully. I only just met this guy but I don’t want to leave.
“Do you have a lot more drawings to do, Kat?”
I nod. “I have to have a collection of ten by the end of semester.”
“So, you’re at college?”
“Yeah. Near Santa Cruz.”
“Impressive.” He lifts his beer bottle that was next to him even though it’s empty now. “Congratulations.”
A bright, involuntary smile pops up on my face. In my world, going to college is a given. In fact, my prep school gazette publishes where everyone goes and what their major will be. My dad, unimpressed with my choice of degree, instructed me to report “undecided” despite knowing I’d been accepted into an art history program.
Needless to say, Santi is the first person to tell me congratulations, and I didn’t realize until now how much I wanted that.
“So, Santi… do you live around here?”
He points to my drawing. “The way you do the shading is amazing. ”
I’m giddy with the compliments, but I manage to play it cool. “Thank you.”
How is it that I’m both melting in his presence and molding into an actual flirt at the same time? Some men steal your confidence and some give it. He’s the latter. It’s not that I feel confident exactly, but his approval does something to me. It fills me with a sort of power I’ve never felt before. Is it power? Or do I just want to be someone’s “good girl”? Shit. My dad has royally fucked me up.
However messed up I might be, his praise sizzles through me and settles heavy between my thighs.
He puts his hat down on the grass next to him, settling in. His hair is long on top and wavy. He runs his fingers through it and, as if trained, it falls into a perfect hairstyle.
“I moved with my brothers to Echo Valley because they need to work in San Francisco.”
“Echo Valley? That’s kind of far from San Francisco.”
“It’s kind of cheaper, too. You pay for the city or you pay for the commute.” He spins his beer bottle into the grass until it balances upright. “My older twin brothers are starting a business there. None of us have the cash, but anyway, we’re not city types, so when I saw a plot for sale in Echo Valley… we made it work.”
He glances behind him and points over yonder. “Over that hill a couple miles east. It’s just scrubland for now, but I like the idea of building things from scratch.”
“You’re not from around here then?” I want to keep the conversation going. I want to know everything about him. “Where are you from?”
“New Mexico.”
“I grew up on the coast. Near Monterey.” I turn my gaze back to the landscape, trying hard to remember where I left off, but truthfully, I don’t care much for my drawing anymore. I put my oil pastel down. “What are you going to build on your land?”
Santi settles in against our tree, and he tells me all about his dream of having a big ranch with houses for all his family to live together. I’m in awe of a person who has brothers and a sister and parents he wants to live with forever. I would love a big supportive family. I hate being an only child, though maybe I wouldn’t be with different parents.
Santi says he’s going to breed prize racehorses and one day have a Kentucky Derby winner. He tells me how he has rodeos all over the West booked to keep pouring earnings into his endeavor. Of course, he’s a bull rider, of course, he earns his keep by taming beasts. That’s the exact kind of man he looks like. Santi is an adventurous dreamer, but he clearly knows how to roll up his sleeves and get those sexy veined forearms and tattooed hands working.
It’s impressive. And so much sexier than watching rich boys dip a silver spoon into yet another bowl of caviar.
We talk until the sun dips halfway beneath the hill line and Ares has a full belly. He comes over to nudge my side, and I regret having to leave.
I put away my supplies, including an unfinished landscape.
We both set to getting our horses’ bridles on. Santi pops that empty beer bottle into a saddlebag. We’ll be going our separate ways. Him over the hill to the left, me to the right.
I wish we didn’t have to split our custody of the tree. There’s something authentic about this man. Something warm and approving. Simple yet exciting. He’s special… I just know it and now I’m about to never see him again.
He flashes me that dimple before leaving. “Take care of our tree when I’m not around.”
“Yeah. Same. Nice meeting you.”
He stops putting his things together to look me in the eyes. “Nice meeting you, too.”
It’s another shot to the heart, the kind of glance that makes the whole world stop.
“Good luck with your business,” I add, just for another second in his presence.
“Good luck with your portfolio.”
I want to keep him talking but I’ve used up my reserves and can’t hold that brown gaze of his any longer. He offers me one more dimpled smile and resumes tacking up Hector.
Eventually, we’re both ready to leave. He salutes me, and I wave goodbye, then watch Santi mount his steed. His steely shoulders disappear down the hill like a setting sun.
At that moment, I wish I’d sketched this man’s face so I could remember this chance meeting that brought some light into my life.
Little did I know, I’d have that very opportunity.