3. Chapter 3 A Prince at the Paddock #2
I flush, immediately aware of the way my baggy t-shirt clings a little to my back with sweat, of the dust on my dark riding tights because both pairs of tan ones need washing, of the escaped strands of hair stuck to my cheek.
"It’s not a big deal," I say quickly. "He knows the routine. We’ve been working on it."
Gabriel inclines his head. "You made it look easy."
"It’s not." I hesitate, then add, because it feels unfair to take credit that doesn’t belong to me, "He’s the one doing the hard part. I’m just helping him get out of his own way."
Gabriel studies me, like he's trying to see inside my brain. "Do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Deflect praise."
I nearly drop the reins. "I wasn't deflecting. I admitted it's not easy, but I'm not the one doing the hardest part."
"Most people would not agree."
"Most people don't know what a triumph it is to overcome trauma. Sage did that. Not me." Not in this instance.
Gabriel tilts his head, studying me with a focus that makes my skin feel too tight. "It’s a useful trait," he says finally. "In some situations."
I don’t know if that’s a compliment. It feels like one and not one at the same time. And also, it doesn't acknowledge the truth of my statement. That Sage is the star here.
I'm just around to polish his pretty points.
"Do you want to see the rest of the ranch?" I need to move. To do something, anything, other than stand here and be examined.
"Yes," he says.
"Stables first." The breezeway is kept clean of manure and hay. His shoes and the hems of his slacks should be safe.
Gabriel puts his hand out. "Lead on."
We walk side by side along the fence line toward the main barn and I explain the purpose of Solace Ridge. "We train rescue horses for adoption and participation in equine therapy."
"It is a place where both humans and horses find healing," he remarks.
"Yes." I found healing here. I still do.
"Where do the rescue horses come from?" The gravel crunches under his too-expensive shoes.
"Everywhere. Anywhere. The head trainer attends auctions, and the director has connections in the racing and dressage community.
Sometimes, we get calls from law enforcement, when animals are seized from negligent owners.
Or families when someone passes and leaves their horses with no one to take care of them. "
"Not all of the horses are traumatized then?"
"Not even half of them. The ones that aren't are easy to train for adoption, or to be sold on." Those sales comprise about twenty percent of our budget.
Solace Ridge has an excellent reputation for training horses.
When we step into the barn, there's a little girl standing on a raised bench and brushing Lightning's side. She's careful to avoid the scars on the horse's flank that attest to the human cruelty he endured.
"That's Lightning," I tell Gabriel. "He's been here for three years. He prefers children to adults, so he helps the little ones who need the tranquility that grooming and talking to a gentle horse like him can bring."
"His name is Lightning?" Gabriel asks skeptically.
"He was bred to race, but the trainer's methods to increase his speed and stamina left him too skittish in the environment necessary to do it."
"I hope someone took a horsewhip to the trainer."
I shrug. "I don't know what happened to him."
"You were not curious to find out?" Gabriel asks with disbelief.
I shake my head. "Finding out the jockey or trainer only had to pay a few hundred dollars in penalty for the excessive whipping would hurt too much."
I learned that lesson before I even started training the horses.
"In my country, the penalty for whipping an animal like that is to have the same number applied to the perpetrator's forearms," Gabriel says with bite.
"What country are you from?" I ask. "Maybe I'd like to live there."
Dark satisfaction I don't understand flashes in Gabriel's gaze. "Zahriya."
The name means nothing to me, but then my knowledge of global geography could do with some improvement. I make a mental note to search for a book on Zahriya at the library.
"Where is Zahriya?"
"You pronounced it correctly," he says approvingly. "You even rolled the r."
"I'm fluent in Spanish. When I started taking Arabic lessons, the rolled r came in handy," I admit.
Gabriel's eyes narrow, something like suspicion flashing in the dark depths of his eyes. "You are learning to speak Arabic?"
I nod. "My friend is teaching me."
"Your friend?" he asks, like the concept is foreign to him.
"Yes. Aisha is from Dubai. Her husband is an executive in a mining company here. She told me she misses hearing Arabic outside her home."
"So, you asked her to teach you to speak the language?"
"Yes. That way, when she brings the boys for their riding lessons, I can greet them in Arabic. Last week, I held an entire conversation with them in Arabic." My pride in the accomplishment bleeds into my voice and I shrug. "I usually speak half in Arabic, half in English with them though."
"You have done it again," Gabriel chides me.
I stare up at him, weirdly more fascinated by the contours of his face than what's happening in the stable. That never happens.
"What?" I ask softly.
"Deflecting from your accomplishment. How long have you been learning to speak my language?" he asks in Arabic.
I grin, because I understood him and I answer, "It's taken me two years to get to this point."
Aisha brings the boys for lessons once a week and we talk on the phone twice a week. The phone calls are almost better for my learning than the visits because there are no distractions.
But I enjoy seeing Aisha and the boys in person.
"You have been friends with Aisha for two years?" he demands, like I've said something to offend him.
But I nod. "Yes."
Gabriel's jaw ticks. "And you met here?"
"Um, yes? Do you know Aisha?" Is she not supposed to have friends outside her social circle?
My mom used to be pretty strict about the "kind" of friends I could have. If I let her, she'd have a lot to say about who I hang out with as an adult too.
"I do not know this Aisha."
"Okay." I draw the word out. "Only you seem kind of offended she and I are friends."
"Not at all. I am merely surprised." He grabs his phone out of his jacket and taps on the screen for a good fifteen seconds before sliding it back into the interior pocket.
Huh. Okay. He probably noticed right away that I'm shy and kind of awkward socially. He didn’t seem to mind but apparently me having friends is a big shock to him.
"Even shy people have friends," I say with more salt than usual.
"Naturally. Anyone would be lucky to call you friend, as assuredly Aisha is."
Slightly mollified, I say, "Thanks."
Thinking it's time to get back on track with the tour, I wave my hand toward the rest of the barn. "Welcome to Solace Ridge Renewal Ranch. Very glamorous. Lots of manure."
His mouth quirks. "I’ve seen worse."
"You spend a lot of time in stables?" I ask with a doubtful glance at his tailored suit and designer shoes.
"I have a stable at my home and the palace in Nurayn has a stable also."
He says the word palace like I might say apartment building.
"You, um…you visit the palace, do you?"
"I was raised there." Gabriel gives me a proper bow that transforms the breezeway into a formal reception hall. "Prince Gabriel Hassan Al Qadir, Sheikh Jabal al-Dhahab at your service."
My mouth making fish impressions, I nevertheless drop into the curtsy my mother drilled into me from childhood. "I'm pleased to meet you, your highness."
The Delgados and Caldwells might not be royalty, but you'd never know that by my mom.
Her family were one of the original settlers in New Mexico, accumulating wealth for the large land grants from Spain. If you ask me, being a direct descendant of a colonizer isn't something to shout about, but mom has her own way of looking at things.
There’s a beat of silence, then Gabriel says, "You will call me Gabriel."
"I haven't forgotten all my mother's lessons on etiquette and I'm pretty sure calling you by your first name breaks more than one rule of it."
"It is my wish. We are to be friends."
"We are?" I ask, not sure how that's supposed to work out.
Presumably, he's only in Santa Fe for as long as his business lasts. Maybe we'll be pen pals. I've always wanted a pen pal. Someone to write real letters to, not emails or texts. Though I don't think I'd mind having this man in my contacts.
Or other places.
"Something has made you blush." Gabriel looks at me like he's trying to figure out what.
Not about to tell him about thoughts spurred on by my suddenly active ovaries, I fan myself. "It's warm in here."
He gives me a knowing smirk. "Is that it? I wonder."
He doesn't pursue it however and I force myself to get back on track with the tour.
Gabriel asks good questions.
Not the generic, polite, "Oh, so how long have you worked here?" kind, but specific ones: how long the therapy program has been running, what kind of referrals we get, how we handle riders who become frightened mid-session.
He listens to my answers, really listens, his gaze on my face in a way that makes me hyper-aware of every word.
My body hasn’t stopped humming since he called out to me from the fence. It’s not a feeling I'm used to dealing with. Not even Lonny made my body buzz with constant sexual awareness.
The fact he made me feel sexual at all was a victory in my mind.