He glanced over his shoulder, lowering his voice. “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I admit that she wasn’t pleased when she learned her father had left you the control of the estate. And neither was I, for that matter, but I doubt Angélica would hurt someone for money.” He attempted to hold my hand but I moved it away. “Look, my relationship with Angélica is complicated. It’s something that has tormented me for years. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but even I can’t explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“The effect she has on me.”

I stood up. I didn’t want to hear another word. I didn’t want to hear how much he loved and desired her and how he’d been playing with me, using me, or worse yet, helping her, even if he denied it now.

I darted out of the room without looking back. I needed air. He was following me, trying his best not to run.

I crossed the patio and headed for the stables. My throat was tight, my eyes stinging. I wouldn’t let him see me cry. What was wrong with me? I’d never been so weak to cry for the love of a man.

A young boy, whom I’d seen before tending to the horses, was brushing Pacha just a few meters away. I told him to put her saddle on.

“English or Western?” he asked.

“Whatever!”

“Cristóbal!” Martin said, behind me. “Wait!”

The boy grabbed a brown leather saddle and I helped him strap it around the horse. He was still adjusting the mount when I climbed on top. Now, Pacha and I weren’t the best of friends, but we’d grown to respect each other—at least I thought so. However, Pacha didn’t seem to appreciate my urgency or my abruptness and being that she was not particularly fond of me, she reared, just like she’d done when we first met. Again, I slid to the ground, but this time I hit my head so hard that everything circled around me before turning pitch black. The boy’s voice became so distant and faint that after a moment, all I could hear was the ringing in my own ears.

* * *

When I woke up, I was lying on a bed in a dim room with the curtains drawn. It was a tiny room—I’d never been here before. Martin was sitting on a chair next to the bed. Behind him was a shelf filled with ornaments of all kinds: vases, glass containers, dolls. He spoke as soon as I opened my eyes.

“You’re in Julia’s room,” he said. “Julia is here, too.”