I managed to stand. Laurent rushed to assist me. He’d turned pale. Surely, this was not what he’d envisioned when he agreed to marry the daughter of a French landowner. Though he’d managed to fool everyone in town to think that he had his own personal fortune, he hadn’t fooled me. I knew early on that Laurent’s family had nothing but a prestigious last name and a lot of arrogance.

Martin avoided my eyes, like he always did, and removed a hand-rolled cigarette from his front pocket. His large hands shook slightly as he lit it, but once he took the first drag, the tremor subsided. The frown between his eyebrows remained.

“It goes without saying, Don Tomás, that my sisters are entitled to my portion of the estate,” my brother Alberto said, rubbing his chin.

I still hadn’t gotten used to seeing my baby brother dressed so solemnly. That white cassock made him look older, but his eyes still glistened with the same mischief and curiosity they had when he was a child.

“In that case, Padre Alberto, the law requires that your portion be divided among your three sisters.”

“But Alberto doesn’t even know Purificación,” I said. “It wouldn’t be fair! Didn’t she get enough already?” My voice cracked.

“I’m just stating the facts according to the law, señora. You are certainly within your right to contest the will.” Aquilino shut his briefcase. “In the meantime, I shall write a letter to your sister in Spain notifying her of your father’s passing and his final will.”

Laurent grasped my arm, shaking his head slightly. He leaned toward me, his warm, wine breath tickling my ear.

“Don’t worry, ma chère,” he whispered, “we’ll take care of this.”

CHAPTER 7 - Puri

CHAPTER 7

Puri

April 1920

“English or Western saddle?” Martin asked me.

At Angélica’s request, my father’s right-hand man was going to take me on a tour of the plantation while the maid, Julia, prepared my room. I wouldn’t have accepted if I knew I would have to get on a horse.

Were all men supposed to know how to ride? I knew for a fact that Cristóbal had never climbed on one of these four-legged giants. He was as urban as they came. But I didn’t want to look like a chicken in front of Martin. Something told me he didn’t respect weakness.

“English,” I said, which apparently was the wrong decision as the saddle was much too small and didn’t have a horn to hold on to.