Forgotten Daughter

Annabelle felt strangely free, her heart light. She felt young again. They raced their horses side by side and, in the distance, she could see the far-off ocean echoing deep blue into the sky above, as the fields shimmered and waved around them like a golden sea. They rode side by side, hooves flying beneath them as Annabelle looked at him.

Stefano was laughing, his dark eyes alight with joy. “How could you ever give up riding?” he shouted to her. “How could you ever give this up?”

“I don’t know,” she cried. She felt like she’d been sleeping for twenty years, and in this moment, she awoke.

They reached a plateau high in the green cragged hills. Following his lead, she tied her reins as she climbed down from the horse, feeling slightly sweaty but exhilarated as her feet touched the soft earth and her weary legs nearly buckled beneath her. The ride had tired her more than she’d expected. But it was worth it.

Was this all it took for Annabelle to reclaim the girl she’d been? One ride across the fields with a handsome man? If so, why hadn’t she done it before?

Stefano went inside a large shed, and she surreptitiously checked her hair and makeup in the compact mirror from her jacket pocket. Her hair was ruffled but her makeup still in place. Perhaps working on the ranch wouldn’t be as difficult as she’d feared.

Stefano came out of the shed with a rope lariat hanging around his neck, then brought out the first of the young foals from the nearby paddock out into the large pen.

“Stay close,” he told Annabelle when she tried to move back to the shade. “You’re going to do this.”

For hours, he worked tirelessly to train each young colt to respond to his command, whether given by voice or gesture—to walk, to stop, to change direction or speed. When he returned each colt to the paddock, he brought out another, then another. Some of the animals obeyed. Some refused at first. But Stefano never lost patience. He worked each foal hard, and as the sun beat relentlessly down on them, his skin soon glistened with sweat.

Annabelle felt a bit sweaty herself, watching him with trepidation. He finally turned back to her, holding out the rope. “Now you.”

She felt a surge of terror. “No, I really.”

“Here.” He pushed the rope into her hands. “Now walk him,” he ordered in a quiet, soothing voice, as if training her as much as the horse.

Annabelle tried her best to follow Stefano’s instructions, but it was physically demanding work. The wily young horse didn’t obey her commands as it had Stefano’s. He kept pulling away, resisting her, yanking hard on the rope until it ripped out of her hands, chafing her skin.

When he was done, Stefano brought out another horse, then another. He kept forcing Annabelle to try again, until all she wanted to do was return to the house and collapse weeping in her bed.

But his words kept echoing in her mind. I think you are a woman who would rather die before you’d give up on anything. So Annabelle didn’t give up. She grimly kept trying. She didn’t want to prove him wrong. Stefano’s regard had become important to her, as had the hope he’d given her for a different kind of life, a life of fearless passion and joy.

But by the time they took a lunch break, Annabelle’s whole body was shaking with exhaustion. The white-hot sun beat down upon them as Stefano took the rope from her. “I’ll take the colt back to the paddock.”

Annabelle exhaled, nearly crying with relief.

“We’re done?”

But Stefano barked a laugh. “The day has barely started, querida. But the color in your face suits you.” He smiled down at her. “I think you’re starting to understand what it means to feel alive.”

Agony flooded through her. “I don’t …” she whispered, then swallowed. “I can’t …”

He looked down at her. “You can.”

They sat down at a table beneath a shady tree to eat the sandwiches from Mrs. Gutierrez, but lunch was over all too quickly. It was all Annabelle could do to hold back her tears when they went back to work. As the afternoon wore on, her body ached and her head throbbed from dehydration and heat exhaustion. She could see why he’d wanted her to wear jeans. Her designer pantsuit was dirty and ripped, her black glossy heels impossibly muddy and scuffed.

Surely they’d be done soon, she told herself desperately. Surely they couldn’t do this much longer. Could they?

The sun beat down on them, growing hotter by the minute. And the more exhausted Annabelle felt, the less the foals seemed inclined to obey her. Her hair was a mess, her clothes covered with sweat and grime and her pale skin was turning pink in the sun.

Worst of all: she knew with sickening certainty that the makeup covering her scar was starting to melt.

When Stefano brought out yet another new yearling to train, she wanted to scream.

“See this mare?” he said softly. “You wouldn’t know it, but she was beaten by her first owner. I have trained her for months, to help her learn not to be afraid.” He thrust the mare’s rope into her hands. “Hold tightly to the rope.”

Looking up at Stefano, Annabelle imagined she saw pity in his eyes. A hard lump rose in her throat as she choked out, “I’m meant to be like the horse, right?”

He frowned. “What?”

“Come on. The poor old horse who was once beaten and afraid. She’s me. You’re winning my trust, taming me as you did her. That bit about making me fearless—it’s a trick! It’s all a trick!”