She already knew Miguel wasn’t the most attentive of fathers. “Don’t they have rules at your school?”
“Too many to learn,” he complained. He settled into his chair and closed his eyes.
She didn’t pester him with any more questions. Perhaps an attempt to delve deeply into her relatives’ lives was foolish. Craig would say she was impossible to know, so how could she take it upon herself to pry into anyone else’s life? She thought of Augustín’s admonition, to stand in the center of your life. Maybe that was what they were all doing, being their own selfish selves within a cautious circle to exclude everyone else.
She opened the album and turned the pages slowly. Some of the names were still legible, and there were frequent photos taken there at the ranch. Many featured women on horseback, while their men stood beside them holding the reins. Their faces were shaded by their broad-brimmed hats, but they were all smiling as though they lived an idyllic life.
Then a large photograph of a matador appeared. Miguel had said his father and grandfather had been matadors, so the man had to be her great-grandfather rather than Augustín. He was handsome, like all the men in her family, with a wicked grin. There were several pages of him with his wife and son, Augustín, and then a newspaper photograph she quickly discovered was part of an obituary. His name had been Juan Diego Aragon, and he’d been only thirty-six when he’d died in the bullring in Madrid.
Stunned, she slammed the album shut, and Fox opened one eye. “What?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” She was relieved when he went back to sleep. It was no wonder Augustín had been such a cold, taciturn man when he’d probably witnessed his father’s violent death. How could he have gone on to become a matador? Had it been expected of him, or had he done it to restore the splendor of the Aragon name? Apparently he’d retired earlier than most men, but she was surprised he’d entered a bullring at all.
Ana came outside carrying the video camera. “Just sit still and give me a minute to practice.”
Fox sat up, suddenly fully alert. Maggie looked away. Ana was amazingly limber and coiled herself around a porch post to steady the camera. “If I brace myself on the top rail of the ring, I should be able to get footage that doesn’t look as though it was taken at sea.”
Fox left with her while Maggie had to swallow hard not to get sick. Would Rafael expect his son to follow him into a bullring? When he came out on the porch, she was still too shaken to look up at him.
“I know you don’t want to watch, but this won’t take long and we’ll go.”
She managed a distracted nod, and he walked around the house to the ring, carrying his folded cape. She went into the house to replace the album on its shelf in the den and feeling lost, went for a walk down the road toward the highway. There had to be moments, the first time she’d seen her father’s photograph, that would remain with her forever. This was another one, when she’d realized exactly where her relationship with Rafael Mondragon might lead. To make matters worse, any son they had would have the Aragon tradition in the bullring as well as his father’s. It was a catastrophe waiting to happen.
Rafael would only laugh if she refused to keep seeing him because if they ever had a son, she couldn’t bear for him to become a matador too. He’d argue they might not produce any children, or have only girls, who seldom wanted to fight bulls. They might have half a dozen sons who’d choose to become teachers, lawyers, architects or any number of worthwhile professions. She stopped to bend over and rested her hands on her knees. She was borrowing trouble that might never come, but she might be wiser still to avoid all possibility of it. She breathed deeply to stave off a full-blown panic attack and waited several minutes before straightening up.
She retraced her steps to the house chanting a mantra: “I’ll soon be home. I’ll soon be home.” She sat on the porch steps until she finally gathered the courage to peek around the corner. The ranch hands circling the bullring were shouting encouragement, so clearly things were going well for Rafael. She wanted only good things for him too, but she wouldn’t sacrifice her heart.
Chapter Thirteen
Rafael found Maggie on the front porch leaning back against the house. “What are you doing?”
She wiped her hands on her jeans. “Absolutely nothing. How did it go?”
“I thought it went well. Santos called me a clown.”
“He didn’t!”
“He did.” He tucked his cape under his arm and brushed the dust off his clothes and out of his hair. “Let’s see what Refugio has for breakfast before we go.”
Maggie could tolerate only a slice of the fresh cinnamon bread and a cup of tea while Rafael ate his fill of bacon and eggs. She didn’t understand how he could walk out of a bullring hungry rather than nauseous. Fox joined them and ate almost as much as Rafael. “What happened to Ana and Santos?” she asked.
“They’re out front by her car,” Fox replied.
“Who has the camera?” Rafael asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Excuse me.” Rafael rose and headed outside.
Maggie looked at Fox. “We don’t want to miss this.”
He beat her to the door. Ana was leaning against her Porsche, her arms crossed over her chest and speaking in too low a voice to be overheard. Santos stood back, scowling. He heard Rafael open the door and glanced toward him. “Why don’t you take the camera; then I won’t be blamed if it goes missing between here and home.”
Maggie quickly circled Rafael. “Why would it go missing?”
Santos shrugged. “It’s an expensive camera. It might be stolen.”
Maggie took the camera from her brother. “Only by someone who didn’t want Rafael to prove he’s ready for Sunday.” Grateful she hadn’t been forced to watch them fight a bull that morning, she laid the camera on the backseat of Rafael’s Mercedes. “Let’s go.”