Golden Roses

by Patricia Hagan

  Stepping down from the terrace, she entered the garden with its flowering, fragrant orange trees. A silver half-moon filtered down, casting lacy shadows on the mossy grass. A soft, warm breeze whispered through the night air. It was all so ironically beautiful, she reflected.

  Suddenly, she heard Valdis’s voice calling sharply, “Amber! Amber, where are you? Are you out there?”

  Quickly, she ducked behind a large palm tree, pulling her long skirt tightly about her legs. As he passed nearby, she held her breath. He returned to the house after a minute, and she darted down the moonlit path, not knowing where it led, just wanting to escape Valdis for a little while.

  Amber had still not found an opportunity to search his room. Dolita said she had never known him to be around the house so constantly. He had not even gone to Cuadid for his regular weekend gambling and drinking binge.

  Amber plunged on into the night, lost in misery. There had to be a way to escape…had to be.

  The path ended at a large wooden gate. Beyond, she could hear the soft, gurgling sound of a rushing stream. It would be nice, she decided suddenly, to kick off her tight satin slippers and wade in the cool water.

  The gate opened and closed with a grating squeak, and she moved through the shadows toward the sound of the stream. Reaching the edge, she removed her shoes, then lifted her skirts waist-high, preparing to step into the water. A rumbling sound caused her to freeze.

  She turned slowly, looking fearfully toward the thick, black woods beyond her. It had sounded almost like thunder. Just then she heard it again. She began to move back toward the gate, terror bubbling in her throat as the rumbling sound deepened and came closer.

  Suddenly there was a crashing sound, and a huge black shadow lunged from the bushes. She screamed. Moonlight illuminated the deadly horns on the great beast’s head.

  The bull was staring straight at her, eyes shining like red coals. He lifted his head, and the dread sound pierced the air once more, drowning out her cry of terror.

  She turned and ran, but tripped and fell to the ground. Rolling quickly onto her back, she saw that he was raising a hoof, pawing at the ground. He lowered his head and bellowed angrily again. She knew instinctively that the beast was about to charge, to send one of those spearlike horns plunging into her flesh.

  Hoisting herself up on her elbows, oblivious to the skin being scraped away as she moved, she dug her heels into the ground and began to scramble backward.

  There was movement behind her, and she looked frantically around to see two men crawling cautiously over the fence.

  “Do not move!” one of them ordered in a deliberately calm voice. “Stay where you are.”

  “Watch him, Mendosa,” the other man said to his partner. “He’s a killer.”

  In the eerie moonlight, she watched as the man who had first spoken removed his coat and moved forward. She did not want to look at the bull, for a fresh wave of terror ripped through her each time he bellowed. The man, however, did not take his eyes from the animal. The bull’s head was lowered in readiness for attack, but the man kept moving toward him, calmly and steadily.

  The stranger spoke sharply to her in a thick Spanish accent. “When he moves, get to the gate as fast as you can. Do not hesitate for a second. Move quickly.”

  Suddenly the bull charged, and Amber could feel the earth tremble beneath the thundering hooves.

  “Toro!” the man cried, leaping in front of Amber, snapping his coat sharply. “Toro!” To her he yelled, “Run! Quickly!”

  She scrambled to her knees and crawled a few feet before she felt strong hands grasp her around the waist and lift her high in the air. Her rescuer swung her over the fence and dropped her on the ground with a painful thud.

  “She’s safe,” she heard him shout. “Get the hell out of there.”

  “Ahhh, the evening has been so boring,” was the laughing reply. “I think I will make a few passes.”

  “Mendosa, you’re crazy,” the other man shouted. “He’s not one to play with.”

  Amber got to her feet shakily, feeling a shadow of anger over being treated so roughly. Dusting off her long skirt, she moved to the gate. She could see the man called Mendosa flicking his coat, stepping quickly to one side just as the bull charged the coat.

  “You’re a stubborn fool!”

  She looked up at the man who had lifted her over the fence as she moved to stand beside him. He felt her presence and turned to give her an angry grimace. “Will you just get out of here? You’ve caused enough trouble.” He turned away, dismissing her.

  “I only wanted to go wading,” she said shakily. “I’m sorry if I caused any trouble. I didn’t know there was a bull—”

  “I don’t give a damn,” the man growled.

  Stung, Amber looked away to where the other man was dancing about the charging bull. Incredulous, she could hear him laughing. “Why, I think he’s enjoying this!” she gasped.

  “Of course he is. He doesn’t have any sense. Now, get out of here. Go back to your party.”

  She flamed with indignation. “Don’t issue me orders. I want to thank that man, and—”

  “Mendosa, if you don’t get out of there, I’m going to shoot him,” he warned, ignoring her completely.

  “Ahhh, you would not want to kill such a magnificent beast,” Mendosa said as he turned, raising his coat high above his head. The bull spun just beneath his arms. “This is Señor Valdis’s prize seed bull. He would not take kindly to your destroying him.”

  “Then get out of there.”

  Amber gasped as the man pulled a gun from beneath his coat and pointed it at the bull. “Are you really going to kill him?” she cried.

  “If Mendosa doesn’t get out of there right now, I’m going to put a bullet through the bull’s brain. Then you can explain to Valdis that your stupidity caused all this.”

  “If you would only let me explain,” she pleaded.

  “I am coming,” Mendosa called. “Do not shoot him.”

  She watched as Mendosa lured the bull into making a pass close to the gate. As the beast rushed by, Mendosa leaped, landing beside Amber, a wide grin displaying shining, even white teeth. “Señorita Forrest, I believe,” he said, bowing. “I have been looking forward to meeting you. Like everyone else in the valley, I have heard of your loveliness. But now I see that all I have heard was wrong. You are not merely lovely. You are most beautiful. Allow me to present myself—Armand Mendosa.”

  “I’ve heard of you!” she cried. “You really are a matador.”

  “Sí. I do not usually fight the bulls in their pastures, only when a lovely lady is in danger.” He flashed his smile once more, then turned to the man beside him. “This is my foreman, Señor Cord Hayden.”

  Cord Hayden still regarded Amber coolly, but some of the anger left him. He murmured, “Sorry if I was rough on you, but you could have been killed. That bull gored a matador in the ring last year. He should have been put to death, as is the custom, but Valdis wanted to use him for breeding.”

  “I’m truly sorry,” Amber said desperately, “but I didn’t know there was a bull here.”

  “Just don’t go wandering around anymore,” said Hayden.

  Her eyes suddenly locked with his, looking up, for he was at least a head taller than she. He was, she realized, quite handsome…though there was the touch of the wolf about him. His eyes were dark brown and framed by long, thick lashes. His lips were full, sensuous, accentuated by a thin black mustache. Black hair curled around his face, giving him almost a little-boy look—but she understood intuitively that the appearance was misleading. This was all man, a real man, and one to be reckoned with.

  But there was something else about him…something quite disturbing. It was as though she had met him before. But she told herself that she could not have.

  Armand touched her arm, bringing her out of her reverie. “If you will allow me,” he murmured softly, “I will see that you return to the house safely.”

  She w
anted to tell him that the house was the last place she wanted to be, but she kept quiet as Armand turned to his foreman and said, “I will see you back at the ranch later, all right?”

  Cord Hayden nodded, tipping his hat to Amber. He turned away, but not before she saw that strange look in his eyes, as though he was having the same thoughts she was. They had met somewhere, sometime before. But no—that wasn’t possible.

  “Tell me. Why were you out here wandering the ranch alone?” Armand said as they made their way toward the distant lights and the sound of music. “I am surprised that Valdis would allow you to go off like this by yourself.”

  She saw no reason to lie, and blurted, “I was trying to get away from Valdis. I despise him.”

  To her amazement, he threw back his head and laughed. “You do not hesitate to speak what is on your mind, do you? That is good. I do not like coy women or feminine games. And I do not blame you for feeling as you do. I must admit that I share your opinion of Valdis. I must tell you also,” he reached for her hand and squeezed it, “that I accepted his invitation tonight only because I wanted to meet you. Now that I have accomplished that, I am tempted to go home rather than be in the company of Valdis and his spoiled sister. I have had the best of this night, I know.”

  She said candidly, “I’ve heard that Maretta is in love with you, and that you won’t marry her. Valdis is very unhappy about it.”

  He made a face. “Who would want to marry such a contrary woman? And she does not love me. She only wants to be Señora Mendosa. If I were a poor peasant, she would not give me a second look.”

  Amber said nothing, feeling that it was not her place to comment further.

  “Tell me,” he went on. “Why are you still here? I assumed you would return to America after your father’s funeral.”

  She bit her lip to hold back the torrent of words. How easy it would be to pour out all her troubles to this man. He seemed so kind. But she did not know him, so she merely said, “I will leave…when the time is right.”

  He gave her a strange look, as though he knew there was much more to be said.

  As they reached the top of the garden, they heard the lilting guitar music, and the glow of dozens of lanterns spilled down on them.

  Armand stopped abruptly, spinning Amber around to face him. “Before we go inside,” he whispered, grinning, “I want you to know how happy I am that we met. I am glad we had some time alone together, and I am sorry it must end now. I wish…” He took a deep breath, warm, hungry eyes on her face. “I wish I did not have to take you inside.”

  Amber became light-headed. Here was a famous man, a fearless man, a most attractive man, and he desired her. They were standing very close, and since he was only a few inches taller than she, their lips were almost touching. “I…I thank you for saving my life…” she began, unable to think of anything else. It was an unnerving moment.

  “I thank el toro for giving me the opportunity to place you in my debt, señorita.” He smiled. “If ever I should meet that one in the arena, I would be tempted to be merciful, for he has done me a favor.”

  “I should think a fierce bull like that one would be just what you matadors want,” Amber said in a rush, grateful for a chance to step away from him.

  He laughed, taking her hand and leading her to a nearby marble bench. They sat down together. “Let me explain,” he began. “That bull will not fight again. You see, he has won.”

  She was genuinely confused. “I don’t understand. I thought the bull always had to die.” She stopped as she saw the look of pain on his face.

  “When the matador dies, the bull wins,” he said sadly. “You heard Cord say that the bull has killed. It was last year, a great matador named Gosa Huerto. He bled to death in moments. By custom, the bull should have been put to death afterward, but he was Alezparito stock, and Valdis stubbornly insisted he be saved for use as a seed bull. In one year, he has sired twenty-seven offspring, so Valdis’s thinking was shrewd even if it went against custom.”

  “So why can’t he be used in the ring again? There must be many matadors wanting to avenge Señor Huerto’s death.”

  “You have much to learn.” He sighed Then, crossing left leg over right, he stared into the night as though wondering where to begin. Finally, he said, “A matador has but fifteen minutes to kill his bull. If the matador takes longer…if the bull is allowed to increase his knowledge of the matador…if he is allowed to fight again, then many matadors would die.

  “You see,” he went on, “bullfighting is based on a first meeting between a wild animal and a man on foot. The bull has never been in the ring before. They are not taken to the ring except to be tested for bravery, when they are exactly two years old.”

  “Why two years?” Amber was curious.

  “At one year, they are not strong enough, and at three years, they are too dangerous, too powerful. Also, they are old enough to remember the test.”

  “Remember?” she echoed, astonished. “What difference would that make?”

  “A great difference, my beautiful one.” He flashed her a smile. “To begin with, the bull is put into a corral about thirty yards across, half the size of a bullring. A picador is waiting with a kind of spear with a triangular steel point, slightly shorter than is used in a real fight. He waits on his horse with his back turned toward the gate through which the young bull has entered. No one speaks. The picador does nothing to excite the bull, for the test is to see whether or not the bull will charge without being goaded. When—and if—he does charge, his style is noted…whether he makes his charge from a distance…whether he paws the ground first…or bawls. It is noted whether the bull goes toward the horse…whether he keeps his feet back and charges with full power, pushing onward to reach the picador and horse after the pic is put into him.”

  Amber was horrified. “You mean the picador stabs him?”

  “It is all a part of it. You will learn.”

  “I don’t think I want to.” She shuddered.

  Armand ignored her revulsion and went on. “The bull is also watched to see whether he chops his neck around, trying to get the pic out, or if he just turns away and quits his charge because he has been hurt. If he stops fighting because he is wounded, then his owner—if he is scrupulous—will have him castrated and fattened for market.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if he is scrupulous’?”

  “No honorable breeder would sell a cowardly bull for the ring.”

  “What happens if the bull doesn’t give up at that point?”

  “Sometimes even a two-year-old bull can knock over a horse and a man. If this happens, he must be taken away with the capes. But it is not good to do this, for it is not good for the bull to see the cape. It is not even good to have the bull charge more than once. It is felt that only so many pics can be accepted by a bull. If he takes two or three in his bravery test, then that is two or three less that he will take in the ring.

  “Most of the time, faith is put in the lineage of the bulls. You see, a bull is not a stupid animal. This is why the bull that killed Gosa Huerto is so dangerous. He has learned that it is the matador he must fear, and not the cape. He would probably charge the man and not the cape.”

  “But would that not make bullfighting more of an honest sport? The bull would have a chance, then. And why do picadors stick them? Just to torture them?”

  “It is going to be wonderful teaching you about bullfighting, señorita.”

  “Call me Amber, please,” she urged, thinking how wonderful it was to have a friend here.

  “And you must call me Armand,” he said with a grin, then continued. “Let me explain. The picadors aim their shafts at the hump of the bull’s neck in order to weaken his muscles and to lower his head for the kill. If those muscles are not weakened, and the bull has the full use of his neck, he can rear up and gore the matador quite easily. The banderilleros drive the barbs into the bull’s hump to further sap his strength—though it really does little more than rile the c
rowd. The bull, you will learn, is regarded very highly.”

  He took a deep breath and grinned. “Have you learned enough to become interested? Would you like to go to the bullfight tomorrow? I will be performing.”

  “I…I don’t think so,” she stammered. She still thought it was cruel, and she wanted no part of it. She knew, too, that there was going to be a scene with Valdis when she refused to go with him.

  Still, this handsome, vibrant young man had made bullfighting his profession, and there was such a warm glow between them. She did not want to do anything to end it. This attractive man had a delightful way about him.

  She jumped, startled, as he touched her hand. Their eyes met and held, and she felt he was looking into the depths of her soul. He whispered, “Moonstar. That is what I shall call you. Here, in the moonlight, with your glorious hair sparkling like spun silver, it is as though you were a rare star. A moonstar.”

  He leaned closer, lips dangerously near. Amber could feel his warm breath on her face. “Say you will come tomorrow, my moonstar. I want to know that you are near me. I want this feeling that is growing between us to blossom in the warmth of the sun. That is what you will be for me if you are there tomorrow—my sun. We say that the best bullfighter is the sun. There is no best bullfighter if the sun is not there. You will always be my moonstar, but when I face the bull, you will be my sun. Say you will be there, Amber…for me.”

  She gazed into his eyes and could not move. His lips were so close she could feel them brushing hers. Oh, how she wanted him to kiss her, to take her in his arms and crush her to him, his lips devouring, possessing. Her whole body tingled fiercely. She could only stare at him, mesmerized, wanting.

  The angry scream pierced their magical moment, and they sprang apart, staring at the raging woman running toward them. At first, Amber did not recognize the twisted, enraged face of Maretta.

  She came at Amber with arms outstretched, fingers arched in daggerlike claws, but Armand grabbed her about the waist and stopped her, shouting to her in Spanish. Maretta struggled against him, also screaming in Spanish, but her angry eyes never left Amber.