SIX

WHAT DOES A woman admire most in a man? Gentleness? Kindness? ¡Ay! Those are the traits of priests. Wealth? A woman may desire riches, but it is not what she most admires. No, she covets most his virility: the power of his loins in the bedroom and his dominance over other men in the saddle and, when necessary, on the field of honor. Knowing this, when I entered the paseo, I sat tall in the saddle. Even Tempest flaunted his machismo, prancing and snorting at the mares.

I spoke to a few of the caballeros, merely nodded to others, ignored those whom I considered too far beneath me socially to command even a flick of my eye or head. I usually rode alone, while other caballeros went about in groups of two or three or more. In truth, I did not count many men as my friends. I was known as a loner, one who stayed mainly to himself. Most men my age were fools, and the young caballeros I competed with at night across the gaming tables were no exceptions. While my uncle referred to them as my amigos, they were acquaintances rather than friends. They bored me less when we were playing cards, and only the gaming table and a succession of upturned brandy bottles could provoke me to socialize with them at the inn in the evenings. I preferred the company of my horse and long rides into the wilderness, hunting or just exploring. Isabella says I am like a jaguar, the great jungle cat that hunts alone.

There she was, by the grace of God, the most beautiful woman in Guanajuato! Her carriage was surrounded by criollo caballeros, all begging for attention. I had Tempest prance by her carriage, ignoring her and the mob of admirers begging for attention. She eventually waved me over, laughing. She was as lovely as a goddess, regally attired in a gown of royal purple, embroidered in gold. Her eyebrows were blackened with burnt cork, giving her a wanton air that stirred my sin-black soul.

“Ah, Don Juan, so nice to see you. How were you able to free yourself from your tedious excursions in the wilds and honor us with you presence here on the paseo with the other caballeros?”

“Having observed the ways of your caballeros,” I spoke loud enough for several of them to hear, “I prefer the company of horses.”

Isabella laughed, that tinkling sound that thrilled my heart. But there was no doubt she deplored my wilderness treks. She continually scolded me for the time I spent with my horses rather than socializing. She especially detested the rides I enjoyed with the vaqueros on my hacienda and the bow hunting I indulged in. Such activities callused my hands and hardened my muscles, neither of which the dandies who vied for her attention favored. Isabella’s diversions were carriage rides, lavish balls, flirting, shopping, and dancing, activities I found maddeningly dull.

I rode alongside as her carriage rolled down the dirt path that circled the park. A female friend rode beside her in the open coach. Her friend flirted with another rider while I quietly conversed with Isabella. She covered her mouth with her silk fan to keep her voice from carrying.

“Did you speak to your uncle about purchasing a title?” she asked.

“Yes, everything goes well,” I lied. “And your father, did you speak to him about a marriage to me?”

Her fan fluttered. “He wants me to marry a count or marqués.”

“Then I will purchase a dukedom.”

Her laugh again tinkled like a bell. Dukedoms were not for sale. A marqués was lower than a duke and higher than a count, but any noble title would thrill her.

“My father has his eye on a particular marqués. I would nonetheless favor you, even if I married him.” She allowed me a flirtatious smile and batted her eyes coyly. “I would keep you as my lover if you promise never to marry and worship only me.”

My chest swelled with macho vanity. “Señorita, you will never marry anyone but me because I will kill any man who tries to marry you.”

“Then you will be very busy I’m afraid, señor, since all the men in Guanajuato desire me.”

“Only the blind would not desire you.”

She pointed toward an oncoming rider. “Isn’t that your servant, the one who cares for your horses?” Isabella asked.

Pablo, my vaquero, hurried to us on his mule.

“Señor, your uncle is very ill.”