and had been fighting for years. They joked with one another and seldom glanced his way. When they drew their bulls, he was relieved not to have drawn the one with the bent horn, but the two he'd drawn were the largest of the lot.
He went up into the empty stands and went over each of his moves. He knew how to make spectacular passes with his cape and how to kill with a forceful thrust, but after working most of his life to earn his place here, he'd expected to have a greater sense of pride. He dressed there at the ring. He donned his shirt and vest slowly and smoothed his embroidered pants to remove every wrinkle. Once clad in his sparkling black suit, he walked into the arena with the other matadors, banderillos and picadores and saw his mother again dressed in red and waving a handkerchief to catch his eye. Her two sons were with her, the taller lad, maybe nine or ten, appeared bored with the afternoon, while the younger boy jumped up and down beside her, his face lit with joy.
Rafael gave them a nod. He'd once been that awe-struck child, but this afternoon, he felt certain the solemn boy was the smarter.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Maggie and Fox sat on the end of the dock as Santos talked with a man anxious to sell his nineteen-foot Flying Scott. She'd been surprised the sailboat was priced cheaper than a used car and also by how knowledgeable Santos had proved to be. Clearly he didn't make hasty decisions but managed his money well.
She focused her thoughts on the sparkling Mediterranean and sighed. "I love the ocean."
"Then why do you live in Arizona?" Fox sent her a quizzical glance and raised a hand to check his spiked hair. In a T-shirt and shorts, he looked younger than his sixteen years.
"An excellent question. There's a beauty to the desert too."
"If you say so. I should have thanked you for offering me a place to live, but I'll be fine with Santos. A friend from school invited me to visit the family estate in Exeter. I'd like to spend the rest of the summer with him and go on to school in the fall. Then I'll be out of everyone's way."
"You're not in the way, Fox," she assured him. "I'd like to come visit your school. Do they have a family weekend?"
He looked at her askance. "You'd come with the matador?"
"Sure, why not?"
Before Fox could answer, Santos joined them. "We're taking the boat out."
The owner walked away from them along the dock. "Is he trusting us to sail it back?" Maggie asked.
"Sure, he knows who I am, and I'll have to come back for my car. I hope you haven't changed your mind about sailing."
"No, let's go," Maggie encouraged, and she was the first into the boat. Santos swiftly guided the sleek sailboat out of the marina into the cool blue Mediterranean. The ocean spray wet her clothes, and the breeze tangled her hair, but racing along the coast was as exhilarating as she'd hoped it would be. Santos kept them in sight of the shore for a wonderful afternoon, but her head ached with the effort to live in the present rather than worry herself sick over Rafael's chances of surviving the day.
They were seated at a table in a seaside cafe when Santos's friend called. He left them to take it privately, but Maggie could hardly wait for his return. She'd asked for tea while Fox and Santos had ordered huge seafood platters. She wondered if the Aragon trust allowed for the cost of food for the teenager, who never got full for more than an hour at a time.
When Santos returned wearing a huge smile, her vision misted with tears. "Is Rafael all right?"
"Of course. Our father taught him well, even if he taught me more. The crowd loves him, and he was awarded a couple of ears."
"What do matadors do with the ears?" Fox asked. "Do they make them into something?"
"I suppose you could skin the ear and make a coin purse out of it, but most men just toss them into the crowd. You should have been there, Magdalena, and he would have tossed the ears to you."
"I'll pass on that grisly honor." She reached for her teacup, but her hand shook so badly she couldn't bring it to her lips. Spain held bullfights from May through October and the rest of the year, a matador