Under a Painted Sky by Stacey Lee Read Free Book Online Page B

the Mexican.
    The Mexican does not speak as he tugs off his sleek riding gloves. The gray horse and the bay push their noses at him. He rubs each of their faces in turn, not acknowledging me.
    The one with the scars on his arm watches me being ignored. “That means no,” he says, his voice clear and smooth like freshly steeped oolong tea. His voice. It’s the man whose horse nearly collided with me when I tripped yesterday.
    â€œHe doesn’t let just anyone ride his
caballo,
” he continues. “Gotta prove yourself.”
    I go still as a pinecone as his sorrel drifts around me. Does he recognize me? He only saw me from the back after I fell. Then again, I could have erred. I don’t budge a muscle as he inspects me.
    â€œOh, come on, get a wiggle on, compadre,” Green-Eyes says to the Mexican. “I’m about to die of hunger.”
    The Mexican takes out a brush and starts to groom the saddleless bay. The Mexican has not looked at me once, though the bay casts me a gimlet eye. With her long legs and proud bearing, she moves as gracefully as a gazelle, clearly outmatching me.
    Still conscious of the scarred man appraising me, I lift my chin and ask, “
¿Cómo puedo probar?
” How do I prove my worth?
    Green-Eyes chokes out a laugh. Annamae’s pupils slide from one side to the other, like she’s not sure she heard right. Finally paying attention, the Mexican swaggers toward me like a Spanish bullfighter addressing a cow that has wandered into the arena: posture erect, nostrils flared, eyes bemused.
    â€œ
Hablas Español,
” he murmurs. “
Si Princesa te quiere, entonces tenemos un trato.
” I translate in my head: If Princess likes you, we have a deal.
    I sigh. So I must let this royal beast bite me before I can trade a ride to the river for our supper, which must be cold by now, not to mention dusty. I don’t have much of a choice, seeing that I stepped into this pie to begin with. Plus, I’ll happily take a horse bite over a hemp collar.
    I shade my brow to sneak another glance at Annamae. She curls her pinkie at me and mouths the word
rattlesnake.
    Princesa pokes her nose into the grass. I have not moved more than three paces toward her when she lets out a scream so shrill that I fall hard into the dirt. Dear God, it must be the Snake in me. Horses dislike people born in the Year of the Snake. I scramble backward, and Green-Eyes slaps his knee and hoots, lighting my face on fire.
    Annamae covers her mouth with her hand, then quickly drops it.
    The Mexican rests an elbow on the gray horse’s withers, the silver rosettes trimming his black trousers and jacket winking at me in unison. The scarred man peers down at me in the dirt.
    I catch my breath and steel myself for another attempt.
Laugh at me, will you?
Then I have an idea. Earlier, I tucked my violin case in an indentation of the stone wall, and now I fetch it. Opening the case, I remove the tin I keep handy for the children’s lessons. Palming the contents, I march back up to the snotty-nosed bay.
    The mare stands an arm’s length away. Annamae rises to her feet.
    â€œPretty horsey,” I croon.
    â€œ
Princesa sólo entiende Español,
” says the Mexican in a low voice.
    I sniff, doubting horses understand human language at all, Spanish or English. To be safe, though, I give a rough Spanish version of, “If you let me pet you, I will give you this sweet,” and hold out my hand.
    In my palm, five peppermint candies melt into one pink blob. Princesa whips her head up and squeals again, blowing hot grassy breath all over me. I shrink back and shut my eyes. Her mouth crashes down onto my open hand.
    Princesa smacks her lips noisily. I snatch back my hand, which thankfully is still attached to my arm, and whimper in relief.
    Princesa noses around for more sweets. I scratch her forehead and see her ears flick.
    The men whoop, and the Mexican adds a cry of