Free Golden Roses by Patricia Hagan Page B

bright yellow on the inside, with a big, wide, stiff collar, and long enough to fall to a man’s knees. The matador took the cape and went to stand behind a little, flat wooden shelter outside the ring. It was wide enough, she noted, for two men to stand in but barely narrow enough to dodge behind.
    Valdis explained as the alguacils rode toward the presidential box. “They come for the key to the red door, the toril , where the bull is kept.”
    Maretta stood, dropping the key, and to the delight of the crowd, one of the men caught it in his plumed hat. Quickly, he turned and galloped across the ring to hand the key to another man who stood outside the red door. Then he trotted his horse back to the box and saluted Maretta before riding out of the ring. Once more, men hurried forward to sweep away the traces of the horse’s hooves from the sand.
    A hush fell over the arena. All eyes were upon the red door. The man holding the key looked at Maretta, and when she gave the signal, he moved to unlock the door, then ran backward. The passageway opened.
    The bull appeared in a great cloud of dust and the roll of thunder Amber remembered from her narrow escape. As he passed through the gate, she recognized Cord Hayden astride the railing above. He boldly attached a silken rosette to the harness around the bull’s shoulders.
    Maretta swore, and Valdis hissed at her reproachfully. “I cannot help it,” she cried. “I hate that man. He is evil.”
    “It is his job to attach the rosette,” Valdis reminded her, then whispered, “Restrain yourself, Maretta. When we are seated in this box, everyone watches us and hears what we say. I agree the man is evil, but this is not the place to say so.”
    Amber could not resist goading them. “I think Mr. Hayden is quite nice. He helped Armand save me from the bull last night.”
    Valdis tried to quiet her with a look, but she asked, “Why did he put the flower on the bull?”
    “It is a red silk rosette,” Valdis said tightly. “Red is the color of our ranch. It identifies the bull as Alezparito stock.”
    Maretta sniffed. “She would defend him. They are both Americans.”
    “Enough,” Valdis snapped, and Maretta fell silent. But she glared at Amber once more before returning her attention to the ring.
    The bull moved slowly, staring belligerently around. A banderillero waved a bright red cape, and the great beast charged.
    “He does this,” Valdis quickly explained, “so that the matador may watch and judge whether he shows any preference in his horns, and also whether he attacks from both sides.”
    But Amber was not interested in the ring. Something had made her look back to Cord Hayden, still perched on the railing. He was handsome, but in a very different way from Armand. Cord was ruggedly good-looking, his hair windblown, his whole appearance a little disheveled. She thought that his appearance probably matched a reckless spirit.
    He was tall and muscular, yet lean and lithe. She wondered whether she remembered the color of his eyes correctly, and then she realized that he had seen her staring at him and was grinning. He tipped his hat, and she looked away, deeply embarrassed.
    A cry went up from the crowd as the matador entered the ring, making a few passes with his cape. Valdis explained that these passes were called “veronicas,” meant for the matador to show his skill with the cape and demonstrate his domination over the bull.
    The brassy cry of a trumpet split the air, the signal for the picadors to enter the ring. The picadors moved into position and the bull pawed at the ground. Lowering his head, he charged the nearest horse, and the mounted picador reined his steed sharply to one side while he lifted his long steel pike and planted the point between the bull’s neck and shoulder blades.
    Amber closed her eyes tightly, wincing every time she heard the crowd boo. They disliked this part of the fight, Valdis whispered, because of their great respect for the