Riding the Old Mare novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: The Back of the Colorada
It had been eight years since I'd ridden a mare as mean as the Colorada.
She'd buck sideways, snort, and every three steps try to throw me off her back.
I was on top of her in the big corral at Rancho La Esperanza, at four in the afternoon, the sun burning the back of my neck.
Gerardo had told me on the phone, when I was still in Texas, that he had a mare no one could break.
I'd come back Monday with one suitcase and my white hat, and it was already Friday.
My friend was waiting for me at the house door with open arms and a thief's grin.
"Nacho, brother. About time."
Eight years had passed.
He hugged me like not a day had gone by.
Behind him, in the doorway, stood his wife.
I remembered her as a girl in her twenties, thin, with a braid.
Now she was thirty-two, and the braid fell to her waist.
Her name was Marisol.
She had eyes the color of dark honey, and the body of a woman who'd been carrying water and hay bales since she was a girl.
"Welcome, Nacho," she said, and shook my hand firmly.
Her hand was rough and warm.
I let go too late.
That afternoon, Gerardo went to the living room to play cards with two compadres, because it was Friday and on Fridays you play.
I went out to the corral to try the mare.
I'd been at it half an hour, barely holding on through the bucks, when Marisol appeared by the fence, a bucket in her hand.
"You won't be able to," she said.
"You know me."
"No one's been able to with her. My dad bought her to break and died before he could."
"Then I'll break her."
"Not with the hat." She smiled. "She gets scared."
I took off my hat.
The mare bucked again, and the whole corral shook.
Marisol set the bucket on the ground and climbed onto the fence.
"Let me try her."
"You'll get hurt."
"I've been riding my whole life."
"Not like this."
"Then teach me."
I stared at her.
She came in a long cotton skirt, boots, and a tight white blouse that clung to her sweat.
"Get on behind me," I said.
"In front."
"In front?"
"So I can feel what she does." She was already climbing up the side. "If I'm behind, I don't feel anything."
I didn't know what to say.
I scooted back on the saddle, and she got on in front, legs apart, skirt hiked up to her thighs.
She ended up between my arms.
Her back pressed against my chest.
The smell of her hair hit me—sweat, chamomile, and dust.
"Okay," she said. "Now what?"
"Hold on to the mane."
"Better to hold on to you."
She took my hands and placed them on her waist.
I gripped the reins with one hand and her hip with the other.
The mare jumped.
Marisol let out a cry and leaned back, her ass pressing against my crotch.
My dick reacted without asking permission.
"Sorry," I muttered.
"Don't apologize."
The mare jumped again, sideways, and Marisol's skirt rode up to her groin.
Her thighs were dark, firm, glistening with sweat, and each bounce spread them a little wider.
I gritted my teeth.
I thought about horses, ropes, rodeos in Texas.
Anything but the heat of her skin pressed against my fly.
"Nacho," she said, her voice low. "Is this normal?"
"What?"
"What I'm feeling."
"You're feeling the mare."
"I'm not feeling the mare."
She moved slowly backward.
She rubbed against me.
She did it with her whole body, with a certainty that knocked the air out of me.
"Do you like how it feels to ride?" she asked, and used the informal you for the first time.
I swallowed.
"Marisol."
"Answer me."
"I shouldn't."
"I didn't ask if you should."
The mare took a longer leap, and we both lurched forward.
My hand slid from her waist to her belly.
She covered it with hers and guided it down, over the wrinkled skirt, to her sex.
It was hot through the fabric.
I squeezed without meaning to, and she moaned, softly, her head falling back against my shoulder.
"Yeah, I like it," I said at last.
"Good."
"Your husband is twenty feet away."
"I know."
"If he comes out..."
"He won't. He's in the middle of a poker hand."
From the house came the murmur of men's voices and the clatter of chips on the table.
Gerardo was laughing at something.
A loud, friendly laugh, the laugh of a happy man.
I felt like a son of a bitch.
And I really wanted to keep going.
The mare stopped on her own, snorting, her flanks wet.
The corral fell silent.
Marisol straightened up slowly, without letting go of my hand.
She smoothed her skirt with the other.
Then the house door opened.
Gerardo came out onto the porch with a toothpick in his mouth and a deck of cards in his hand.
"Nacho!" he shouted from a distance. "Come give me a hand—they're cleaning me out!"
Marisol jumped off.
She adjusted her braid.
She looked at me for a second, her cheeks flushed.
"Later," she said, barely a whisper.
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