Angel and the Flying Stallions. Stacy Gregg

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      Alfie pulled the Land Rover to a rough stop outside the gates of the hacienda and Issie leapt out of the car, swung open the enormous wrought iron gates and let him through. Alfie drove sedately around the cobbled compound, continuing his tour for the benefit of Mrs Brown. “That large building to the rear is the mares’ quarters, where we keep them at night,” he explained. “The stallions are in separate quarters over there and that building ahead of you now is our main indoor arena where the riders train the horses. And this…” he said, swinging hard on the wheel of the Land Rover, turning back around the fountain and parking the car in front of the central archway of the main hacienda, “…is our house, where you will be staying as our guests.”

      Mrs Brown was stunned. “Much nicer than the Costa Del Sol!” she muttered.

      The Nunez hacienda was a stately Spanish villa, two storeys high with curved archways on the bottom floor and top-floor balconies smothered in vines of brilliant pink and orange tropical bougainvillea. All the windows were trimmed with wrought iron window boxes filled with candy pink geraniums, and the front steps were lined with elegant topiaries of Seville oranges. The front door was made of heavy, dark-stained wood. It swung open and a man stepped out to greet them.

      “Thomas!” Roberto Nunez skipped down the stairs and grasped Avery by the hand before pulling him into his arms in a manly embrace. “So good to see you again!”

      “You too, Roberto,” Avery hugged the Spaniard who had been his best friend ever since they met as young riders on the international eventing circuit.

      “And Isadora!” Roberto smiled. “Welcome back. And this lovely woman must be your sister?”

      He stepped forward, took Mrs Brown’s hand and clasped it lightly in his own.

      “Roberto,” said Issie, grinning at his charming antics, “this is my mum, Amanda Brown.”

      “Welcome!” Roberto smiled. “Don’t worry about your luggage. Alfonso will take it to your rooms. Come in and sit down! Have something to eat and drink. You must be famished.”

      He guided his guests towards the front door of the hacienda.

      “Where is Francoise?” Avery asked, looking around.

      “Down at the stallions’ stables,” Roberto replied. “Isadora, perhaps you might like to go and let her know you have arrived?”

      Issie’s heart was racing as she headed across the cobbled courtyard. It was so strange to be back here again! She couldn’t believe she was about to see Storm. Her stomach was tied in nervous knots. It had been so long.

      The stallions’ quarters were located on the far side of the compound. From the outside they looked like all the rest of the buildings at El Caballo Danza Magnifico; classical Spanish stone with curved archways and tiled rooftops. But inside was a different story. The stallions’ quarters were ultra-modern and the loose boxes were state-of-the-art.

      Issie looked down the row of stalls and at the far end of the corridor she saw Francoise D’arth. The French dressage trainer was wearing cream jodhpurs and a white shirt, her long dark hair tied back in a high ponytail. She was leading a horse and with one glimpse of the pretty, dished Arabian face with the wide, white blaze Issie knew it was him.

      “Storm!” she called out, unable to control her excitement.

      The horse suddenly froze at the sound of her voice and stood alert with his head held high. Without thinking, Issie raised a hand to her lips and gave a wolf whistle – the call she had always used back home when she played tag with the colt.

      At the sound of the whistle, Storm let out a loud nicker and began to dance and skip, going up on to his hind legs so that Francoise was forced to pull him back down.

      “Storm! Easy boy, no!” Issie cried out, aware that her call had rattled the big bay stallion.

      It was too late. Storm reared up a second time with such force that he ripped the lead rope out of Francoise’s hands.

      Francoise was an experienced horsewoman, but she hadn’t been expecting this and the stallion was too powerful. He broke free from her hands and surged forward, heading straight for the girl. His metal horseshoes chimed out against the hard concrete floor beneath his hooves as he cantered through the stable block.

      Issie stood perfectly still. The bay stallion’s enormous, muscled body was thundering through the stables. She knew that he could easily trample her down or knock her over, and yet, as the horse continued to bear down on her, Issie wasn’t in the least bit afraid. This wasn’t any stallion, this was her horse. It was Storm.

      The girl and the stallion were just a few metres apart when Storm pulled up dramatically to a halt and stood, snorting and quivering, in front of her. The stallion was sixteen-three hands high and every inch of him was pure muscle. Issie looked into his deep brown eyes and didn’t hesitate. She threw herself forward and flung her arms around the horse’s neck, burying her face in his long, black mane.

      “Storm!” Issie was finding it hard to breathe, a sob was stuck in her throat and she was choking on her words. “Hey boy, it’s me.”

      The stallion was trembling all over, nickering and stamping, flicking his head as if to say, “You’re back! Where have you been all this time? I missed you!”

      At the far end of the corridor, Francoise D’arth watched this touching reunion and a faint smile crossed her lips. She had never seen a horse behave like that before, but then she had never known any horse and rider to have a bond as close as the one Issie shared with Storm. The girl loved the bay stallion and he had missed her dreadfully. But as Francoise knew only too well, it was not enough to love a horse. You must also have the skills to handle it. In the month to come, Issie would need to prove herself at El Caballo Danza Magnifico. But for now, Francoise stood back and let Isadora enjoy the reunion with her beloved horse. The girl would find out soon enough about the nature of the challenge that lay ahead.

       Chapter 3

      When Storm was nothing more than a skinny-legged colt running around the paddocks at Winterflood Farm, Issie had trained him to come when she whistled. It was a cute trick to teach a foal, but it was a totally different story now he had become a fully-grown stallion.

      “I’m sorry,” Issie called out to Francoise as she led Storm back up the corridor, “I can’t believe he still remembers my whistle.”

      “It is my fault,” Francoise replied as she strode forward to meet them. “I should have anticipated his reaction. They say that horses do not remember as you and I do, but this is not always true. Some memories run so deep they cannot be erased. He has not forgotten you, Isadora. That is quite clear.”

      As if to confirm this, Storm gave another nicker and rubbed his handsome face up against Issie, using her as a scratching post just as he had always done in the paddock back home.

      “Storm!” Francoise chastised the stallion. “Where are your manners? An El Caballo stallion doesn’t behave like that!”

      Francoise took the lead rope and jiggled it to make him step back. Storm got the message and stood obediently while Francoise embraced Issie in the customary СКАЧАТЬ