EXCERPT from WHERE EAGLES CRY
On a rancho, when Méjico
“I have little time for softness, Tia.”
“Nonsense. Your father ran this ranch alone and no one dared call him soft, yet this house was filled with his music.”
Reluctantly, Miguel drew a guitar from a recessed area nearby, tuned the instrument and began to play. His aunt bent to her piecework again, and Cara sat spellbound by the pure classical beauty of the notes. In those moments the people in the room did not exist for him, only the music did. When he sang softly in Spanish as he played, she realized not only was she hearing a style of music few Americans had ever heard, she was experiencing a little of the soul of the man before her.
The music faded and died. Miguel smiled almost impishly and said, “You sigh so sadly, Miss Lindsay. The music did not please you?”
Blushing, she answered, “It pleased me very much. Your artistry makes my playing seem embarrassingly inept and amateurish.”
She had never seen him smile, and the wonder of it filled her with warmth.
“Never apologize. Your freshness of touch would delight any listener.”
Even as she thanked him he turned and put the instrument away. His face, which had softened into a smile, was a mask again, his manner that of the aristocrat as he nodded to her and bid Arturo and his aunt goodnight. It was as if those moments with the music had not taken place.
From across the room, Arturo had watched silently, his usually smiling face solemn and guarded.
Where Eagles Cry
- Published by Dee Ann Palmer -