turned on her heels and led Issie and Avery further down the corridor of the stallions’ stables until they reached the stall at the end. Here she swung open the top of the Dutch door to reveal the horse that stood inside.
The stallion was almost as tall as Storm, sixteen-two hands high. His face had the noble bearing of a classical Andalusian with wide-set, soulful eyes and a dark, sooty muzzle. He was a grey, but his dapples had long ago faded so he was as creamy white as parchment. His long mane was like gossamer silk and it tumbled and cascaded over his broad neck and down his powerful shoulders. Only one thing marred this stallion’s pure and exquisite beauty – on the bridge of his Roman nose, just where the noseband of a bridle rests, were tiny jagged scars where once there had been deep cuts in the stallion’s flesh. The wounds were very old now and had healed over with time. Issie knew exactly how the stallion had received these scars – from wearing a cruel serreta bridle in the hands of Miguel Vega.
She reached up and stroked the stallion’s soft muzzle, touching the scar tissue tenderly as she looked deep into his dark, liquid eyes.
“Hello, Angel,” she said softly to him. “It’s me. I’ve come back.”
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