Beginnings

Australia

Air danced and shimmered above the rock outcroppings in the distance, and the blazing sun beat down upon Elena's head and shoulders. With every breath she tasted dust, and her eyeballs itched with dryness. She drank the last few drops from her canteen then took off her hat and her red neckerchief and wiped her face then the back of her neck, trying to cool off. It had to be forty degrees, at least.

She needed water. Happily, not too far away, the scrubby bushes were overshadowed by a line of trees, which meant a stream. Elena walked on, a canteen on a thong around her neck, a pack over one shoulder, a spear in her hand, and a knife and her sword at her belt—all her current possessions.

Months in the Outback had hardened her body and darkened her skin but lightened her spirit. When she had arrived at Uluru last year, she had gone to an isolated village in the Outback, one she had visited in the eighteenth century. Back then she'd been trying to get away from the Inquisition and from the Game to the most isolated spot she could think of.

This time around she'd needed peace, but more, she'd needed to be alone. For the last four decades she had immersed herself in deep, loving relationships, especially with mortals. But that part of her life was over, and she needed to grieve, let it go then start her own immortal life again. She had found a guide in the village and traveled with him for a while to get her bearings, then she'd set out alone.

For the wilderness provided not just solitude but a challenge. Walkabout was a rite of passage, a physical and spiritual journey. The Outback was one of the most inhospitable, dangerous desert-like regions on Earth. She'd had to go into survival mode, dig deep, and become re-acquainted with herself, with the 'real' Elena Duran. In the bush she had no husbands, no children, no sensei. No students and no friends, thankfully no Immortals. Just Elena and sweet Jesus.

The hard work she had done just surviving had left her 'lean and mean' physically and at peace spiritually. She was ready to face anything. But she still needed to drink to survive.

She smelled and heard the water before she saw it—a softness to the air, a faint splashing sound. Her pace quickened, and she pushed aside branches in her hurry. She already had the cap off her canteen, and she knelt at the stream's edge to submerge the canteen in the water.

Which was exactly what the crocodile was waiting for. The enormous beast lunged for her, its jaws snapping tight around the canteen, dirty yellowed teeth showing against the mud-green skin, barely missing her fingers. Elena yelped and instinctively jumped back, dropping both the spear and the pack. Her heels dug in, and her neck felt like it was breaking. The tail of the crocodile thrashed back and forth, churning the water, and Elena grimly held on.

In the next moment, she knew she'd be pulled into the water, dragged into the depths by the croc to be drowned then eaten, one limb at a time. She pulled the knife from her belt and slit the thong, falling back on her ass at the sudden release, even as the croc slithered sideways with a splash. Then she scrambled to her feet and ran—because the crocodile was coming out of the water after her like a freight train. She couldn't outrun it or outswim it, but thank God she could outclimb it, and the nearest spindly tree became her lifesaver.

She scraped her hands and skinned a knee going up, but she made it to a branch then looked down at the crocodile. At least she still had her sword at her belt and could stab it from above if necessary. But the animal lost interest almost immediately, slowly turning then waddling back into the stream.

Meanwhile Elena wrapped her arms around the trunk and held on, taking great sobbing gulps of air. She hadn't been ready for that. Then she started laughing, with a touch of hysteria. It had been exactly like that scene from the movie Crocodile Dundee from sixty years ago. Except Elena had not dived after the animal to kill it, like the actor had.

And no hero had appeared to rescue her, either from the crocodile or from that pack of wild dogs that had wanted to tear her apart last month. After those experiences, most of her other troubles seemed… not that much trouble.

Except now she was up a tree with no water and no pack and no spear and no knife. She sat in the tree for long minutes, regaining her serenity, and when she finally made it back to the ground she said, "Basta!" Enough. That four-meter crocodile was the last animal that would have the opportunity to eat her. It was time to get back to 'civilization,' where the worst thing that could happen to her was that she'd be beheaded.

Elena stood for a while under the tree, eyeing the river, before she felt enough strength in her legs to walk. Her pack and her spear and knife were still near the near the river's edge, so she went back cautiously then used a stick to pull them closer to her, staying well back from the water. She walked a mile upstream before she dared approach the water again to drink.

Then she got her bearings and began walking back to the village where she'd started Walkabout many months before. The Aborigines, who by now knew she couldn't stay dead, called her the 'Woman of Life,' as they had done several centuries before. They expected her back.

Hopefully, others expected her back as well.

14 April 2045, Rome, Italy

Elena breathed deeply of the cool spring air. Even in the congested city of Rome, amongst the marble and granite of the Vatican cemetery, the scents of new grass and fragrant flowers hung in the air. Life springs forth, always. Elena had heard that message at the Easter vigil mass last Sunday, and it was eternally true.

Though people still died, of course. That was all part of God's plan. Lorenzo would have been sixty-three today: April fourteenth. Elena stood in front of the crypt, missing him. Someone else missed him, too; a bouquet of fragrant lilacs lay propped up against the marble wall. She bent to look at the card. It read simply "For Papa" and the handwriting was that of their son. Elena was sure that Marcellino brought flowers for her, too, on her "birthday." And for his grandmother's birthday as well. "We raised a good son together, Lorenzo," Elena said, smiling even as she wiped tears away. "We had a good life."

On a day like today, she and Lorenzo would have gone riding, had a beautiful dinner, made love. Celebrated life. She had to learn to celebrate without him, and it was more difficult than she'd thought, even a year later. At least now, after spending that time getting re-acquainted with herself, by herself, she knew what she needed to do. She needed to reconnect. Because she had learned that she needed people, and especially that Tennyson had been right when he penned, "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

"Adios, Lorenzo," she murmured. She'd never forget him, as she'd never forgotten anyone she'd loved. But her story with him in it was over. Her story with Marcellino might have more chapters; she still wasn't sure. Not yet. Regardless, it was time to move on, to reconnect with someone else who loved her.

She went to a café and called Duncan MacLeod. He didn't answer, so she left a message then finished her lunch and wandered the streets of Rome. Dinner went by, and she was in her hotel getting ready for bed when he finally called.

"Welcome back!" he said, and at the sound of his voice she had to sit down, her heart was beating so hard. "Where are you?" he asked.

"Rome," she managed. "I want to see you, Duncan."

"I want to see you, too," he replied, and she could hear the smile in his words.

"You are ready for me, right?" she asked. "There's no one else right now?" Because no matter how wonderful Duncan MacLeod was, or perhaps because he was so wonderful, she could never share him with another woman.

"I've been waiting for you, querida," he answered, and now his words were soft and warm. "Come soon."

Caen, France

When the train reached Caen the next day, Elena saw Duncan from her window, standing behind the barrier, a magnificent man in his prime, dressed in a dark trench coat with a short black haircut, a mustache… a mustache… her mouth opened, her heart fluttered. She'd never seen Duncan MacLeod with a mustache before. He looked so… Italian. Or Spanish. Latin. So sexy. She was chafing to get off the train, bag in hand, and as soon as it came to a full stop she jumped off then threaded her way through the crowd, rushing, until she got to him.

She dropped her duffle and catapulted herself into his arms. He swung her around, just like lovers in a movie, and she laughed. "A mustache! I love the mustache! You look like… like Zorro! I love Zorro!"

And when they reached his little house on the north edge of town she was already kicking off her shoes and shedding her coat while he slammed the door behind them and locked it. She looked around her quickly, noting the dominance of muted reds, the painted porcelain Chinese lion sitting in front of the stone fireplace, the small, bright kitchen near a pair of glass doors that led to the courtyard outside. And was that a Monet? But she'd look at Duncan's artwork later. Another door led to the bedroom, and Elena headed there at a run.

Duncan was right behind her, and he grinned and immediately followed her lead as she started peeling off clothes. Her breath came gaspingly and thick. She wanted Duncan MacLeod so badly, had wanted him for nearly a year and a half, and except for the deeply emotional stop in Rome, the endless trip from Australia to France had mostly been an agony of waiting. Now the waiting was over.

Stark naked, she was suddenly aware she was not at her best. Her rounded curves had melted away in the harshness of the Outback, leaving only the necessary skin, bones and wiry muscle needed for survival. But Duncan had seen her in even worse situations, and his love had never dimmed. As she looked at him, though, she could see his naked body was still male perfection, and she felt like the ugly duckling. "I know I need to gain a little weight."

"French food will do that," he opined, "but you'll excuse me if I can't wait." He easily picked her up, put her on his bed and lay on her, covering her mouth with his. She arched her back, pressing her whole body against his. His roaming hands touched every part of her he could reach, but after a moment he stopped and pulled back. "You're crying," he said in a loving, soft voice.

"Si. I've cried a lot since last January. But these are happy tears, Duncan."

He rolled off her, clearly frustrated but trying not to show it. He was a little out of breath too. "How about we go more slowly? It has been over forty years, with husbands and wives between. Let's talk a little. Get to know each other again."

She sighed, staring up at his ceiling. "You think so?"

"Sure. So, Elena, how was the Outback?"

"Hot. Dangerous. And lonely." She turned to him. "Please kiss me, Duncan. I'm finished crying. I needed a moment to transition from eating lizards, then I stopped at the cemetery in Rome on Lorenzo's birthday… But I'm fine now. Now I just want… you. You and that sexy mustache, which tickles."

"Are you—"

But he didn't finish his question because Elena reached down between his legs and squeezed then pressed against him. "Love me," she whispered, her hot breath on his face.

"Aye." He smiled then did kiss her.

"Ay, Duncan," she murmured.

It wasn't until the next morning that she noticed the lavender plant in his kitchen potted in a colorful ceramic bowl.

"Really? I left that plant with Cassandra," she said.

Duncan nodded as he got out coffee cups from the cupboard. "She sent it last week." Then he made a great show of gifting Elena with it, again.

"It's about to bloom," she said, inhaling deeply, her fingers gently encircling the slender green stalks. "But how did Cassandra know when to send it? I didn't tell anyone I was coming."

"She is a witch," Duncan said with a shrug.

"Yes, that's right," Elena remembered. "The Witch of Donan Wood."

"Um-hum. Coffee?" he offered Elena.

"Of course!" she said, noting with satisfaction that he had an espresso machine. The MacLeods had taught her about good quality single-malt Scotch. She had taught them how to drink wonderfully strong coffee. Duncan carried the tray into the courtyard behind his house, and they sat in the soft morning sunshine. The taste of the coffee brought her back to Argentina, to Spain, and to Rome. But that was in the past. Today she was here with her love, sitting in France in his small courtyard and listening to the eager springtime courtship of the birds.

"Can we plant your lavender here in the courtyard?" she asked him.

He stood and gave and elaborate bow. "Mi casa es tu casa."

Elena took Duncan at his word and moved in with him. Not that she had much to move, just a duffel bag of clothes and a sword. Well, France was a good place to go shopping. And she had plenty of time to do that. Duncan often went to work early and came home late, sometimes worked double shifts or weekends, and was called out at odd hours day and night. Rescue workers didn't do "regular hours."

Still, she and Duncan found time as often as possible to push all the potted plants and furniture back and spar in the little courtyard. Working was good; making love was great; but fencing was necessary.

Elena had energy to burn, so within a week she joined a group of traceurs in their jaunts about the city. All the young men were quite eager to teach her the parcours techniques of swinging, balance, cat crawl and others, and she was a quick study. The third day she fell and broke her arm; she hid it from them, waited to heal then continued. It was a great way to learn the streets.

"You're going all around the city without your sword?" Duncan asked her, a little concerned.

"I have a stiletto, and I'm with the boys," she said with a shrug. "Plus any Immortal would have to catch me." She beckoned for Duncan to follow her outside to his courtyard then took a running leap, climbed up the wall of the house to the upper window and muscled herself onto the sill. Balancing, she scrambled onto the roof and grinned down at him.

"You're right; I wouldn't be able to catch you," Duncan called up to her.

But she was still restless. He had tales about daring sea rescues. Cassandra and Connor could tell stories about their students, about filling young minds and strengthening young bodies. Elena was spending her days vaulting over town sculptures, climbing up and down walls, and going nowhere. She bought clothes from the local shops and brought home fruits and vegetables from the farmers' market. She did some cooking. She even cleaned house.

Not much substance there.

Three weeks after she arrived, Duncan told her, "You need a job, not a hobby."

Elena had been thinking the same thing. It took her nine days of driving deep into the countryside around Caen before she found what she was looking for.

"It's perfect, Duncan," she told him as they sat in the courtyard that night while stew simmered inside on the stove. "A riding stable owned by the Oiseaux family with fifteen horses."

"The bird family?" Duncan said with a smile, and he reached over to fill her glass with wine.

Elena smiled back as she nodded. "The name is what caught my attention at the feed store yesterday. Henri and Lucille Oiseaux started the stable twenty-two years ago; she was an Olympic equestrienne; he's a horse trainer. She was the riding instructor at their stable."

"Was?" Duncan queried.

"She has cancer," Elena said quietly, and Duncan winced and shook his head. "She's mostly housebound now, and they don't expect her to last the year," Elena went on. "Henri and Jacques—that's their son, he's about fifteen—are trying desperately to keep the place going without her. About half their horses are boarders, so that brings in some steady income, but they've had to sell some of their lesson horses. Though the feed-store mavens said there's one special horse he's determined to hang on to, no matter what."

"Probably the one his wife rode in the Olympics," Duncan said. "Or his first horse."

Elena nodded; such a horse was like family. Then she went on with the description. "Jacques comes from school, kisses his maman, grabs some food, then rushes out to the stables, where his father has been working all day." Marcellino hadn't been that hard a worker at that age, but he hadn't needed to be. He'd been just as caring and thoughtful a boy as Jacques seemed. Now that she was back in Europe, only a day's travel from Rome, Elena missed Marcellino more fiercely than before.

"You didn't learn all this at the feed store," Duncan was saying.

"I spied on the place today," Elena admitted. "And I talked with their maid, Maryse, at the market. She's been with the family for years; she cooks and cleans and takes care of Mme. Oiseaux. They have only one stable hand, and he's part-time; they used to have three. The place is just barely kept up, but it's shabby."

"And you want to work there," Duncan said.

Elena nodded vigorously. "I could help," she said. "Really help."

He grinned at her. "Teaching? Or shoveling manure?"

She grinned back. "I can do both." Then she sighed. "But I doubt they can afford to hire me, even cheap. If I show up as Ms. Moneybags and say I don't need the money, they won't trust me. And if I say I want to 'help' because of his sick wife et cetera, M. Oiseaux's French pride will kick in and he'll refuse me completely."

Duncan nodded and sipped at his wine then suggested: "Let him help you. Tell M. Oiseaux you love horses. Tell him you want to ride, and ask if he'll let you work off the riding fee in chores. You could show up in worn clothes, as if you couldn't afford new."

"Like your old cotton work-shirt," Elena said.

"The one you wanted to throw out," Duncan agreed. "Aren't you glad I stopped you?"

Elena didn't answer; she was thinking about what to wear. Her jeans were still too new; she'd have to wash them a lot, maybe even tear them. And she'd need an old hat. New boots—even expensive boots—were all right; they were well suited for working around horses who might step on you and break bones in your feet. "What if he asks why I don't need to be paid in money?" Elena said. "Or where I live?"

"Tell him the truth: you're living with a friend."

"He'll think I'm a kept woman, especially if I show up in your too-big shirt," Elena said. "And that I'm kept by a cheap man," she teased, "who won't even give me the money for riding. Or decent clothes."

"Or a car," Duncan added. "It would look better if you came by bus. I need my car to get to work."

"I was only late once," Elena said.

"Twice."

She wrinkled her nose at him but decided to buy a used car tomorrow. Along with an old hat. In fact, she'd seen a great riding hat in a little antique store just the week before.

"After you've been there a while," Duncan said, "I'm sure you'll charm them into letting you do more, especially when they see you ride and find out you're from an Argentine horse stable. Maybe they'll even start feeding you lunch."

Yes, this could work. Elena set down her wine as she stood then straddled Duncan's legs as she sat atop his thighs. His hands settled on her hips, and he smiled up at her. "You are so wise," she told him then licked the taste of wine from his lips before kissing him thoroughly. His hands moved lower then pulled her closer, and she felt the rumble of his laughter against her breasts.

The next day Elena bought a car and a hat, ate lunch then waited impatiently until after the boy came home from school so she could meet the whole family. She drove fast to the stables, then drove slowly down the lane, watching the horses grazing in the field. Four bays, three chestnuts, a big black mare near the fence… all beautiful. More horses were in a distant pasture, enjoying spring grass.

Elena parked her recently-purchased, beat-up Citroen near the stable. The family home lay a little farther down the lane. She stood just outside the stable, looking in. The floor was mostly clean, and halters and lead ropes hung neatly next to fifteen of the twenty-four stall doors. The tack room was to her right, and the saddles and bridles and leather girths were carefully arranged by size, all seeming well-used but of good quality and taken care of.

As she called out, "M. Oiseaux!" a large collie came racing around the side of the stable then stopped to examine her from a distance. He wasn't barking but his tail wasn't wagging either. Elena held out her hand so he could smell her then talked to him, softly, in French. By the time Oiseaux emerged from the far end of the stable, cleaning his hands on a rag, Elena was petting the collie.

"Viens!" he said harshly, and the dog went to his master's side. There was hay in the man's short gray hair, and he smelled of horse, sweat, and manure.

Elena smiled. She felt like she was home in Argentina again. "Henri Oiseaux?"

"Oui. May I help you?" he asked, squinting a little against the mid afternoon sun at her back.

"My name is Luz Marina Gutierrez," she answered in passable French, her accent a mixture of Italian and Spanish. "I grew up on an estancia in Argentina, and I love horses. I want to ride."

He shook his head. "We're not offering lessons now."

"I don't need lessons," Elena said. "I just want to ride." Before he could mention the cost, Elena said, "But I'd like to work off the riding fees in chores." She gave him her friendliest 'we can help each other' smile. "If I may?"

He looked her over, obviously evaluating her clothes, then glanced at the old car before looking again at her boots. "I'll need to watch you ride first."

"Of course."

"It's four to one," he warned. "Four hours of chores for one hour in the saddle. And the chores are dirty work."

Elena grinned. "Horses produce manure," she said, shrugging.

He seemed tempted; no doubt the row of dirty stalls behind him was a powerful incentive. But he asked, "Any references?"

She shook her head then leaned slightly toward him. "Test me, Monsieur. Let me show you what I can do."

"D'accord," he said then pointed to a muck rake and a bucket. After she'd cleaned two stalls and refilled the water buckets, he came back, glanced into the stalls then had her follow him to the work room. Strips of leather lay on a table, along with a rag and a small bottle of soap. "Finish the bridle," he said and left her to that task. Elena started singing Spanish songs to herself as she worked, oiling the leather, feeling for worn spots, and then putting all the buckles and bands together again. She found him in the feed room, measuring out the evening grain rations, and she held up the bridle for his inspection.

"Quick," he said with approval and not a little surprise.

Four centuries of practice certainly made a difference. Elena just nodded and smiled and tried to look helpful. "Shall I feed the horses?"

Just then Jacques came into the stable, stopping short when he saw her, then coming near. His father introduced them and explained, "Mlle. Gutierrez is helping us today."

And tomorrow, too, if the rest of this interview went well. "Please call me Luz, it's easier," she said, shaking Jacques' hand. Jacques had the same reaction to her most teenage boys had, and many older boys, too. He couldn't even stammer out a greeting, and she gave him a friendly smile. He was small for his age, but wiry.

Oiseaux gestured to the feed buckets, each neatly labeled, and Elena and Jacques loaded them on a cart and went to the stalls, matching name to name. Eight of the name plates on the stall doors were simple plaques stamped with black letters; the other seven were beautifully hand-carved wood. When she ran her thumb over a raised sunburst on Hyperion's nameplate, Jacques said, "Maman and I hand-carved the nameplates for our family horses. The others are boarders. Most of the horses get the same ration," Jacques went on as he poured grain into a manger. "But three of them are on senior feed, and one is still a filly. She has a lot of energy, so she's in the biggest stall."

Elena understood the need for room to move. She and Jacques put hay and water in each of the stalls. The father watched—but didn't offer to help—as she hauled around hay bales and heavy buckets. As Elena felt the strain of the heavy work on her muscles, she thought, "It's a good thing I've spent the last few weeks pulling myself up walls!"

Then—finally!—they picked up the halters and lead ropes and went to fetch the horses from the fields. Elena had been looking forward to that for days.

Jacques went to the far field by himself; she and the father went to the field nearby. Oiseaux watched her closely while she slipped the halter over a chestnut gelding's head. "That's Hyperion," he said, and she stroked the white star shaped like a sunburst on his forehead, murmuring softly in Spanish then led him around the field a bit until Oiseaux gave her a nod to lead Hyperion back to the barn. She talked to him all the way then jogged back to the field to get another. Horse after horse was brought in, and soon the barn was filled with the sound of contented crunching.

Elena was in horse heaven. After the third animal or so she had totally forgotten about trying to impress Oiseaux. Hyperion was done with his grain, so after asking permission, she put him in cross ties and groomed him. Clouds of dust and hair rose about her. She picked out bits of mud and manure from his hooves. She was singing again, and when he snuffled into her hair, she kissed his nose and laughed aloud.

She looked up to see Oiseaux watching her, a wistful expression on his face before he cleared his throat and turned away. Maybe his wife liked to sing, too. Elena patted Hyperion and put him back in his stall to finish his hay. "Viens," Oiseaux said and led her down the aisle, introducing her to the horses she hadn't brought in.

They were almost at the last stall and she was thinking, "This will be great. That chestnut is a big baby, and the black mare might give me a little trouble, but nothing I can't—" Her very thoughts stopped in their tracks as she gazed at the last animal, the young filly in the big stall with the hand-carved nameplate that read "Mignone" and was decorated with a circlet of tiny stars.

For a moment Elena couldn't close her mouth; then she murmured, "Madre de Dios!" This had to be the horse he would never sell.

"You like her?" Oiseaux asked.

"Monsieur!" she exclaimed. A silver grey filly, dark grey mane and tail, intelligent brown eyes, fifteen hands of undoubted Arabian royalty. She was one of the most magnificent racehorses Elena had ever encountered, ever. Elena had touched all the other horses; with this one she turned to Oiseaux and asked, "May I?"

"If she'll let you," he said, sounding amused, for like most thoroughbreds, the filly was high strung. She pulled back and stomped angrily at the ground.

Jacques had paused in sweeping the aisle to join them, and he said eagerly, "Her racing name is Reine des Etoiles."

"Queen of Stars," Elena murmured. Royalty indeed. Not a circlet of stars, a crown.

"She's just Mignone here, the sweet one," his father explained. "She came to us only recently."

"She has two years, two and a half?" Elena asked, evaluating the filly's leggy build with a practiced eye. The filly was a winner but didn't much like strangers; she needed to be socialized more.

"Two years four months," Oiseaux replied. "She can start to race next year—after she is trained."

"And you're just the man to do it, aren't you?" Elena said.

A shadow of a smile appeared on his face, the first she had seen. "Oui," he agreed, watching his horse.

Elena joined him in studying the filly admiringly for a few moments, until Mignone settled down again. "May I ask—"

"How I got her? Her dam was a champion; I knew it the moment I laid eyes on her, before her first race. I bet everything I had on her."

"And Mignone was your prize."

"My prize," he agreed. "I had to wait until the dam foaled. She had twins. Mignone was the stronger, la crème de la crème. Her dam's owner openly wept when I chose her."

"I believe it," Elena agreed, noting Mignone's deep chest. "I'd love to see her run!"

Jacques said, "She's off like a rifle shot, and never slows down. When she lets me ride her, I can't hold her back."

Elena turned to—she hoped—her new boss. "Monsieur, I can free up some of your time so you can work with Mignone."

"I hope so, Mademoiselle," he said. Then he smiled at her, for the first time, and she could see the shine in his eyes. "You shall come meet my wife now," he said. "And tomorrow you can come back and ride."

Elena was tired when she got back to the house after nightfall. No parcours anymore, except possibly on her days off, and there wouldn't be many of those. She'd have to call Lucien and let him know. She took her boots off in the courtyard then brushed them before carrying them inside. Duncan had gotten home early enough today to make a real dinner, and the small kitchen smelled of butter and garlic. She inhaled appreciatively—Duncan really was trying to fatten her up, and in spite of all the exercise she was getting, she had already gained a few pounds, all muscle. He was setting the table, a glass in each hand, and she leaned across the center of the table to kiss him. "Scampi?" she asked.

"Yes." He sniffed at her. "You've been in a barn."

"All afternoon," she said, smiling. "The plan worked! They said I can come back tomorrow and ride then do more chores and ride again. And, Duncan, I have seen the most amazing filly!"

He smiled. "Tell me all about it at dinner. After your shower?"

She grinned at him. "Maybe you can help me get the hay out of my hair. And some of the dirt, the manure. I really need help in the shower."

Duncan turned off the heat for his sauce. "If I must," he said, with a long-suffering sigh and a very happy smile.

Continued in "Racing Time"

Translations:

Parcours (French) – street game where traceurs use regular urban landscape as obstacle course

Estancia (Span) – Argentine farm/ranch estate

D'accord (French) – agreed

Viens (French) - come