Touch a Wild Heart

by Vella Munn

  She asked the same questions about the glass-topped coffee table, the chocolate velvet couch and matching chair, the thick, rich carpet beneath her dusty tennis shoes. She wondered how much of her father was still here.

  “Can I get you anything to drink, eat?” Magadan asked. She turned to see him standing to the side and behind her, his hands hanging at his sides. He looked defeated.

  Although she was thirsty, she shook her head. She didn’t want to be beholden to Magadan for anything until he’d been honest with her. She forced a sudden film away from her eyes and located a hardwood end table near the couch. Chela brushed aside the magazines and perched on it. The couch was too expensive for her dirty work clothes.

  Chela waited for Magadan to sit on the couch. He was wearing the same boots and jeans she’d seen him in once before. Why hadn’t the pieces started to come together then? Magadan had said he wore many costumes in his life. The most telling was the one that said he was at home in an orchard.

  “How many orchards do you own?” she asked.

  “Three. As of this week. Chela, what’s going on?”

  Chela lifted her hand in a gesture designed to ward him off. “Not now, Magadan,” she said coldly. “Now I’m asking the questions. Why didn’t you tell me you own Hidden Valley Orchard?”

  “How did you find out?” His eyes were on hers, but their outward calm was being given away by the stiff manner in which he held his body.

  “Don’t ask me questions.” She took a deep breath. “You’ve had your secrets long enough. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You never gave me a chance!” she shot at him. “You never trusted me enough to tell me the truth. I went there today, to where we made love last night.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “I’m not sure why I was drawn there. Now I wish to God I hadn’t.”

  “Whom did you talk to?”

  She allowed him that question. From another room she could hear a large clock ticking. She wanted to talk to cover up the hollow sound in the otherwise silent house. Briefly she told him about meeting his foreman. “At least you did that right,” she spat angrily. “Pedro is a loyal man. He loves growing things and he has a quick mind.”

  “He also has a big mouth! I told him I had to keep a low profile, that no one was to know who bought the orchard. No,” Magadan relented when she started to interrupt, “I don’t blame Pedro. He had no idea what he was revealing. What did he tell you?”

  “Why should I tell you that, Magadan? You wouldn’t tell me anything.” Chela tried to clamp a lid over her emotions, but it was too late. “He told me that the new owner of the orchard Lou Dye left behind was one Joe Magadan. You have his orchard and his fine house. That’s why you didn’t want me to know where you lived.”

  Magadan sighed and leaned forward. For a long minute his eyes bore into hers as if searching for something he hadn’t found. “It’s an orchardist’s house. I know how you feel about orchardists.”

  “Oh, yes, the mighty orchardists! They take and take and give nothing in return. Your workers live in cabins while you live in this fine house. I have to sit on the ground with them in the middle of a summer afternoon to give them an education because you and your kind expect them to be nothing more than a means to a greedy end.”

  “That isn’t true, Chela,” Magadan countered. “You know that. If you talked to Pedro, then you must know what I’ve been doing out there.”

  “It isn’t enough!” Chela wasn’t going to bend beneath Magadan’s anger. Her own fury, spurred on by pain, matched everything he could throw at her. “Pedro, your foreman, still can’t write an English letter. He has to come to me for that.” She lifted her lips in a cruel smile. “At least Pedro’s son has escaped you. He won’t die in the orchards.”

  Magadan was on his feet, looming over her. “People don’t die in the orchards.”

  “My mother did.”

  Her words seemed to stop him. He stared at her as if struck. “That was a long time ago, Chela,” he said softly.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” she said just as softly.

  Magadan took a backward step. “What do you want out of me?”

  “The truth. Or maybe that’s too much to ask.” Chela had to dig her nails into her palms to keep her body still. Having Magadan that close was nearly her undoing. No matter what fury raged through her, she still wanted, needed, this man. The end to what they’d begun was agony. “How much did you have to pay for Lou Dye’s orchard, and for this house? Did you know his empire was falling down around him? Were you there waiting to attack, a coyote closing in for the kill?”

  Magadan seemed to recoil from her accusation. “Does it look like that to you, Chela?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She shrugged. “This house costs more than I’ll make in a lifetime. Do you like living here, Magadan? Do you like being able to come home to this evidence of your power?”

  “It’s a place to live. Nothing else. Chela. I haven’t had time to think about that. I became owner of Hidden Valley Orchard not that long ago. So much had to be done there. Then, there was another orchard, and last week I closed a deal on my third. That—and seeing you—is all there’s been time for.”

  “Not anymore, Magadan,” she managed, despite the agony his words caused her. “From now on you’ll have all the time you need to increase your empire. Is this a game? Are you trying to see how many orchards you can take over?” She knew she should stop attacking the man, but she hurt and wanted to inflict pain in return. “You say you hate coyotes like Kohl, but aren’t you one yourself? You prey on the weakness of other men, wait until you’ve found their vulnerability, and close in for the kill.”

  “Is that what you believe?”

  The pain in Magadan’s voice almost stopped her, but she struggled on. “Why shouldn’t I? Haven’t I been one of your victims?”

  “You’ll never be a victim, Chela,” he interrupted.

  “Don’t tell me what I am!” she shouted, because shouts were better than tears. “Don’t forget, I’ve watched you in action. You came after me and after me, got through to me because you knew how I felt about Kohl. You knew there was danger in your plan, but you kept on with it anyway. And when you sensed I might take the bait, you brought me around by taking advantage of something else.”

  For once Magadan didn’t speak. He was still standing over her, but he hadn’t moved in several minutes.

  “You were afraid I’d back out, leave you to deal with Kohl on your own, so you found my most vulnerable point.” Chela took a ragged breath and fought the tears that were making her eyes glisten. “You knew I was lonely. Like a coyote you sensed my weakness. You offered your body as bait.”

  “It wasn’t like that. It was never like that!”

  “Don’t lie to me anymore, Magadan!” Chela fairly screamed as she surged off her perch on the end table. “You lied about this house, about the Hidden Valley Orchard. Why should I believe anything you say?”

  “Our bodies didn’t lie to each other.”

  Chela whirled away from the truth of Magadan’s words. She was too confused, too hurt to be able to deal with what he was saying. Maybe their lovemaking had been good, but that was the work of two bodies, not two minds. The crucial question still hadn’t been answered. Did he know Lou Dye was her father? Did he think she condoned anything he did? Maybe he did and that was how he was able to justify what he was doing to her.

  “I don’t blame you for wanting to live here, Magadan,” she said in a voice as cold as death. “Who wouldn’t rather live here than in a little house with wooden floors and an ancient bathtub. No wonder you didn’t want to share this with me. I belong in my little house, not this mansion. Forgive me for not understanding. You didn’t tell me you were an orchardist because I’m not good enough to share your lifestyle. I was good enough to make love to in an orchard but not in your bed.”

  “Don’t say that, Chela.”

  “Why not? It’s
the truth, isn’t it?” she mocked. “Anyone would want this grand house.” That was a lie, she admitted. It was the last thing she’d ever want. “But it’s too good for the dirty little Mexican girl you’ve been playing with.”

  “Don’t say that!” This time Magadan reinforced his order by grabbing her and holding her so she couldn’t escape. “You’re not a dirty little Mexican girl. You were never that.”

  “Then what am I?” she asked, tense and trembling in his grip.

  Magadan answered by pulling her hard against him and sealing her lips with his own. He bent her backward and held her arms tight against her sides until keeping her balance was all Chela had the strength for.

  Despite herself, despite pain and rage, Chela needed to feel his lips against hers. She closed her eyes, desperately trying to block out the words that had been spoken here this afternoon. If only they could go back to those first gentle days when she was learning what it meant to be a woman!

  Maybe, for one last minute, she could. Chela stopped struggling and let Magadan support her. It didn’t matter if he took her response for surrender. Nothing mattered but those precious, desperate moments when she was aware of nothing but his lips turning from punishment to pleasure on her mouth. His hands still held her arms, but his fingers no longer dug into her tanned, naked flesh. He was strength and warmth and life, everything she’d wanted him to be.

  Magadan, I love you! Despite it all, I still love you!

  Tears stung Chela’s eyes and started pounding a path to her brain. As her headache came to life, she clung even more desperately to this last unreasoning moment with Magadan. He was a secret, private man who didn’t trust her enough. He was also her lifeline.

  “Don’t go, Chela,” he whispered. “We can talk it out.”

  His words ruined the mood. Chela swam back to reality. “About what? It’s all been said.”

  “No it hasn’t. I don’t want you to hate me.”

  How can I hate you? Chela cried silently. I’m a million miles from that. All I feel is pain. “You aren’t what I thought you were,” she said as he was placing her back on her feet. “That’s enough.”

  “No it isn’t.” He still hadn’t let go of her. “All right. Maybe I should have told you, but—”

  “It’s too late for that.” She struggled briefly, wanting nothing more than to escape this house, this man. “It’s too late for anything.”

  “I don’t believe that. Chela, what about Kohl?”

  “I almost forgot,” she laughed harshly, her words rasping her aching throat. “We still have an agreement, a contract. There’s Kohl to bring to justice. Tell me again. Why do you want to put an end to him?”

  “He’s a coyote.”

  “Like you!” Chela’s fury was back full strength. “You have your magnificent new den,” she taunted, whipping her eyes around the room because she couldn’t move her hands. “Maybe that’s it, Magadan. Maybe Kohl’s in competition with you, and you want him out of the way.”

  “That’s insane! Will you listen to reason?”

  “I was willing to listen to reason, and the truth, earlier. It’s too late for that now.”

  Magadan released her and stepped back. His face seemed to have aged. “It can’t be too late.”

  Because she couldn’t stand to look at his face, Chela turned away. “Don’t worry about that,” she said dully. “I made a promise to bring Kohl to justice. I’m not going to go back on my word.”

  Magadan touched her cheek briefly. “That wasn’t what I was talking about.”

  “I know,” Chela whispered and started to grope her way toward the door. She still didn’t have the answer she’d come for, but it no longer mattered. Maybe Magadan knew Lou Dye was her father, maybe he didn’t. She knew that her life was falling in ruin around her and that was all she had the strength for.

  Chela reached the door and had started to turn the knob before Magadan stopped her. “Don’t go,” he said softly. “We’ve both said things we regret.”

  Chela kept her back to him; she didn’t dare turn around. “At least we agree on that. It’s sad that’s the only honest thing that’s been said.” She wondered if her words hurt him. They couldn’t possibly tear him apart as much as they were ruining her. “I don’t ever want to see you again,” she said. “Do you understand?”

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her back around until she had no choice but to show him her wounded eyes. “No, I don’t understand that!” he raged. “And I’m not going to live by that insane rule. Chela, we have to talk.”

  Oh, yes, of course. She’d almost forgotten. “Kohl will be getting in touch with me in a week,” she pointed out, keeping her voice emotionless. “We’ll talk then.”

  “No!” He shook her angrily.

  “Let me go! You’re hurting me!”

  Magadan stopped. He backed away from her, his face contorted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. But, damn it, Kohl isn’t what I want to talk about.”

  Chela could only shake her head. She’d done enough talking—and yelling—to last a lifetime. “Not today.” She turned back toward the door. “Not ever,” she whispered.

  This time Magadan let her go. She could hear him breathing even after she’d closed the door between them. The sound of his breath was fresh torture to an already tortured mind.

  Why had she wanted to hurt him so much? Whether or not she’d succeeded wasn’t the issue. She’d been wrong, cruel, to call him a coyote. Magadan was so far removed from what Kohl was that even in her worst moments she didn’t believe that.

  But the words had been said; there was no taking them back. Magadan had kept certain things, vital things, from her. That hurt. In turn she’d been determined to hurt him.

  But what made the pain in her head almost blinding was the simple fact that she’d been hurt far more than he could ever be.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Monday Chela boxed up the peach dress and placed it on Magadan’s doorstep. When she got home from work the next day, the package was on her doorstep. There was a short note attached to it. It’s yours. It’ll always be yours.

  Chela removed the dress from its box and held it up to her. Fumbling, she unlocked her door and stumbled inside. She’d lived in a kind of mental and emotional vacuum for two days, but the sight of Magadan’s handwriting brought it all back. There was no fighting the memories that went with the dress and what happened after Magadan took it off her in a dark orchard. If only she could go back to that innocent time!

  Chela held the dress at arm’s length for a long moment and then started to hang it up. Innocence was for babies and children. What she’d been from the moment Magadan entered her life was a fool. Only a fool would be content with the veil of secrecy Magadan wrapped around himself. If she hadn’t been dangerously close to tears, she would have laughed at the memory of what she’d been. Yes, she’d been cautious at first, but not cautious enough. What had happened to the instinct that kept her lonely but separate all her life? That was the one essential lesson her mother had tried to teach her before she died. Her true heritage was Mexican. It was insane for her to think she could find happiness with an Anglo.

  No more! Chela turned away from the dress hanging limp in her closet. Too many hurting words had been said in Magadan’s house the other day. What was almost a joke was that she no longer cared whether Magadan knew who her father was. The chasm that existed between her and Magadan now was too great. It didn’t matter whether either of them could see across it.

  You’re Mexican, Chela told herself. This is where you belong. Let Magadan and his kind have their grand homes and vast orchards. Her life was as a migrant teacher, nothing more.

  No. That wasn’t strictly true. She would have to deal with Magadan until this business with Kohl was over. It was funny in a sad sort of way, but right now Chela didn’t care whether Kohl fell into their trap or not. Bringing him to the end of his evil career meant she would have to be clever and determined. Tonight Chela felt neither. Sh
e felt empty, wounded, in love, and hating herself for still being in love.

  Chela still felt the same way after cleansing herself of the day’s dirt and wandering aimlessly through the kitchen for a dinner her body but not her spirit needed. Chela turned on the TV and stared listlessly at it until canned laughter forced her to turn it off. She switched to an FM radio station and tried to lose herself in the music. But it only made her feel like crying.

  Chela was almost relieved to hear the knock on her front door. She knew by the sound that it was Magadan’s hand, but maybe talking to him was better than having her head filled to bursting with unspent tears.

  “We need to talk,” he said before the door was fully open.

  Chela nodded and stepped back. He was back in his more usual costume of slacks and knit pullover shirt, but he seemed to have lost some of his usual bounce. Chela didn’t dare think about that; instead she closed the door. “What do you want to talk about?” she challenged.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me to sit down?”

  “You didn’t ask me that when I came to see you. I wasn’t clean enough for your furnishings, was I?” she asked bitterly.

  Magadan shook his head like a weary bulldog after a battle and sank into his accustomed seat. “Those aren’t my furnishings. They belonged to Lou Dye. I haven’t had time to do anything with them. You can have them.”

  “How nice. They aren’t anything but castaways, are they? Why not give them to the dirty little Mexican girl?”