by Donna Alward
“We weren’t much for do-it-yourselfing,” was all she could bring herself to say.
He came over and put his hand on top of hers. “You’ve got too much paint on the brush. It will just glop and run. This way.”
Sophia bit down on her lip. His hand was strong and sure over hers, his body close. Her shoulder was near his chest as he guided her hand, wiping excess paint off the bristles. “There. Now, if you angle your brush this way…” He showed her how to lay the brush so the paint went on smoothly and evenly. “See?”
“Mmm hmm.” She couldn’t bring herself to say more. She was reacting to his nearness like a schoolgirl. His body formed a hard, immovable wall behind her and she wondered for a moment what it would be like to be held within the circle of his arms.
She pulled away from his hand and applied the paint to the trim, chiding herself for being silly. The purpose of the trip was to do something for herself, to show her independence. It was not to get besotted over some grouchy gaucho.
Tomas cleared his throat and went back to pick up his own brush.
As they put their efforts into painting the shed, Sophia stole a few moments to look around. The morning was bright, the air clear and fresh. The area around the barn was neat and trimmed and beyond it she saw a half-dozen horses or so seeking shade at one end of a corral, their hides flat and gleaming. Birds flitted between bits of pampas grass, singing a jaunty tune.
No traffic. No horns honking or elbows pushing. Also no shops, no conveniences, no restaurants.
It was stunning, but it was very, very isolated.
“How long have you been at Vista del Cielo?”
“Three years.”
“You’ve worked for the Rodriguezes all that time?” She slid excess paint off her brush against the lip of the can, but looked around the corner when Tomas paused in answering.
“Pretty much.”
Hmm. Having him answer questions about the estancia wasn’t much easier than their previous conversations.
“It is quite beautiful here,” she persisted. “You can see for miles. And the air is so clear.”
“I’m glad it meets with your approval in some way,” Tomas replied.
She defiantly re-wet her brush and worked on the trim of the window as Tomas moved to the main section around the corner. If this was a working ranch, then she’d work. Just like anyone else. Just because she’d never had to didn’t mean she couldn’t. She continued swiping the paint on the wood. What would Antoine say if he could see his very perfect fiancée now? The idea made her smile. She might hate the baggy coveralls, but knowing Antoine would drop his jaw at the sight of her gave her perverse satisfaction. And the work was surprisingly pleasant. Simple and rewarding.
“Is the morning meal something the female guests would do with Maria?” she asked, more determined than ever to get Tomas talking.
“Sure,” he answered, filling his can once more with the white paint. “But not just the female guests. Everyone helps where they can. Before the fire, we had one guest who made cornbread every morning for a week. It melted in your mouth, even without butter. He said he got the recipe from his grandmother. But his wife, she was hopeless in the kitchen. She was terrific at rounding up cattle, though. Once she got started.”
Sophia grinned. “Well, well. A regular speech at last. I must make a note—cornbread makes Tomas talk.”
He sent her what she supposed was a withering look, but there was little venom behind it this time, and she laughed.
“What are you good at, Sophia?” He efficiently turned the verbal tables.
She swallowed. The question took her by surprise. The lack of an answer was even more shocking. Was she really so lacking in self-assurance she couldn’t recognize her own strengths? “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
Her pride was stung. She had worked as Antoine’s assistant and had done a good job. She doubted Tomas would see it that way. “I’m good at answering phones and taking messages and keeping a schedule. I can type seventy-five words a minute.”
Resentment bubbled up once more at how Antoine had used her capabilities for his own purposes, with complete disregard for any true feelings she might have. She stabbed the brush back into the can. “I’m good at showing up on time in the appropriate outfit, and saying the right things.” She realized how empty and foolish that sounded. “I’m not good at much, it seems.”
“Those things have their place,” he said graciously, and she began to feel a bit better. “But not at an estancia.”
The bubble burst. “I’m beginning to see that.”
“Giving in?” he asked mildly.
She took out her brush and gave the window trim an extra swipe. “You wish. Maybe it’s time I learned a new skill set. How’m I doing?”
It felt wonderful to let some of the old resentment go, to look forward. When she got back to Ottawa, she’d make some changes. She’d already resigned her job and this time she’d do something she enjoyed. Truth be told, she hated politics. She frowned, her brush strokes slowing. She thought about all the private meetings she’d set up, the hand shaking and air kissing. It was all so fake. There wasn’t a man or woman among that crowd who wouldn’t stab you in the back if it suited them. Then she thought of the wardrobe sitting in her suitcases. Yes, she loved those pretty things. They had made her feel feminine and, in her own way, important.
But maybe, just maybe, she’d sold her soul a bit to get them. Maybe Antoine hadn’t been the only one to lie. Maybe she’d been lying to herself, too. Maybe she’d made up for the lack of the right things in her life by filling it up with stuff. Was she more like her mother than she thought? For years her mother had insisted Sophia participate in one thing or another, when all she had wanted was to curl up in her room with a good book. When had that shifted? When had status become so important to her, too?
How many other lies had she told herself?
She bit down on her lip and dipped her brush in the can. It was something to think about.
CHAPTER THREE
SHE was so lost in her ponderings that she didn’t notice a long drip of paint trickling down the side of the building. “Watch what you’re doing,” Tomas called. “You’ll want to swipe that drip.”
It annoyed her to be under his supervision and she gritted her teeth, taking the brush and swiping it down the side of the shed. She was nearly to the bottom when a movement caught her eye. She jumped backwards, sending the paint can flying. At the clatter, Tomas came running around the corner while Sophia stared at the grass, shuddering. “Kill it! Kill it, Tomas!”
Tomas held his paint brush aloft as he stepped ahead to see what the trouble was. When he saw it, he scowled.
“It’s a little wolf spider, that’s all.”
“Little?” she gasped. She shuddered and took another step back. Anything with a body bigger than a dime lost the right to be called “little” when it came to spiders, and this one was substantially larger than that. “You call that thing little?”
“It won’t bite you. Even if it did, it wouldn’t kill you.”
Wouldn’t kill her. There was a sense of relief knowing it wasn’t poisonous, but Sophia’s skin still crawled at the thought of the hairy eight-legged monster getting anywhere near her. She hated spiders. Hated them! The look of them. The thought of their legs on her skin. And the one at the base of the shed was the biggest she’d ever seen.
Tomas went forward and merely touched the spider with the end of his brush. The contact made it scuttle away to parts unknown. He picked up the paint can. Half the contents were on the grass, and wide white splashes went up the side of the shed, spatters on the glass of the window. He sighed, the sound impatient and aggravated.
He patiently took his brush and, with no concern for spiders whatsoever, moved it back and forth over the wall to blend in the spilled paint.
It made Sophia feel completely and utterly foolish. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I have a thing about spi
ders.” A huge thing. She knew she looked silly and the words to exonerate herself sat on her tongue. But she could not tell him why. It was too personal. Too hurtful.
“Maybe you’d like to work on the other side,” he suggested. “I can finish here.”
She would be a wreck trying to paint and watch for spiders at the same time. Maybe she looked like a diva, but even the thought of one crawling up her leg made her weak. Spiders and dark places were the two things she simply could not handle. “Will you check it for spiders first?”
He had to think her the most vapid female on the planet. But she could never tell him the real reason why she was afraid. The hours spent in the cellar had shaped her more than she could express. There’d been spiders there, too. Just small ones, but they’d crawled over her arms and she’d brushed them away, unable to see them. She’d held on to her tears that day until one had crept through her hair. It had completely undone her.
This was bad enough. She didn’t need to let Tomas see any more of her faults.
Tomas accommodated her indulgence and checked the wall, foundation and grass surrounding the area. “Satisfied?”
“Yes, thank you.” Sophia was embarrassed now. No wonder Tomas looked at her as though she was more trouble than she was worth. She dipped her brush and continued where Tomas had left off, determined to overcome the panic that still threaded through her veins. Not that she didn’t watch. She did. Her eyes were peeled for any sign of foreign creatures. But if another spider came by, she would not scream or throw her paint can. She would shoo it away, just as Tomas had done.
The sun climbed higher in the sky and the air held a touch of humidity. Sweat formed on Sophia’s brow as they worked on into the morning. She was beginning to appreciate all that went into a place like this. It wasn’t just meals and fresh linen and saddling a horse or two. It was upkeep, making sure things were well-kept and neat. The plain shed was starting to look quite nice, matching all the other buildings with their fresh white paint, and there was a sense of pride in knowing it was partly to do with her efforts. There was pleasure to be found in the simplicity of the task. It was just painting, with no other purpose to serve, no ulterior motives or strategies. The sound of the bristles on the wood. The whisper of the breeze in the pampas grass, the mellow heat of the late summer sun.
She sneaked glances around the side of the building at Tomas. He had mentioned that Carlos had taught him the ways of the gaucho, but he had said nothing about himself, about where he came from. He could dress in work clothes but there was something about him, a bearing, perhaps, that made her think he wasn’t from here. That perhaps he was better educated than he first appeared.
It was nearly noon when they finished the first coat, and Tomas poured what was left in their paint cans into the bucket, sealing the lid for another day and a second coat. “It’s going to look good,” he said, tapping the lid in place. He picked up the bucket and she watched the muscles in his arm flex as he carried it to the barn. She followed him, carrying the brushes, feeling indignation begin to burn. That was it? She’d worked her tail off all morning, and his only praise was It’s going to look good? She sniffed. Perhaps what Tomas needed was a lesson in positive reinforcement. Or just being plain old nice!
She trailed behind him as they entered the barn. It was as neat as everything else on the estancia. The concrete floor was cool, the rooms and stalls sturdy and clean, the scents those of horses, fresh hay and aging wood. Tomas took the brushes from her and put them in a large sink. He started the water and began washing them out.
“You were a big help this morning.”
Finally, some praise.
“Except when I threw paint everywhere.”
“It is probably a good thing you didn’t see him jump,” Tomas commented.
She paled. “Jump?”
“Si. Wolf spiders—they don’t really spin webs. They jump, and they’re fast on the ground. Usually we don’t come across them in the daytime. He scooted away, but when they jump…”
“Do we have to talk about this?”
“I find it very interesting.”
He scrubbed at the brushes with a renewed energy. What he enjoyed was teasing her, she realized. There really was no need. She was already feeling quite foolish. She had no business being here. It was not her scene. The inside of her thumb was already blistered from holding the paint brush all morning.
Face it, Soph, she thought. He was right. You’re pampered and spoiled.
She wished Tomas didn’t see her flaws. The problem wasn’t with the estancia or Tomas. It was her. She was the one lacking. She didn’t want to be spoiled. What she wanted was validation. And somehow she wanted it from Tomas. She got the feeling that if she could earn his respect, she could earn just about anyone’s.
Tomas finished with the brushes and laid them to dry. He was enjoying teasing her too much, and it unsettled him. It felt strange, like putting on old clothes that were the right size but somehow didn’t fit just right anymore. He had left that teasing part of himself behind long ago. It disturbed him to realize it was harder and harder to remember those days. But seeing Sophia’s huge eyes as he spoke of the spider, and then the adorable determined set she got to her chin when she was mad…
He should not be reacting this way. And it wasn’t as if he was going to catch a break. Until Maria and Carlos came back, Sophia was his responsibility. Even his subconscious knew it. The bread making was not an attempt at being a good host. It was simply the result of waking far too early and needing to be busy to keep from thinking about her.
Which reminded him that it had been hours since they’d eaten.
“Come on,” he said, leading the way out of the barn. “Let’s get some lunch.” Surely a meal was a good, safe activity. If he couldn’t escape her, keeping occupied was the next best thing. And he was starving.
While Tomas got out the food, Sophia crawled out of the overalls and hung them on a peg. The meal was simple: a lettuce and tomato salad and cold empanadas that Tomas took out of the refrigerator. “Normally best when they are fresh and hot, but Maria made a batch before she left. It makes a quick lunch. I’ll cook a proper dinner tonight.”
He thought of the two of them sitting down to a meal together and frowned as an image of gazing at Sophia over candlelight flitted through his mind. It was too easy to stare at Sophia, admiring her heart-shaped face and the way her flame-tossed curls danced in the light. He hadn’t missed the way her trousers cupped her backside, or that with her shirt button undone at her throat he could see the hollows of her collarbone. He wished for some interference to keep him distracted, but there would be none. And he would not let on that she got to him in any way, shape or form.
“Maybe I can help you. Cooking is one thing I can manage. Usually.”
“Ah, so the princess has a skill.”
He was baiting her again, but it was the easiest way to keep her at arm’s length.
“Everyone has skills. Just because they’re not like yours doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
She was right and he felt small for belittling her. What was getting into him? She was, he acknowledged. He’d been hiding behind his estancia duties for too long. With all the reconstruction after the fire, he was aware that things around the Vista del Cielo were changing. It wasn’t the same place he remembered from when he’d first come here. Back then it had been simpler. Full of life and possibility. And Rosa. Her dancing eyes, her laugh had been in every corner. Now there were times he could barely recall her face; the memory seemed like a shadow of her real self, like a reflection in the water that could disappear with the drop of a pebble on the surface. Rosa was slipping further and further away, and damned if he didn’t feel guilty about it.
And he was taking it out on Sophia.
“I’d appreciate the help,” he offered as a conciliation.
As they sat down to the meal, Sophia looked at him curiously. “You’re not from here, are you?”
Tomas looke
d up at her briefly, and then turned his attention to the platter of empanadas. “No.”
“Where are you from, then? Where did you learn English? It’s practically perfect. A hint of an accent, but otherwise…”
“Why do you need to know?”
Sophia huffed and toyed with her empanada. “I was just making conversation, Tomas. You do know what that is, right?”
Si, he’d been right. His social graces were so rusty they were almost nonexistent. Small talk. One didn’t make small talk out here. But it had been part of his life once. He should remember how.
“I grew up in Buenos Aires, and went to private school in the U.S. for a few years. Then I came back and studied Engineering.”
“Studying in the States?” Sophia’s fingers dropped the pastry pocket as she gaped at him. “You have a degree in Engineering?”
He nodded, reminding himself to be very careful. He didn’t like talking about himself, or the man he’d once been. Keeping it to plain old facts was plenty. “Yes, Mechanical Engineering. You’re surprised.”
“I am. How does a Mechanical Engineer end up working as a hired hand at an estancia?”
The explanation was long and unpleasant for the most part, and Tomas definitely wasn’t sharing. It was better that she thought him simply the help. She’d look at him differently if she knew he was part owner of Vista del Cielo. And it would open up a lot more questions he had no desire to answer.
“This was where I wanted to be,” he replied simply.
“It is quite a leap from engineering to the Vista del Cielo,” she commented, biting into the pocket of spicy beef.
“Right.”
Tomas went on eating, silent again. This hadn’t always been his life. He’d let obligation and duty dictate until one day the price was too high. He’d let so many people down. His mother and father, who had such hopes for him and the family business. His brother, who was supposed to work by his side. And most of all, Rosa.
