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 looked 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