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  “I don’t think all men are going to bite. Just most of them.” Chela laughed despite herself and turned her back on the man. “I trust you, don’t I?”

  “That’s just because you’ve always wanted to be someone’s big sister, and I’m sweet and adorable and cuddly. You want me to go over there and ask him if his intentions are honorable? He doesn’t look like a dirty old man to me.”

  “I want you to tell Pablo to stop using his feet to trip the other team.” Chela deliberately turned the conversation back to what was necessary. “In a few minutes he’ll get tired of staring and leave.”

  Chela was wrong. He continued his unwavering observation of her throughout the second half of the game. No matter how many times she glanced in his direction, the man was staring at her. It both unnerved Chela and filled her with anger. Didn’t he have anything better to do than trail after a woman? If this was his idea of how a man got a woman, this woman, interested in him, he was badly mistaken. Even though half of the blood that flowed through her was that of an Anglo, Chela had enough reason to distrust Anglos.

  He wanted something of her. That much instinct told her. Well, when and if he came out with it, Chela already knew what her answer would be.

  She wanted nothing to do with the man. Ever.

  The soccer game ended with a lopsided victory for the Mexican boys, much to Jeff’s delight and the embarrassment of the superiorly equipped opposition. “I’m going to treat this bunch of future superstars to a soft drink,” Jeff proclaimed as he embraced Chela in an enthusiastic bear hug.

  “You can’t afford it,” Chela warned as she disengaged herself, rubbing her arm where it had been smashed against Jeff. “Aren’t you the one who told me you couldn’t afford a girlfriend this summer?”

  Jeff’s face fell momentarily. “So I won’t eat tomorrow. These kids deserve something.”

  Chela had reached into her back pocket and was pulling out a few bills when she sensed the unexpected presence behind her. She turned quickly to look up into deep nut-brown eyes. His hand quickly captured her wrist. “This one’s on me,” he said from the depth of his chest. “Those kids really went after that victory.”

  Jeff was obviously thrown off by the man’s interruption of what had been a private conversation, but Chela reacted in quick anger. She jerked her hand away from its gentle prison and stared back at him, determined not to let her eyes fall before his. “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” she said levelly, her voice giving only a brief glimpse of the anger she felt. “This is between the coach and me. You were watching me earlier today. I don’t like it, and I don’t appreciate having you show up here.”

  “I have my reasons,” Joe Magadan continued in his deep rumble. Even as he redoubled his own determination not to back down from this tanned woman, he found himself being sucked into eyes much darker, much more intense than he’d expected. Her eyes told him that this was a woman who trusted few people and allowed no one to gain the upper hand. Those remarkable eyes also said something about the woman encased in the slim, athletic body. Somewhere, maybe even deeper than she knew, was something soft and lonely.

  “I’m not interested in your reasons,” Chela answered slowly. Despite what she was saying, she was interested. In her twenty-seven years she’d met many people, from social workers to public health nurses, from police to politicians even, but this man didn’t wear the kind of label that allowed her to identify who or what he was. She could sense his confidence but very little else.

  “I think you will be,” he countered. “What I need is a little of your time. Give me that.”

  Chela shook her head. Curiosity wasn’t enough of a reason to let go of caution. “The only thing I’m interested in is getting these boys something to drink and making sure they get home before dark.”

  He waved a fat wallet under her nose. “This will take care of the drinks.” Before she could object, he turned toward the assembled team and in fluent Spanish asked where the nearest soft-drink stand was. The excited response from the boys told Chela that it would be almost impossible for her to turn the man down now. Eyes flashing, she pointed to a shopping center across the four-lane thoroughfare and then smiled as the tide of boys swept the arrogant stranger along with them.

  “I take it that’s the guy who was watching you. Don’t ask me to beat him up. He looks like he has a fast one, two, three punch,” Jeff said when they were alone. “One thing I can say for him, he has guts.”

  “Because he’s treating a bunch of boys to soft drinks? If he thinks he can win them over that way—”

  “I’m not talking about the kids,” Jeff interrupted. “It’s you he’s trying to reach. I saw the way you were looking at him. If looks can kill, I just hope he has his life insurance paid up. You really don’t like him, do you?”

  “I don’t understand him. I don’t trust someone who muscles his way in like that without saying anything about himself.”

  “I think you should listen to what he has to say,” Jeff said as he started to fill a mesh bag with soccer balls. “The man isn’t going to give up easily. Who knows? Maybe he’s an eccentric millionaire who wants to leave his fortune to the first woman he finds with long, black hair.”

  Chela didn’t bother to respond to Jeff’s outlandish suggestion. She didn’t tell the college student that trusting people didn’t come easily to her and the last thing she wanted to do was spend any more time with the man. “Doesn’t he have anything better to do with himself?” she asked, the question directed more at herself than at Jeff.

  “Ask him,” Jeff pressed. “You aren’t afraid of him, are you?”

  “No. I just don’t understand what he’s up to.”

  “You know what I think?” Jeff straightened and turned to face Chela. “I think your curiosity is going to get the best of you. After all, how many strange men have waltzed up to you in your life? If some strange, good-looking woman started talking to me, I’d sure as heck stick around to see what she had in mind.”

  That’s because you don’t have any reason to distrust people, Chela thought. You aren’t looking at life through wiser eyes. “Do all the boys have a way home?” she asked. “I can take some of them.”

  “I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to wait until moneybags gets back with them. You know, his Spanish puts mine to shame. Where do you think he learned to speak the language?”

  “I have no idea,” Chela said shortly before trotting out onto the field to pick up the bright orange cones that served to mark the boundaries of the soccer field. She would have liked to add that learning the answer to that question didn’t interest her, but that wasn’t true. Most of the Anglos who came in much contact with the migrant workers had learned enough Spanish to get by, but the words flowed easily from the man’s mouth. And it wasn’t Spanish that came from textbooks. He knew Spanish slang, current jargon that the boys responded to favorably. That came from being around Mexicans.

  The trunk of Jeff’s little car was filled with equipment by the time the first boys came running back from the shopping center. From their excited speech Chela learned that the stranger had not only bought soft drinks for the entire team but had also picked up the tab for ice-cream cones. Obviously the boys thought him the next best thing to Santa Claus. Chela chose to ignore the man’s generosity; instead she questioned the boys until she was sure that all of them either had parents waiting or could get home on their bikes. She held dripping cones for a couple of boys while they ran to get their bikes, and then waved as they started toward the south end of town where a cluster of migrant housing had been built at the far end of one of the orchards.

  “You sure you’re going to be okay?” Jeff said as he was getting into his car. He nodded in the direction of the shopping center where the stranger was waiting his turn to cross the intersection. “You want me to hang around?”

  Chela shook her head and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I’m not afraid of him,” she answered softly.

  Jeff was o
ut of sight by the time the man reached her. “You think I bribed the boys, don’t you?” he asked abruptly. “And you’d like to know what the hell I’m up to.”

  “Yes.” Chela placed her hands on her hips, fingers spread. “Those boys aren’t anything to you. Why did you do that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. There’s just one thing I want you to think about. Kids have pretty good instincts, and they trust me. Look, can we go sit down somewhere? You were on your feet all through the game, and we both logged time in that hot orchard.” He pointed toward a wooden picnic table under an oak tree.

  For a moment Chela played with the impulse to turn her back on the man and walk out of his life. But something told her that he’d just show up again. Shrugging, she tossed back her head to get her hair off her cheeks and led the way to the table. She straddled one of the benches and sat down the way a cowboy would sit a horse. When she turned to face the man sitting across the table from her, the setting sun caught her hair and revealed red highlights that softened what would have been an unbroken black line. “What do you want?”

  “Not so fast. You don’t play around, do you? You want to get to the crux of things. Kenneth Duff said that about you.”

  “Kenneth?” Another woman might have stared in surprise. Instead Chela’s gaze became even more intense. She noticed the small scar at the corner of the man’s mouth, the slightly askew nose that gave individuality and character to a face that must have stolen many hearts when he was younger and the lines of determination hadn’t settled in. “You’re talking about the county sheriff.”

  “That’s how I learned about you.” The man leaned forward on the table, resting his elbows on the dry, splintered surface. “I know your name is Chela Reola, that you’re a teacher with the migrant education system. I also know that if anyone in this valley knows what’s going on with the migrants, it’s you. They trust you.”

  Chela locked her eyes with the man’s. What was going on inside his head? “I don’t know your name.”

  The man didn’t bother to thrust out his hand. “Joe Magadan. Everyone calls me Magadan. Someday maybe you’ll want to shake my hand, but don’t think so now.”

  “You’re right.” Chela didn’t say more. Let the man come to her, reveal himself.

  Magadan grunted. “What are you doing here, Magadan? What do you want with me? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

  Chela didn’t have to nod. She knew that her intense, unwavering gaze was telling him more than words could.

  “Okay, okay. Damn, this isn’t going to be easy. I have to be careful what I say so it comes out right. Look, I think we need to get to know each other better first. I don’t want to tip my hand before I know where you stand. What were you going to do after the game?”

  “Why?” For the moment at least, Chela felt as if she had the upper hand with Joe Magadan. How long that would last she wasn’t going to try to guess.

  “Because I want us to spend more time getting used to each other. I was expecting some sweet little schoolteacher. You aren’t that at all.”

  “What am I?” A few minutes ago it would have cost her nothing to walk away from Joe Magadan. She no longer felt that way. The man was a river that ran deep and swift. There might be danger in getting too close to the river, but it was a risk Chela was willing to take.

  Magadan was standing up. Chela’s side of the table shifted from the loss of his weight. “I have no idea what you are, but I have to find out. I’d like to take you out to dinner.”

  Chela stood up, too. Somehow, although she would never let him know, she felt better meeting him eye to eye. “And if I say no?”

  “Then I’ll be everywhere you are tomorrow until you start talking to me. Don’t you think it’d be easier this way?”

  Chela didn’t try to stop her mouth from twitching. She might not trust him, but at least she respected his candor. “I’d like a hamburger.”

  Chapter Two

  Chela was breathing deeply through her nostrils as she waited beside Magadan in the fast-food restaurant. The orange-and-black walls, plastic plants, painted cartoon characters designed to delight youngsters, were closing in on her, not letting her forget that she felt most at home outside. She hadn’t been inside a fast-food restaurant in more than a year, but the disgust and wariness she’d felt the last time hadn’t left her.

  She couldn’t blame Magadan for bringing her here. It was close to nine; a quick meal at a place that allowed casual dress was what they needed. Chela was still wearing her soccer-uniform top and faded jeans. Magadan was more conventionally dressed in dark slacks and a knit pullover shirt. She wondered if he was regretting his invitation to take her out or if he was embarrassed.

  “You don’t like it in here, do you?” Magadan asked after he’d placed their order.

  “I didn’t know it showed.” She had to stand close to him so he could hear her in the crowded space. He wasn’t a mountain of a man, but he possessed a substance she couldn’t ignore.

  “It shows. I can feel your tension. Do you want to eat outside?”

  “Yes, please,” Chela said, quickly regretting the candor that gave her away. “This is different from where I am most of the time. I’ve never been able to get used to it.”

  “I understand. They call it a plastic society. If that’s true, then this must be the center of that society. It isn’t for you, is it?”

  Chela didn’t answer him. She barely knew Joe Magadan—how did he know that about her?

  Magadan didn’t seem to be aware of her discomfort. Instead he was concentrating on making sure the teenage waitress had gotten their order straight. When he’d paid for it and was holding the plastic tray covered with Styrofoam containers in his large hands, he turned and led the way back outside to a group of tables. Nearby was a small play area where several little children were sliding or swinging. “The air’s better out here,” he said as he was separating a hamburger with pickles from one without. “There aren’t many big trucks going by this time of night, so hopefully we won’t get the diesel smell.”

  Chela bit into her hamburger. “Thank you,” she said around the squeals of a little girl whose older brother was trying to push her down a slide. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “Yes I did. Chela, I’m going to lay my cards on the table. At least some of them. I need something from you. I can’t tell you everything because if I did, I’m afraid you’d tell me to take a flying leap. Hopefully we can get to know each other well enough that you’ll trust my motives.”

  Chela thought and then decided on honesty. “I don’t trust many Anglos.”

  “You’re part Anglo. Your supervisor told me that.”

  “What are you doing! You talked to my supervisor?” Chela’s hand clamped down on her burger, making an indentation in the soft bun.

  “It isn’t what you think. Relax.” Magadan reached for her white knuckles, but Chela shied away.

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?” She glared at him. This was his game, but there was nothing in the rules that said she had to respond in a civilized manner around him. “You know I’m half Anglo, but you don’t know anything about me. That doesn’t add up.”

  “You’re right,” Magadan sighed and went back to his dinner. He continued after he’d swallowed. “I knew this was going to be the hard part, getting you to listen to what I have to say, but I have to try. Too much is at stake.”

  Chela willed her muscles to relax. “You talked to my supervisor,” she continued. “Why?”

  “You don’t go into anything new without doing all the research you can, do you? I’m the same way.” He ran a hand through his hair but didn’t bother to smooth the locks back into place. The disturbed strands, instead of distracting from his image, gave Chela a more favorable impression of him. The man was thinking about what he was saying, not how he looked. He continued, “Don’t worry. Your supervisor didn’t tell me much. He said that you’d been working for the system for a little over four ye
ars. You take your job home with you. You work for migrant rights and you fight like a tiger to make sure the kids get a decent education. The migrants trust you. That’s what I wanted to hear about you.”

  A piece of the puzzle fell into place. “Why is that important?”

  “I’ll get to that in a few minutes. Would you tell me why you don’t like talking about your father?”

  “That, Magadan, is none of your business. It will never be.” Ebony eyes left no doubt as to the intensity behind Chela’s words. “What else did my supervisor say?”

  “Nothing. I mean it. In fact he probably wouldn’t have said anything at all except I pretended I already knew you and was curious about why you were working on your own time during the summer. You were teaching English to those men out in the orchard today. That’s not in your contract. I asked your supervisor about that. That’s when he told me you were dedicated, intense, trusted by the migrants. That’s the same thing the sheriff told me.”

  “Is that a compliment?” Since they’d sat down, Magadan hadn’t dropped his eyes once. The fact that he was willing to meet her intense scrutiny was a point in his favor.

  Magadan laughed. “I guess it depends on whose side of the fence you’re on. Most orchardists want workers who are content with their lives, not workers who are learning that there’s more to reach for once they have an education.”

  “That’s the owners’ problem,” Chela snapped. “I don’t think it’s right to bring workers here from Mexico, work them seven days a week, pay minimum wage, and then call the immigration authorities before payday. An orchardist should treat his employees the way every other employer treats his employees.”

  “Wait a minute.” Magadan’s eyes seemed to narrow. “Not all orchardists take advantage of their workers. Some are decent.”

  “Not enough,” Chela challenged. “Orchardists hire the coyotes in the first place. Don’t tell me it doesn’t go on. I know it does.”