Touch a Wild Heart Read online

  What would it feel like to close her eyes, let her body come in full contact with Magadan’s? Even as she was asking how she dared ask such a question, her eyes were slowly closing. There was no breeze blowing in the orchard, allowing the humidity of the hot day to settle around everything it touched. But Chela wasn’t aware of the sticky, pungent air. Her thoughts were telescoping down until the core of her consciousness went no further than her mouth, her breasts, female flesh hungering for the touch of male flesh.

  Because Magadan’s hands were around her wrists and not against her back, Chela didn’t feel completely possessed by him. There was a certain sense of freedom, the knowledge that she was a willing participant in what was happening.

  Why she should now be willing to let happen something she’d been wary of for years didn’t, at this moment, occur to her. What was left to concentrate on was the knowledge that she’d been hungry for this kind of contact, lonely because there’d been no one to share herself with.

  Chela had made decisions that set her apart from close contact with a man she could give herself to. Most of the time she was unaware of the loneliness her decision had sentenced her to. Now, however, there was no denying that.

  She became aware of a subtle shifting of position but didn’t open her eyes. It was much preferable to acknowledge Magadan’s hands working their way up her arms, touching her shoulders, and finally coming around behind her back. Tentatively, shyly, Chela lifted her limp arms and allowed them to find a home around Magadan's waist.

  She was no longer holding her neck stiffly. Instead she let the pressure from Magadan’s lips push her head backward slightly, increasing the sensation of being pliable in the arms of the kind of man she wasn’t sure existed.

  It wasn’t until Magadan’s hands found the flesh under her blouse that Chela pulled herself back to the reality of orchard heat and buzzing insects. She pulled firmly away, opened her eyes, and faced him. It took every ounce of strength she possessed not to flee into the safety of the trees.

  “That was nice,” Magadan whispered. “I didn’t know it was going to happen, but I’m not going to apologize.”

  “It isn’t going to happen again.” Was that her voice shaking like a young girl on her first date?

  “I doubt it, Chela. Is that so wrong?”

  Instead of answering, Chela reached out and brought a pear branch close to her face. She stared as if fascinated at the vibrant green growth. “Are you sure Kohl can be stopped?”

  “That’s what you want to talk about? All right. We’ll play the game your way today. But there’s something happening between us, Chela. I don’t think you can deny that forever.”

  “Nothing’s happening between us!” Chela shot out in fear. “You’re Anglo.”

  Magadan came a step closer. “So are you, Chela,” he said gently. “At least half of you is. Why are you afraid to admit it?”

  “I’m not afraid.” Her hands were clenched tightly around the tree branch as if she could use the tree’s life force to still the emotions raging inside her. “I have reasons for hating certain things about me, that’s all.”

  Magadan reached out as if to touch her but stopped just short of contact as if he was aware of the fragile hold she had on herself. “I’d like you to tell me about it,” he said in the same gentle tone.

  “I don’t think so.” Chela’s eyes met his because she’d learned to face life headon, but there was no way she could hide the agony in the dark orbs. “You aren’t the only one with secrets, Magadan.”

  “I had that coming, didn’t I?” he acknowledged. “Look, you asked about Kohl—maybe that’s the only safe subject we can find—but I don’t want to talk about it here, now. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Who? I haven’t promised anything—”

  “I know that,” Magadan interrupted sharply. “But the man is, shall we say, my partner in this scheme. I think you know him anyway. Phillip McAndrews.”

  If Chela was already tense, she became more so now. “Phillip McAndrews is an orchardist. How do you know him?”

  “Through the Chamber of Commerce. McAndrews might not be your idea of man of the year, but I’m told he’s one of the most progressive orchardists in the valley.”

  “He could do more.” Chela ran a weary hand over her eyes. An instinct for survival still told her to back out of whatever Magadan and McAndrews were planning, but Chela wasn’t one for running away. If there was a way of putting an end to a coyote who dealt in farm laborers as if they were merchandise and not human beings, she was willing to take certain chances. Besides, something of a kiss lingered, holding her where she was as firmly as any rope. “Does he want to meet me?”

  “Yes. He’s arranged to meet with both of us tomorrow night at his house.”

  Phillip McAndrews’ house—it was close, too close to another house Chela wanted to avoid for the rest of her life. But personal emotions had no place intruding on this particular meeting. “Would I have to wear a dress?”

  Magadan laughed. “No, I don’t think you’ll have to wear a dress. Then you’ll come?”

  “What time should I be there?”

  As quickly as it had started, Magadan’s laugh stopped. “I’d like to pick you up.”

  Chela shook her head firmly. “I don’t tell many people where I live,” she said. “You have a long way to go before I tell you that, Magadan.”

  Chapter Four

  Magadan deliberately arrived at Phillip McAndrews’ place a half hour before Chela was expected. He and the publicity-shy orchardist had exchanged pleasantries and were now sharing a drink in the deeply masculine den of Philip’s sprawling house: Phillip had explained that his wife was at the country club that evening for some benefit show, and they wouldn’t be interrupted.

  “You know,” Phillip was saying, “I kind of feel sorry for my wife. I don’t think she had any idea that being married to an orchardist would mean having to put up with a man who smelled like fertilizer and pesticides. She thinks we should stay here or at the country club all the time and the orchards can function without us. She can’t stand to have me around when I come in with mud under my fingernails and the truck looking like it’s been rode hard and put away wet. But pears aren’t going to make it to the packing houses without a lot of hard work on someone’s part, mainly mine.”

  “Don’t forget luck.” Magadan took a sip of his rum and Coke and eased back in the comfortable chair, letting the day’s labors ease from his body. He’d dressed in brown slacks and a three-year-old shirt, hoping his casual dress would soften the contrast between the expensive McAndrews home and the jeans he expected Chela to wear. Not that he minded the faded denim stretched across her small bottom. The thought of her soft tank top sliding softly over her breasts made him glance at the clock, eager to see her coming through the door. It wasn’t the way he expected to be reacting to his potential partner, but to deny his feelings would be to lie to himself.

  Phillip was going on about his current problem of being able to get an adequate supply of pesticides to be applied by a local crop duster. Magadan nodded, only vaguely aware of the brief comments he was making. A hot, serious—to him—romance had ended rather abruptly just as he was leaving Mexico earlier this year. Since moving to the valley, Magadan hadn’t dated or shown much interest in women. He was beginning to wonder whether he’d been too single-minded in his business ventures to the detriment of a personal life. At least that’s what his ex-girlfriend had told him. “You’re too intense. You have this thing about changing the world,” she’d said that last day. “Someday you’re going to have to stop long enough to smell the roses, or life is going to pass you by. Stop trying to prove something. Listen to the beating of your heart.”

  Well, his heart was beating tonight. In fact he’d been aware of its steady pulse ever since he’d held Chela in his arms in the orchard yesterday. What was it with that woman? Did she possess some special spark, some captivating quality that set her apart from other wom
en, or had he simply been without a woman too long?

  “That’s about enough shoptalk for one night,” Phillip said as he replenished their drinks. “So you really got Chela Reola to come here tonight. That surprised me.”

  “So you said. How come?”

  “You don’t know about her father, do you? I’m not surprised. The fact is, I know damn little myself. Just that he’s alive and around here, but they apparently don’t have anything to do with each other. That certainly isn’t the sort of thing she’d be likely to talk about.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Philip,” Magadan said more sharply than he’d intended. “Is there something I should know?”

  “You know all I do. He’s American, of course. There’s been speculation about his identity, but she’s not telling anyone. If she’s willing to at least listen to us, then I think it’s best if we leave things at that. Some old skeletons are best left buried.” Phillip was silent for a moment. “Let me tell you something, friend. You’re sitting on a potential powder keg with that woman. She has little enough reason to trust Anglos. You let her know who you are, why you’re living here, and you’ve blown it. She’ll take off faster than a wild deer.”

  “Damn it, Phillip!” Magadan’s hands tightened around his glass. He knew the savvy businessman well enough to know Phillip wouldn’t be pushed, but dangling a mystery in front of him and then asking him not to push the subject was asking a hell of a lot. “What have you gotten me into with her?”

  “It’s not me, friend,” Phillip grinned. “You’re the one who started this business about Kohl. I went along because I figured you were probably the only one with the guts to see it through. I agree, Chela Reola is our best link. I’m not going to say any more about it.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Phillip frowned. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. What’s important is trapping Kohl. Have you thought any more about what we talked about earlier?”

  The conversation quickly shifted to the possible ramifications and possibility for failure in the plan the two men had devised. Magadan put his businessman’s logic to good use by concentrating on the present subject and not dwelling on the points Philip had raised a few minutes ago. Magadan had been questioning the wisdom of his continued secrecy where Chela was concerned, but Phillip’s warning renewed his decision to keep a low profile.

  They were discussing the amount of cooperation they could expect from the sheriff and district attorney when the doorbell rang. “I think the young lady is here,” Phillip said as he rose. “I wonder if she feels as if she’s entering the lion’s den.”

  Magadan was still sitting when Philip returned, but he rose halfway to his feet before he was aware of what he was doing. What he was aware of was that Chela had exchanged her usual attire for a flimsy white sundress held together by thin straps tied at the shoulder, with a gathered waistline and a softly draping skirt that ended at the knee. The fabric had tiny holes in it—eyelet, Magadan thought it was called—with a white lining under the flimsy fabric that teased his senses. Because the top of the garment was loosely gathered, he couldn’t be sure whether she was wearing a bra or not, but the thin straps barely any wider than a cord made him believe that the dress was just about all she was wearing. Her tennis shoes had been left somewhere else, and in their place Chela was wearing white sandals.

  The contrast between black hair trailing down a slender back and the white summer dress took Magadan’s breath away. He couldn’t tell whether she was wearing makeup or not but suspected the answer was no. Her cheeks had been given enough color by the sun, and those magnificent doe eyes needed no emphasizing.

  “It’s been a long time, Chela,” Philip was saying. “The last time we met was at a farm laborers’ meeting. You should have worn that dress. No one would have thought to argue with you then.”

  Chela kept her eyes on Phillip McAndrews and not the man staring at her from the dark, expensive chair. She’d been fighting with herself ever since she stepped out of the bathtub an hour ago. It wasn’t that she hated the middle-aged orchardist. The truth was, she rather admired the man’s forthright attitude and convictions. If she were a migrant, she would try to find work in McAndrews’ orchards. At least he kept the migrant housing on his land in decent repair and paid his workers an honest wage.

  “It was a productive meeting,” Chela said with more courage than she felt. “A lot of good things came out of it, like the gleaning project. It’s about time the pears the pickers didn’t get went to feed poor people instead of rotting on the ground.”

  “They were salvaged because you convinced the orchardists that the project would be adequately supervised. You make an effective speaker for indigents. Look, I’d like to continue exchanging pleasantries with you. You’re the best-looking thing to come through this door in a long time, but we have business to discuss.”

  There was no way Phillip could know what an effort it had taken for her to come here. No way for him to make a connection between her and the grand house farther up the hills. “I don’t get to the hills often,” she said cautiously, testing the air. “You have a beautiful home.”

  “It’s called keeping up with the Joneses,” Phillip snorted. “I swear, every orchardist who ever lived had a home in the east hills. Talk about segregating oneself.”

  Chela released a long, slow breath. That was a subject she was determined to avoid. “You wanted to talk about something,” she said.

  “We all need to,” Magadan spoke for the first time. “Phillip and I have spent a lot of time working out the details. There were a lot of holes for us to cover.”

  Chela turned toward Magadan, her hips shifting under the unaccustomed dress. “What am I here for?”

  “Why don’t you sit down, Chela,” Phillip offered. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Chela shook her head and lowered herself slowly into a wooden rocker with a cane backing. She laid her hand along the arms and slid her fingers along the smooth surface. There’d been a chair like this in that house up the hill, but since she’d only been in it once, Chela couldn’t be sure how much the two pieces of furniture had in common and how much was a result of her reluctant memory. “Kohl knows me,” she said when Phillip was sitting. “He knows what I think of him.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” Phillip responded. “He’s going to be suspicious of you, but if the pot is sweet enough, I think it’s going to be his undoing. The real question is, would you testify against him in court? Are you committed to seeing this through to the end?”

  Chela didn’t rush her answer. She realized that her testimony could be crucial in bringing Kohl to justice, but she still had doubts that anything she or the two men in the room could do would actually put an end to his schemes. “We can’t leave behind any holes for him to climb through,” she said slowly. “This wouldn’t be the first time he’s been in trouble with the law. He knows his way around the system. He’d get the best lawyer he can afford.” Should she tell them that her relationship with Kohl went deeper than they knew? No! She didn’t have the words to express that emotion.

  “We can afford better,” Magadan said. “Phillip and I have discussed this from every possible angle. When he does come to court, and he will, we’ll have an airtight case. And there won’t be any risk for you.”

  “I doubt that,” Chela replied levelly. “Magadan, I’ve watched that man operate for years. How do you think he’s been able to intimidate the migrants all this time? He backs up his threats.”

  “He’s dealing with uneducated people who won’t believe they have any rights. It’s going to be different when we set him up.”

  “And he’ll be angrier than he’s ever been,” Chela pointed out.

  “Is that true?” Magadan turned toward Phillip. “Is he capable of violence?”

  Phillip nodded, a slow, measured movement. “He’s capable of anything. Have you ever seen a wild animal backed into a corner? That’s what we’ll have on our hands when Kohl realize
s he’s trapped.”

  “Then maybe we should forget the whole thing!” Magadan snapped, pushing himself to his feet. “We’ll get to him another way. I’m not going to risk her.”

  Chela stared up at the angry, pacing man. He was deadly serious about what he was saying. None of his performance was calculated to get Chela to do his will. No man had ever come to her defense that way before and Chela responded to his concern. He cared. And because he cared, she believed that Magadan would do everything in his power to keep Kohl away from her. That knowledge gave her courage. It was a simple fact punctuated by the look in Magadan’s eyes.

  “What is your plan?” she asked calmly, never taking her eyes off Magadan.

  He turned on her. “Did you hear me? I’m not taking any risk with your safety.”

  “I believe it’s my safety we’re discussing,” Chela interrupted. “I’m over twenty-one, and no one has ever told me what I can or can’t do. I’m the one to make this decision. I want Kohl stopped.”

  Magadan glared silently at Chela but didn’t interrupt when Phillip started talking. Despite the distraction of Magadan’s steady gaze, Chela forced herself to concentrate on what the older man was saying. The plan Phillip and Magadan had worked out was simple. It was designed to trap Kohl in one of his oldest and most reliable schemes. Magadan knew a young Mexican living in Mexico City. The man, Ortez Varela, would be willing to return a favor Magadan had done him by participating in the plan. Chela’s job would be to convince Kohl that she was willing to pay to have Ortez slipped illegally into the United States. “If we make the pot sweet enough, I think Kohl will take your money and run. Then we’ll charge him with theft. Or he’ll try to blackmail you into upping the ante. Coercion’s a crime.”