He turned away from her so she couldn’t see his face, but she heard the frustration in his voice. “Tell you what, Sophia?”
“Tell me about being part-owner of the estancia. And what happened to Rosa. Maria wouldn’t tell me. She said I had to ask you.”
“Why? So you could pity me instead of wallowing in your own ruined life?”
But she knew that was not true, and what’s more he knew it, too. “That is grossly unfair. I did not wallow. I have never wallowed. Was I hurt? Yes. But I came here to start over, Tomas. You of all people know that. Because I told you. And I did every damn thing you asked. And what did you share with me?”
“Sophia,” he said, entreating her.
God, she loved it when he said her name that way. She would never tire of the soft tones of his accent. But the gap between them was wider than she’d ever imagined.
“Don’t Sophia me. You told me about Rosa, but that was just skimming the surface. You could have told me the rest. When we were out riding, the night that we…”
She couldn’t finish the sentence. Humiliation burned its way up her cheeks. She had confided in him about her virginity. Now she felt foolish.
She blinked back tears. He’d given her understanding and gentleness. But he hadn’t given her himself. Not all of himself. Just enough to appease her questions.
“You should have told me,” she whispered.
But Sophia wasn’t prepared for the way her heart would crack when he admitted softly, “I know.”
“Can you tell me now?”
“I don’t want your pity,” he said sharply, moving away from the trunk of the ombu but staying beneath the protection of its branches.
“Her picture is on the wall, Tomas. We walked by it many times each day and still nothing. You spoke of Miguel, but never of his sister. Not until that day on the bridge. Maria said something about you blaming yourself. Why?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve mov
ed on.”
She shook her head. His body was as taut as a wire, a wire that would snap at any moment. “No, you haven’t.”
He turned on her then, his eyes blazing, his body emanating anger and frustration. “Why couldn’t we just enjoy the week, hmm? We both knew you were only here for a short time. So what difference can it possibly make now?”
The answer came to Sophia as clearly as the stars hanging in the black Argentine sky. Because she was falling in love with him. That was the strange feeling she kept having, the one she’d never felt with Antoine or with any man before him. It made no sense, but it didn’t need to, did it? It was just there, a complicated, tangled ball of emotions for a most inconvenient man at a most inopportune time. The man who had given her coins to make a wish and had understood that she was afraid to make love for the first time.
“Because you want to move on and you’re stuck. You’ve withdrawn from the world, Tomas, and you can’t find your way back.” She went to him and put her hand on his arm. It was warm, but hard as a band of steel.
“Maybe I have. Maybe I just decided that this was what I wanted. I am happy here.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Sophia was surprised at her temerity in saying that, even if it was true. She was more convinced than ever that his silence was his way of handling his grief.
“You don’t have to believe me.”
She couldn’t help the smile that sneaked on to her lips, turning them up as she conceded the point. “I guess I don’t. Perhaps I realize how much being here has helped me move past a lot of things, Tomas. It isn’t just being here that has done it, either. It has been being with you. You challenge me, and force me to see things I’d rather ignore. But it is good. I need you to do that. And I have no idea how to show my gratitude.”
“When have I needed gratitude?”
She raised her eyebrow at him.
He nodded. “That’s right. Never.”
“But you have it just the same. And of all the things you’ve said to me this week—all the difficult things to hear—it has been your silence that has hurt me most.”
“Hurt you?” He turned his head to stare at her. “How could I hurt you?”