Touch a Wild Heart

by Vella Munn

  Magadan leaned forward, his face less than a foot away in the night. “I know it happens,” he said softly. “You probably know more about it than anyone except the migrants themselves. That’s why I’m here.”

  For over a minute Chela said nothing. Despite the blinking neon light behind them, Magadan’s features had become blurred, but there was no mistaking the intensity in his eyes. Maybe now, finally, they were getting to the heart of why Magadan was here. “Do you work for immigration?” she asked.

  “What would you do if I said yes?”

  “Walk away.”

  “Why?”

  Chela sighed. It was late and she was tired. Being with Magadan with his determined lines and bold eyes had her on the alert. He had asked a question that couldn’t be answered quickly or easily. “I believe that the system the way it works now has flaws. Agriculture in this country relies on migrant labor, but not all of the workers are here legally. Since they can’t wade through the red tape, the immigration authorities deport the illegals they find. It makes criminals out of people who are only trying to earn a living. Something has to change.”

  “You believe in that strongly, don’t you?”

  This time Chela’s sigh was a little less civilized. “My grandparents were migrants. I was born in a migrant camp. The work killed my mother.”

  “Oh.” Magadan had started to take another bite of his burger, but he seemed unaware that it was still a few inches from his mouth. “I didn’t know.”

  “Do you work for immigration?”

  Magadan shook his head, and although Chela could barely make out his features, she believed him. He still wasn’t telling her everything, but at least ground was being broken. “Whom do you work for?”

  “Chela, I can’t tell you that. I told you I can’t tell you everything about what I’m doing. That’s one of the main things.”

  “I think that’s the main thing,” she said, body still, senses alert. What Magadan was saying or not saying intrigued her. He had sought her out for a purpose. But he wasn’t willing to reveal himself. Did she dare get any closer to the man?

  “Maybe. Let me ask you something else. Do you know any coyotes?”

  “You work for the police. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s how you know Kenneth Duff.” Chela frowned at her own words. “But why do the police care about coyotes? They never did before.”

  “What they do is illegal. Chela, you know migrants. You must know how many of them have been cheated by coyotes.”

  Chela knew. She could point at any illegal in the orchard and guess he was here because of the effort of someone who, for a fee, would smuggle workers across the border to the agricultural work centers. Unfortunately, once coyotes had their money, most of them couldn’t care less what happened to the illegals. Promised jobs might never materialize. Coyotes sometimes disappeared before delivering their “clients”, leaving both workers and farm owners in need of laborers to suffer the consequences. Neither the illegal nor the orchardist would dare press charges.

  “Is this what our discussion is about?” Chela asked. “You’re after coyotes?”

  “Let me ask you one more question before I answer that,” Magadan pressed. “What would your response be if I said I was?”

  Chela admitted it was a good question. No matter what her opinion of them, if a coyote made good on his promises, the migrant stood a chance of improving his standard of living. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “Some migrants need them.”

  “They don’t need Ray Kohl.”

  Chela stopped breathing. She dropped what was left of her hamburger, placed her hands on the table, and pushed herself to her feet. She turned her back on Magadan and walked on silent feet through the low fencing leading to the miniature playground. She didn’t take a breath until she’d wrapped her hands around the chain holding the leather swing seat in place. She tossed her hair back and stared skyward, making out the first glimmer of stars in the distance.

  Kohl had survived her father’s ruin. He was probably the only one who knew who her father was but he was more, much more than that. Behind her she could sense Magadan’s presence but didn’t turn to acknowledge him. Ray Kohl. She didn’t know that his name was ever spoken outside the migrant camps and orchards. The name gave both children and men nightmares, and yet no one had found a way of escaping the nightmare.

  “You know him, don’t you?” Magadan whispered behind her.

  A barely perceptible nod disturbed the sleek line of hair trailing down Chela’s back. “What is he to you?” she asked.

  “A monster. He has to be stopped.”

  Chela whirled back around. “What do you care? He can’t touch you.”

  “I’m a human being, damn it!” Magadan’s hands grabbed both naked arms and long strands of hair. “I know he has to be stopped. But I need your help.”

  “Me?” Chela was shaking, not because she was afraid of the man gripping her but because the intensity of emotion she felt had to find some expression. What she felt for Kohl went beyond hatred, beyond loathing. “I can’t stop Kohl. There’s money behind him.”

  “I know. The money of some orchardists who need workers and don’t care how they get here or how much the migrants are cheated by Kohl. But there are other orchard owners who won’t stoop to that. They want him out of business.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” Chela said softly, firmly. She wasn’t going to think about her link to Kohl. “But I don’t trust any of the owners.” Chela tried to break free, but Magadan was gripping her arms with a strength she couldn’t fight; yet it didn’t frighten her. Over the years, as Chela aligned herself more and more with her mother’s people, she’d cut herself off from contact with men outside the barrios and orchards. Being touched by one of those men evoked a reaction she didn’t understand. His face, his mouth, were only a few inches away. She needed time to analyze her reaction to his nearness, to question why his touch neither frightened nor repulsed her. But this wasn’t the time. Magadan wanted something of her that had to do with a name she associated with everything evil. That was what demanded her attention.

  “Listen to me,” Magadan was saying. “That’s why I talked to your supervisor and other people like the sheriff. I know Kohl, but I don’t know how he operates. I don’t think anyone really does, even those he works for. But you—you’re part of the migrant community—”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “That isn’t the point. It’s enough that I know where your loyalties lie. Chela, you said there’s money behind him. I want you to understand that there is also money behind a drive to put him out of business. He’s ruthless and cruel. He has no humanity.” Magadan shook his head. “I’ve given up trying to understand what makes the man tick. All I know is that he has to be put out of business. I can’t get close to him, but you can.”

  Chela pulled out of Magadan’s grip, knowing that it wouldn’t have been possible if he hadn’t allowed it. She took a deep breath, gaining control over her emotions. “I’m not close to Kohl. You can’t believe that.”

  “Maybe I said that wrong,” Magadan acknowledged. “I don’t for a minute believe you’d sit down at the same table with that animal. But you know the people he deals with, the ones he’s cheated. Come on Chela, don’t deny it. You’re aware of every illegal in this valley, where they’re staying, how they got here.”

  Chela wasn’t going to deny that. Neither was she going to let Magadan take advantage of her knowledge. He wasn’t willing to tell her enough about his motives, so why should she trust him?

  As if he’d read her thoughts, he shrugged. “We’re going pretty fast, aren’t we?” he admitted. “I’ve known you less than a day, and already I’m pushing you hard. Look, why don’t I take you home and let you sleep on it? You know I want Kohl out of business. You know I’m part of a group with the money to charge him with breaking the law and making that charge stick. What we need are some facts; get him to show his hand. That’s where I want you
to come in.”

  “You’re asking too much. I don’t even know you.”

  “Give me time.” Magadan took a half step toward her and then stopped. “Don’t turn your back on what I’m saying, Chela. Give yourself time to get to know me.”

  “Maybe you work with Kohl.”

  Magadan laughed harshly. “Maybe I do. I didn’t think about that, but it could look as if I’m trying to find out if anyone is going to blow the whistle on the operation. Look, I said it before, but those kids on your soccer team trusted me enough to let me buy them drinks. Can’t you bank on their instincts?”

  “Maybe.” Chela’s teeth were exposed momentarily as she gave Magadan a rueful grin. “You said you’d talked to people about me. Now maybe I should do the same thing about you.”

  Once again Chela sensed the man becoming tense, but his words hid what his body language was, telling her. “I can’t argue your right to do that. And I can’t stop you. But I don’t think you’re going to find out much. I have reasons for keeping a low profile. Look, do you want to finish your dinner?”

  Chela shook her head. Thoughts of Ray Kohl had chased food from her mind. “I’m tired. I’m not going to make any decisions now,” she pointed out. “My Jeep’s back at the park. Will you take me there, or shall I walk?”

  “I’d rather take you to your place,” Magadan said as they were getting into his pickup. “I haven’t had time to see where you live.”

  “But you will.” If the man was that interested in her, she had no doubt that he wasn’t done learning all he could about her. “I don’t spend much time there,” she continued, aware that Magadan had glanced at the distance separating them in the vehicle. “It’s where I keep my belongings, where I go to sleep. But there’s always something to take me out of it.”

  “Like finding a job at a day-care center for a woman who doesn’t speak English. That’s something else I’ve learned about you.”

  Chela said nothing. She’d already been more candid with Magadan than any other man she’d met. It was time to retreat into silence. She stared out at the darkened streets, thinking about the distance separating her from this mysterious man. Chela hadn’t been born with a hands-off approach when it came to men, but she wasn’t part of the mainstream of life. A shopping center was as foreign to her as a Jeep was to most women. She simply didn’t come in contact with men near her own age, men who might someday take away the feeling that she would walk through life alone. There were men who showed interest in her, of course, but Chela had no time for casual affairs, for men who wanted nothing more than an attractive woman to hold in the night and discard once the conquest had been made.

  She knew she was existing in some kind of limbo, wanting more and yet not knowing what that something was. She felt the boundaries of her life, wanted to reach beyond, but didn’t know how to take the necessary steps. She didn’t blame her mother for what she’d become because Chela’s mother never had the energy or education or opportunity to fight her way out of the orchards. She couldn’t blame her father for what she was because it was hard to blame a man she barely knew. Wanting nothing to do with her father came later when she learned the kind of man he was. Maybe, Chela sometimes thought, the fault lay with the older couple who had taken her in after her mother died.

  William and Carolyn Roberts made sure the shy, frightened girl learned to speak English and went to public school. And when her quick mind hungered for knowledge, her teachers fed that hunger until Chela was one of the best students in her class. Her foster parents worked with counselors to ensure that Chela received several college scholarships. They provided her with food, clothing, and a warm bed. And when they lacked the ability to replace a mother’s love, Chela learned to accept that.

  William and Carolyn both died within a year of each other just after Chela started college, and the lonely girl was shuffled off by well-meaning authorities to the college dorm where she had few friends and buried herself in the task of becoming a teacher. But not just an ordinary teacher. Chela found a job as an aide to the college Spanish teacher and honed her skills. By the time she graduated, she knew she wanted to be involved in migrant education. An education had given her the freedom to leave the orchards; she wanted to give others that same choice.

  And yet it was a lonely life. Dealing with basic concerns such as teaching a new language to people who needed help understanding the different culture they found themselves in was a responsibility she took seriously. She tried to tell herself that she was doing enough, experiencing enough, that it should satisfy her. But it hadn’t, and a man named Joe Magadan was forcing her to face her restlessness.

  Magadan felt something for people whose roots were different from his. That he couldn’t keep from Chela. She couldn’t deny the caring, the commitment she sensed about the man. She trusted her instincts in that regard. She believed that if she asked him, he would say he thought of her as a woman first and the color of her skin second.

  But what kind of a woman? Was Magadan’s interest in her only because she provided the link he needed with migrants in order to expose Kohl?

  Chela had never asked herself that question about a man before. She had no idea how to go about finding the answer.

  “I want to see you next week,” Magadan said when he’d parked his truck next to her Jeep. “That’ll give you time to find out some things about me. Don’t close your mind to this, Chela. We might not be able to change the world, but we can put one animal out of operation.”

  Chela opened the door, but instead of sliding out, she turned to find Magadan’s eyes in the night. “I’m not promising anything.”

  “I understand. There’s one other thing I want you to know: I won’t ask you to do anything that’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Chela laughed. “If you believe that, then you don’t know Kohl.”

  Chela saw his right hand reach toward her but didn’t shy from the contact. His fingers gave warmth to her arm. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he whispered.

  Her arm remained warm long after Chela climbed into her Jeep and drove off. Neither of them had said anything about how or when Magadan would be getting in touch, but by now Chela knew he would show up when he felt the time was right.

  Chela pulled into her driveway and parked her Jeep in the carport connected to the small house she was buying on a quiet country road skirting the orchards. There were no neighbors in sight, only a wheat field on one side and vacant land in the hands of an out-of-state holding company on the other. Someday, Chela suspected, the vacant land would be bought by a developer, and she’d move on to a more rural setting.

  The house itself was more than forty years old, thrown together by a man with confidence in his ability but not much money. She’d painted both inside and out and polished the hardwood floors until they glistened. Because she had no neighbors, Chela had never bothered with curtains. She loved to watch the sun stream in through the open expanse, catch dust particles in the air, and bounce off the white walls. It had been the wood stove in the living room that allowed Chela to see beyond the neglected walls and a leaking roof. Even in summer she gravitated toward it, keeping her favorite rocking chair and table piled with books next to the stove’s cozy presence.

  She wasn’t surprised that Magadan hadn’t seen her house. Because she cherished her privacy, she rented a post-office box and used that when receiving correspondence from the education system. Except for a couple of student teachers who were now employed elsewhere, no one from work had been to her house.

  Although Chela had taken pains in finding furnishings and wall decorations that reflected her love of the out-of-doors and earth colors, she seldom took time to study the paintings of several local artists she’d bought or the rough-finished redwood coffee table she found after months of searching. But as she kicked off her tennis shoes and slid her feet along the smooth wood floor, she found herself wondering what Magadan’s reaction would be to her home. His stylish slacks and nearly new
shirt, as well as the immaculate condition of his powerful pickup, revealed him as someone who could afford whatever he wanted.

  Chela walked into the small bathroom with its old-fashioned bathtub set up on sturdy legs. She started running water in the tub, eager to remove pollen and weed seeds from her flesh. There were grass stains on her denims, but she’d long ago learned not to become unduly concerned about that.

  As she started shampooing her hair, she couldn’t help but wonder what Magadan’s reaction had been to a woman who carried residues of an orchard around with her. He was probably much more accustomed to women who didn’t have to rake their hands through their hair periodically to make sure they hadn’t picked up a twig from a pear tree or need to check under their nails for dirt, Chela admitted as she slid her fingertips along her hair. There was no denying it. Her hands were utilitarian, not glamorous.

  The man had remarkable hands, large for his size; yet there was nothing clumsy about them. Chela remembered how Magadan’s fingers felt on her upper arm, the warmth that radiated from him and into her. Was that why she hadn’t turned her back on him when he approached her with too many questions and not enough answers? Was there a magnetism to him that kept people from saying no to him?

  Maybe that was why her thoughts wouldn’t leave Magadan and his large hands, his bold eyes, and the warmth that radiated from him. Because so much of him was still a mystery, she couldn’t put a label on the man. She knew he wasn’t an immigration officer. Something told her he wasn’t a policeman, although that was yet another question he hadn’t answered. He was a man with money, a man who had no love for a certain coyote and was willing to spend money to rid the area of that man. Other than that Chela knew nothing.

  She didn’t even know if he had a wife.

  Magadan pushed the lever in his truck that activated the automatic garage-door opener and pulled into the spacious garage. After lowering the door behind him, he unlocked the door leading from the garage to the house and stepped into a tiled entryway. He picked up his mail from where it had fallen through the slot and then lowered his solid frame onto a leather couch. He propped his feet up on a glass-topped coffee table, oblivious of his housekeeper’s efforts to keep the house spotless, despite its owner’s usual disdain for expensive furnishings.