A Taste of the Untamed

by Susan Stephens

  It was only when the music ended and they returned to the table that she realised they had developed a sort of shorthand between them. Nacho touched her arm and she knew when they were approaching her chair. Another touch and she knew roughly where that chair was, could feel for it and sit down. He had a sixth sense for when she wanted help and when it wasn’t welcome.

  When his shadow crossed her depleted vision she thanked him for the dance, though she guessed they both knew it had been a lot more than that. This time in the cantina had allowed them to rebalance their relationship, giving them chance to start over. Maybe …

  ‘I really enjoyed that,’ she admitted.

  She felt the shift of air between them as he bowed ever so slightly in return. ‘My pleasure, señorita,’ he said coolly.

  They were so close, so in tune, and yet something vital was missing. There was a chasm between them only the past could fill, and it would take some serious explaining on Nacho’s part to do that, Grace realised as their food arrived and the past was something she couldn’t force him to talk about.

  Navigating a meal was always fraught with potential disaster. And now it turned out she had chosen the messiest food on the menu and was paying the price for it, Grace realised as Nacho rubbed one firm thumb-pad across the swell of her bottom lip.

  ‘Crumbly empanadas,’ he explained dryly when she drew a fast breath in.

  So, not the irresistible attraction of her bee-stung lips?

  After the release of tension at the vineyards and the fun they’d had since, chatting and dancing at the cantina, finishing the meal seemed to bring with it a new sort of tension. They had reached the where-do-we-go-from-here? point, Grace thought, feeling ready to scream by the time they walked outside. If Nacho wanted to start planning her homeward journey, he only had to say.

  ‘About my flight home—’ she said.

  What happened next wasn’t so much a conscious decision on his part as a reflex action, Nacho realised as he swept Grace off the ground and settled her on the saddle in front of him.

  ‘You could have warned me,’ she said, panting with shock as she laughed.

  ‘Why?’

  Grace only shook her head and smiled at his arrogance. ‘What about my pony?’ she said.

  ‘They’ll stable him here overnight. Don’t worry, Grace, everything is taken care of.’

  ‘Including me?’ When he said nothing to this, she added, ‘Should I be alarmed, Nacho?’

  ‘Possibly,’ he said, tightening his arm around her waist.

  ‘And what about Buddy?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘He’s coming with us.’

  ‘Coming with us where?’ she pressed. ‘Look, you only have to say. I can pack and be ready to leave as soon as your jet is ready to take me—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about your travel plans, Grace.’ This couldn’t go on any longer, he realized. Not when they’d been through so much together. ‘I need to tell you why I want you to go home.’

  ‘Why you want me to go,’ she said.

  The pain in Grace’s voice shamed him after all she’d done for the Acostas, but he couldn’t risk taking her into the dark place he inhabited. Just hearing that self-doubt creeping back into Grace’s voice was proof of how easily he could wipe out everything she had achieved since her illness. He wanted to reassure her that she had done nothing wrong, that the fault lay with him. Whatever he might feel for Grace, the past would always stand between them. But if he didn’t tell her the truth now he would destroy her too.

  He rode past the guest cottage and on to the riverbank that held so many memories for him. It was the best place—in fact, the only place—to tell her what he must.

  But as he dismounted and turned back to help her down, Grace launched herself from his horse. Almost falling as she reached the ground, she stumbled away from him.

  ‘Grace—wait.’

  Her dog, bewildered and uncertain for once, came to sit by his heels and looked up at him. ‘Come on, Buddy,’ he exclaimed, starting to run. Did she even know where she was going? Grace had left the path and was clambering down the embankment towards the river. Fear raged through him as she grew closer. ‘Grace, stop! Come back!’

  Memories tumbled on top of one another like an avalanche of guilt, burying him alive as he raced through brambles and over branches to get to her before it was too late. Grabbing her with relief, he hugged her to him as if he would never let her go.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she insisted angrily, her voice muffled against his chest.

  ‘You almost fell into the river!’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said, still trying to push him away.

  ‘You mustn’t run off like that, Grace—’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ she demanded.

  ‘I care about you,’ he said, releasing her.

  ‘Then don’t,’ she said, appearing to attack her clothes rather than straighten them. ‘How do you think I manage when you’re not around?’

  ‘Please just try and be sensible for once.’

  ‘Sensible?’ she exclaimed. ‘Was I was sensible when I went to bed with you?’

  He felt his heart wrench as her blank eyes searched his face. ‘Grace—’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, shaking her head and turning away.

  To hell with that. Catching hold of her wrists, he dragged her back again. ‘I don’t regret one single moment of making love to you, and I hope you don’t regret it either. Well?’ he ground out fiercely. ‘Do you regret it, Grace?’

  ‘No,’ she raged with matching fire, ‘not for one second. But I don’t understand how you blow hot and cold. You’ve barely spoken to me for a month, Nacho. We’ve achieved something incredible together at the vineyards, and we’ve had fun celebrating our victory at the cantina, and now, just when I think everything is back to normal between us, the curtain comes down.’

  He had no answer for her. Well, he did, but it involved telling her about another time by the river that hadn’t ended so happily.

  Grace had gone still, and he stiffened as she folded like a leaf. Sinking to her knees on the damp earth, she whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Nacho. This isn’t about me. Please forgive me. I’ve grown selfish since I’ve lost my sight.’

  With a roar of denial he swept her into his arms. Cupping her chin, he stared into her eyes even though he knew she couldn’t see him. ‘Selfish is the very last thing I’d call you, Grace. You worked to help save the vineyard and ensure its recovery along with everyone else. You were out every morning at dawn and you didn’t stop working until the sun went down. You’ve been there for us every step of the way. You’re the one who should be celebrating, Grace—for what you’ve achieved. We should all be celebrating.’

  ‘So why aren’t you?’ she said.

  He took a long pause. ‘I have something to tell you first,’ he said.

  ‘About your past?’

  He grimaced. ‘I hate things that can’t be changed,’ he murmured, thinking back.

  ‘You mean you hate things you can’t change,’ Grace argued gently.

  He gave a faint smile of acknowledgement—one she couldn’t see—and as the seconds ticked it gave him a chance to realise that even his past seemed insignificant when compared with what Grace had had to face.

  ‘And you?’ he said. ‘What about you, Grace? Nobody ever gets round to asking about you.’

  ‘You’re changing the subject,’ she said wryly.

  ‘I know,’ he whispered, drawing her back into his arms.

  She resisted him briefly and weakly, and then she sighed and relaxed. ‘So what do you want to know?’ she said, resting her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Let’s start with everything,’ he said.

  She laughed as he drew her down onto the bank at his side. ‘There’s not much to say. I was an only child, a dreamer with a lot of time on my hands. I spent most of that time reading and playing the piano.’

  ‘And your parents?’

  ‘My parents were wond
erful—my mother still is. I had a wonderful childhood, but then my father died and my mother remarried—happily, I’m pleased to say.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s about it, I’m afraid.’

  That was far from it, he thought. He left it a while and then asked, ‘Did your father’s death upset you greatly?’

  ‘Of course.’ She went quiet and then added, ‘I felt terrible when we lost Dad, and guilty that I wasn’t there for him when he died. I was playing at a concert,’ she explained ruefully. ‘It all seems so pointless now—’

  ‘Not pointless, Grace. I’m sure your father would have been very proud of you.’

  She pressed her lips together, half-smile, half-grimace. ‘My mother met someone else quite quickly. He had his own family and they moved into our old house. My bedroom became someone else’s bedroom while I was away—don’t,’ she said, sensing his concern on her behalf. ‘It was time for me to move out—too late for me to become part of a new unit.’

  ‘But surely when you became ill—?’

  ‘Are you suggesting everyone should have dropped their own life and rallied round? Why would I expect them to?’

  Because they’re your family, he thought, knowing that was exactly what his family would do, realising how lucky they were to have such a tight family unit.

  ‘By the time I became ill my mother was on a dozen committees—my stepfather was on even more. Why would I ask them to step in and sort out my life? No one could learn the things I had to learn except me. So what if I had a few more hurdles to jump than I anticipated?’

  ‘Grace—’ he scolded.

  ‘I’ve got wonderful friends like Lucia,’ she said, refusing to be kept down. ‘I’ve got my health and a job I love—as well as the best guide dog in the world. I’ve got a fantastic life, Nacho. I wouldn’t change a thing.’

  ‘And you’ve still got your music,’ he pointed out.

  Grace went quiet. They both did. He had given her the cue she had been waiting for. ‘Why did me playing the piano upset you so much?’ she asked him bluntly. ‘Were you reminded of your mother?’

  ‘I never speak about my personal life,’ he said, backing off from his earlier decision.

  ‘Too late,’ she said as she heard him brush grass and debris from his riding breeches. ‘You promised to tell me why I must go. You can’t go back on that now. You owe me that much.’

  ‘I owe you a lot more,’ he said.

  ‘So tell me what you have done that’s so terrible,’ she said, confident she would find the right words to destroy Nacho’s demons. Goodness knew she had fought off enough of her own. ‘Nothing you can say can shock me.’

  ‘I killed my parents,’ he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IT WAS one of those moments when Grace realised she had no answers, no help to give. She felt as much at sea as she had when the doctor had told her she was going to go blind. A total inability to arrange her thoughts into any sort of useful order left everything a jumble in her mind. Feelings? She had those—and to spare. But when it came to practical answers she had none.

  They sat in silence for a long time, and when the fog began to clear she asked the only question she could. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  Nacho took so long to answer she wondered at first if he hadn’t heard her, but then he said, ‘My late father’s life has been well documented in the gutter press, so I guess you already know he wasn’t a god.’

  ‘And your mother?’ she said carefully, sensing this was where the trouble lay—or why would the piano figure so prominently in Nacho’s mind?

  ‘She was left alone while my father was away playing polo.’

  ‘And she was lonely?’ Grace guessed, trying to imagine what it must have been like to be a young woman with small children in a foreign country, far away from those she loved. Isolating, but not insurmountable, she thought, remembering the friendliness she had encountered in Argentina. But it wasn’t for her to read the past, or judge a woman she didn’t know. ‘We’re not so different, you and I.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning we both keep a lot hidden inside.’

  ‘Everyone has secrets, Grace, but not everyone has your mountains to climb.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said and then she laughed. ‘I’ve got a great set of crampons.’

  She reached for his hand and almost missed it. He took her hand in both of his and linked their fingers. ‘Turns out my mother wasn’t the flawless icon I believed her to be.’

  ‘You mean she was human?’ Grace suggested wryly.

  ‘More than,’ he agreed, feeling a surge of contentment as she snuggled close to him. ‘But I was naïve.’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ Grace pointed out, pulling away and turning her head, as if she could look at him and receive confirmation of this. ‘Are you mistaking young and idealistic for naivety?’ she said. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘There’s not much more to say.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So telling me that you killed your parents is not much …?’

  She didn’t press the point. She didn’t need to. She turned her face to the river, where she heard some birds play-fighting—or maybe it was a mating dance. They were certainly making a lot of noise as they flew back and forth, scraping their wing-tips across the surface of the river as they dipped and soared. It was a special moment. It would be one of those rare events that wildlife photographers waited days to film.

  And Grace couldn’t see it.

  ‘Tell me the rest, Nacho,’ she said.

  Turning his mind from Grace’s constant battles he thought back to the past, to the last time he’d heard his mother play the piano. ‘On the day of the tragedy I was riding past the hacienda while my mother was having her music lesson. I couldn’t wait to get off my horse and tell her how much I admired her musicianship. By the time I barged into the house she was in bed with her music teacher—a vain man, who made no secret of his contempt for the wild Acosta children.’

  He paused, and even huffed a laugh as he remembered the next bit. It was hard to imagine he had been such a fool.

  ‘Hearing my mother’s cries, I burst into her bedroom to rescue her—only to realise they were cries of pleasure.’ Grace wasn’t smiling, he noticed. He was glad of that. He shrugged. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘That isn’t it,’ Grace argued. ‘That’s no way it, Nacho.’

  ‘There are no words—’ There truly weren’t.

  She waited in silence.

  ‘I didn’t know my father was on his way home, or that he almost killed the music teacher when he found him with my mother before throwing him out. My mother screamed at my father and told him that she was leaving him for the music teacher and she left the house with him in a blaze of anger. None of us knew the river had burst its banks …’

  ‘And then the flood came?’ Grace prompted.

  He gave a shuddering sigh as he thought back. ‘They would have got away—but my mother insisted on going back into the house to get a ring my father had bought her. Maria told me that. When news reached us that she and her lover had been swept into the water the staff tried to launch a rescue. My father rushed out to try and save her, but the flood water was too fast and too deep. It swept all three of them to their deaths.’

  ‘And where were you?’ she said.

  ‘Galloping as far and as fast as I could away from the house, with the devil on my back.’

  ‘But you knew none of this until later,’ Grace pointed out. ‘You didn’t kill your parents, Nacho, and you mustn’t think that. The flood killed your parents. Nature killed your parents.’

  ‘I could have saved them if I’d been here,’ he insisted.

  ‘Nacho,’ she said, sitting back, ‘you just have to accept there are some things you can’t control.’

  He was silent for a long time, and then he said, ‘Like you, Grace?’

  As the tension slowly eased between them she relaxed.

  ‘You should stay,’ he said. ‘Stay on h
ere, Grace. Help me to build the vineyards into something we can both be proud of.’

  Hugging her knees, she smiled ruefully and shook her head.

  ‘I’m asking you to stay,’ he said. Taking both her hands in his, he broke the habit of a lifetime to plead for what he knew was right. ‘I’m asking you to stay in Argentina with me. You don’t have to go back to England. I’ll take care of you.’

  ‘No!’ she exclaimed, pulling her hands free. ‘Just listen to yourself, Nacho. I don’t want anyone to take care of me. I’m not an invalid.’

  ‘I phrased that badly.’

  ‘No,’ she said again—more fiercely than before. ‘You phrased that exactly as you meant it to sound.’

  ‘What’s wrong with wanting to protect you and care for you?’ he demanded. ‘Do feelings frighten you, Grace?’

  ‘No. This frightens me,’ she said, sweeping a hand across her eyes. ‘Were you ever frightened of the dark, Nacho?’

  He shook his head, feeling more ashamed at his ignorance of how Grace must be feeling than he had after his own tragedy.

  ‘And if you lived in permanent darkness like me?’ she said.

  ‘I couldn’t begin to imagine it,’ he admitted.

  ‘I used to think I’d know what it was like to be blind—back in the days when cheating was still possible and I put an eye mask on to perform a few simple tasks around the house. Have you ever tried balancing things on a tray with your eyes shut?’

  ‘Grace—all I’m trying to say is that you don’t have to be alone.’

  ‘But I am,’ she said, sounding distraught as she covered her face with her hands. ‘I’m alone in here,’ she insisted, shaking her head.

  ‘What do you miss most?’ he said fiercely, determined to shake her out of this. ‘Come on, Grace—tell me!’ Forced to resort to plucking her fingers from her face, he held them firmly in his as he demanded again, ‘What do you miss the most, Grace?’ He wanted her to taste the same freedom he did after dealing with the past—that sense of being like a helium balloon, flying high and free. ‘Grace?’ he prompted. ‘Tell me.’