had used her capabilities for his own purposes, with complete disregard for any true feelings she might have. She stabbed the brush back into the can. “I’m good at showing up on time in the appropriate outfit, and saying the right things.” She realized how empty and foolish that sounded. “I’m not good at much, it seems.”
“Those things have their place,” he said graciously, and she began to feel a bit better. “But not at an estancia.”
The bubble burst. “I’m beginning to see that.”
“Giving in?” he asked mildly.
She took out her brush and gave the window trim an extra swipe. “You wish. Maybe it’s time I learned a new skill set. How’m I doing?”
It felt wonderful to let some of the old resentment go, to look forward. When she got back to Ottawa, she’d make some changes. She’d already resigned her job and this time she’d do something she enjoyed. Truth be told, she hated politics. She frowned, her brush strokes slowing. She thought about all the private meetings she’d set up, the hand shaking and air kissing. It was all so fake. There wasn’t a man or woman among that crowd who wouldn’t stab you in the back if it suited them. Then she thought of the wardrobe sitting in her suitcases. Yes, she loved those pretty things. They had made her feel feminine and, in her own way, important.
But maybe, just maybe, she’d sold her soul a bit to get them. Maybe Antoine hadn’t been the only one to lie. Maybe she’d been lying to herself, too. Maybe she’d made up for the lack of the right things in her life by filling it up with stuff. Was she more like her mother than she thought? For years her mother had insisted Sophia participate in one thing or another, when all she had wanted was to curl up in her room with a good book. When had that shifted? When had status become so important to her, too?
How many other lies had she told herself?
She bit down on her lip and dipped her brush in the can. It was something to think about.
CHAPTER THREE
SHE was so lost in her ponderings that she didn’t notice a long drip of paint trickling down the side of the building. “Watch what you’re doing,” Tomas called. “You’ll want to swipe that drip.”
It annoyed her to be under his supervision and she gritted her teeth, taking the brush and swiping it down the side of the shed. She was nearly to the bottom when a movement caught her eye. She jumped backwards, sending the paint can flying. At the clatter, Tomas came running around the corner while Sophia stared at the grass, shuddering. “Kill it! Kill it, Tomas!”
Tomas held his paint brush aloft as he stepped ahead to see what the trouble was. When he saw it, he scowled.
“It’s a little wolf spider, that’s all.”
“Little?” she gasped. She shuddered and took another step back. Anything with a body bigger than a dime lost the right to be called “little” when it came to spiders, and this one was substantially larger than that. “You call that thing little?”
“It won’t bite you. Even if it did, it wouldn’t kill you.”
Wouldn’t kill her. There was a sense of relief knowing it wasn’t poisonous, but Sophia’s skin still crawled at the thought of the hairy eight-legged monster getting anywhere near her. She hated spiders. Hated them! The look of them. The thought of their legs on her skin. And the one at the base of the shed was the biggest she’d ever seen.
Tomas went forward and merely touched the spider with the end of his brush. The contact made it scuttle away to parts unknown. He picked up the paint can. Half the contents were on the grass, and wide white splashes went up the side of the shed, spatters on the glass of the window. He sighed, the sound impatient and aggravated.
He patiently took his brush and, with no concern for spiders whatsoever, moved it back and forth over the wall to blend in the spilled paint.
It made Sophia feel completely and utterly foolish. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I have a thing about spiders.” A huge thing. She knew she looked silly and the words to exonerate herself sat on her tongue. But she could not tell him why. It was too personal. Too hurtful.
“Maybe you’d like to work on the other side,” he suggested. “I can finish here.”
She would be a wreck trying to paint and watch for spiders at the same time. Maybe she looked like a diva, but even the thought of one crawling up her leg made her weak. Spiders and dark places were the two things she simply could not handle. “Will you check it for spiders first?”
He had to think her the most vapid female on the planet. But she could never tell him the real reason why she was afraid. The hours spent in the cellar had shaped her more than she could express. There’d been spiders there, too. Just small ones, but they’d crawled over her arms and she’d brushed them away, unable to see them. She’d held on to her tears that day until one had crept through her hair. It had completely undone her.
This was bad enough. She didn’t need to let Tomas see any more of her faults.
Tomas accommodated her indulgence and checked the wall, foundation and grass surrounding the area. “Satisfied?”
“Yes, thank you.” Sophia was embarrassed now. No wonder Tomas looked at her as though she was more trouble than she was worth. She dipped her brush and continued where Tomas had left off, determined to overcome the panic that still threaded through her veins. Not that she didn’t watch. She did. Her eyes were peeled for any sign of foreign creatures. But if another spider came by, she would not scream or throw her paint can. She would shoo it away, just as Tomas had done.
The sun climbed higher in the sky and the air held a touch of humidity. Sweat formed on Sophia’s brow as they worked on into the morning. She was beginning to appreciate all that went into a place like this. It wasn’t just meals and fresh linen and saddling a horse or two. It was upkeep, making sure things were well-kept and neat. The plain shed was starting to look quite nice, matching all the other buildings with their fresh white paint, and there was a sense of pride in knowing it was partly to do with her efforts. There was pleasure to be found in the simplicity of the task. It was just painting, with no other purpose to serve, no ulterior motives or strategies. The sound of the bristles on the wood. The whisper of the breeze in the pampas grass, the mellow heat of the late summer sun.
She sneaked glances around the side of the building at Tomas. He had mentioned that Carlos had taught him the ways of the gaucho, but he had said nothing about himself, about where he came from. He could dress in work clothes but there was something about him, a bearing, perhaps, that made her think he wasn’t from here. That perhaps he was better educated than he first appeared.
It was nearly noon when they finished the first coat, and Tomas poured what was left in their paint cans into the bucket, sealing the lid for another day and a second coat. “It’s going to look good,” he said, tapping the lid in place. He picked up the bucket and she watched the muscles in his arm flex as he carried it to the barn. She followed him, carrying the brushes, feeling indignation begin to burn. That was it? She’d worked her tail off all morning, and his only praise was It’s going to look good? She sniffed. Perhaps what Tomas needed was a lesson in positive reinforcement. Or just being plain old nice!
She trailed behind him as they entered the barn. It was as neat as everything else on the estancia. The concrete floor was cool, the rooms and stalls sturdy and clean, the scents those of horses, fresh hay and aging wood. Tomas
