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But she had chosen to go forward without him. He would have to learn to respect her decision, even though he would never stop loving her.
Loss clawed at his chest.
He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead to keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes. The valley was hot, no matter what time of day or year, because a geothermal vent spewed steam into the air, and the surrounding cliffs trapped the heat. That was one element in the unique microclimate that gave the lilies their medicinal power.
If only he could sweat his feelings out of his body.
For a few hours after the audition, he had felt like he stood atop the cliffs of Acantilado Alto, reveling in the expansive view and the fresh wind. Because of him, a superstar would headline Caleva’s nascent arts festival. The world’s premier tocaora wanted to play his original composition. And the extraordinary woman he loved had been by his side through all of it.
Then he had plummeted off his high perch to crash onto the jagged rocks below.
Maybe he was asking too much of Quinn. He understood the need to protect her father, no matter how angry she was with him. Brendan was flawed, but he loved his daughter. Quinn loved Brendan as well, or she wouldn’t have sacrificed herself for him. Gabriel admired her even more because she had shielded her father despite his shortcomings.
A sound of frustration and loneliness tore itself from his throat. He sagged forward over his knees.
“I had hoped not to see you here again.” A raspy voice yanked Gabriel out of his cloud of self-pity.
“Santiago!” Gabriel called out. He looked around to find the elderly man standing two rows over, the tall green lily plants reaching nearly to his waist, his white T-shirt clinging damply to his stooped shoulders. Santiago’s silver hair stood out from his head like a bushy halo, while the wrinkles in his tanned skin glinted with perspiration. “How are you, viejo?” Gabriel asked as he pushed himself to his feet.
“Eh, I’m old, as you say, but I am happy to still be here,” Santiago said. “You are not happy, though, mijo, or you would not be picking lily buds.”
After the kidnapping, the old gardener had been the one to teach Gabriel how to work the lilies, a painstaking, labor-intensive process that had to be done by hand. In fact, Santiago had told him that he had the fingers for it, thanks to his years of playing flamenco guitar.
“Not everyone has the strength and the gentleness to tend the lilies,” Santiago had said as he had taught Gabriel the technique. “You have a special talent.”
Back then, Gabriel’s maimed soul had needed those words like the lilies needed the hot vapor.
Gabriel lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his face.
“Good! You are sweating,” Santiago said. “That will wash away your troubles.”
Santiago had never asked about the kidnapping, nor would he ask why Gabriel was here now.
“Does the sweat wash away your troubles?” Gabriel asked, thinking of his earlier wish.
Santiago shrugged. “Maybe it just cleanses them, like water flushes a wound, so they don’t fester.”
“Were you always a philosopher, or did working with the lilies turn you into one?” Gabriel had once found Santiago’s attitude of acceptance soothing.
“This place”—Santiago swept his arm around to encompass the carved gray cliffs, the drifts of steam, and the blanket of pale green plants scattered with dots of dark maroon where some of the lilies had bloomed—“seems never to change, and yet it changes constantly. It is out of time, and yet time is of the essence. That will make a philosopher out of anyone who has a brain in his head.”
“I must not spend enough time here, then.”
“You are still very young.” Right now, Gabriel felt older than Santiago looked. “Go back to the lilies,” Santiago said, sensing Gabriel’s misery. “They will help you. And if they don’t, at least you will have made a contribution to the coffers of Caleva.” The old man chortled and hobbled away.
Gabriel sank to his knees, scanning the next plant for hidden buds, spotting one emerging from behind a leaf and removing it with gentle care. He shifted to the next plant, blinking as the salt from his sweat burned his eyes. Or maybe the salt came from his tears.
Pain lanced through him, and he braced his hands on his thighs while he gulped in air. Quinn’s absence felt like a hole had been drilled into his heart.
“Buenos días, Gabriel.” His father’s voice sliced through his agony and then rubbed the salt into it. El Duque de Bruma was the last person Gabriel wanted to see right now.
“Madre de Dios, why are you here?” Gabriel lifted his head but remained kneeling in the hope that his father would go away.
“Are you all right?” Lorenzo approached through the lilies, his blue shirt stained with sweat. He held out the bottle of water he carried. “Take this, hijo.”
Gabriel accepted the bottle so his father would have no excuse to stay. “Gracias.” He twisted off the cap and took a long swallow, the cold liquid welcome in the heat. He had stupidly forgotten to bring his own water. He offered the bottle to his father, who waved it away.
“I know this is your sanctuary.” Lorenzo squatted on his heels to bring himself level with Gabriel. “I cannot blame you for coming here after what happened in New York.” His father closed his eyes for a moment. “You came so close to—” His voice broke. “But you are alive.”
