Texas Woman

Chapter 7

SLOAN NORMALLY ROSE WITH THE COCK’S CROW and was out in the fields by first light. So she felt chagrined when she awoke on her second day at the Guerrero hacienda and realized daybreak had found her abed. She wasn’t sure what had finally awakened her until she saw the shadowy form sitting beside her on the bed.

She jerked at the sheets to cover herself as she hurriedly sat up. “What are you doing here?”

“I have duties I must see to, and I did not want to leave without speaking with you.”

Sloan had never been more aware of Cruz’s claim on her than now, when he made no apology for observing her in her sleep. “You’re here now. Talk.”

She was startled when he grasped her shoulders and forced her to lie back down. She met his eyes, then let her gaze drop to the long, tanned fingers that touched her skin. Her gaze rose again to meet his, the demand for release there for him to read. He ignored it.

Cruz couldn’t believe the seductive picture she made with her glorious sable hair scattered in abandon on the pillow. She had never looked more like his heart’s desire.

Sloan tensed when Cruz braced his palms on either side of her head, effectively imprisoning her without even laying a hand on her. Her flesh shimmered in excitement. Her blood went streaking through her veins. She felt as though he had taken ropes and spread-eagled her helplessly before him. Her whole body tautened, struggling against invisible bonds, waiting with delicious urgency for what was to come.

“I have made arrangements for you to rest today,” he said, his voice rich and deep.

“I’m not tired.”

“The dark circles under your eyes say otherwise.”

She turned her face away to escape his piercing gaze.

“Look at me.” When she didn’t respond, he reached out to cup her chin with his hand and gently turned her face toward him.

“Humor me. Rest today.”

“And tomorrow?”

“We will speak of that tomorrow.”

“What will you be doing today?” Sloan asked.

“The fall roundup has begun. I ride with my vaqueros.”

“I want to come along.”

“It is not done.” At Sloan’s frown, he added, “A lady does not ride with the vaqueros on Dolorosa.”

Sloan heard the censure in his voice. It was exactly the kind of rein she had expected him to exert on her behavior, but it distressed her to feel its tug so soon. She had trouble keeping the asperity from her voice. “With whom does a lady ride?”

“With her brother or her father… or her husband.”

“So you’re saying that unless you’re my… husband… I can’t ride with you?”

He smiled gently. “That is the way of it.”

“That’s an old-fashioned attitude that doesn’t belong in Texas.”

“In Texas, as elsewhere, a woman obeys her man-as she should.”

“You’re not my man!” Sloan snapped.

“Ah, Cebellina, and whose fault is that?”

The tension crackled between them. She denied his sensual challenge by refusing to acknowledge it. “I need something to keep me busy. I’m used to working. I can’t simply lie abed all day and do nothing. I want to come with you on the roundup.”

“No.”

Sloan looked into Cruz’s deep blue eyes and saw that on this, he would not compromise. Her chin jutted mulishly. “You can’t stop me.”

Before she could react, his fingers had laced with hers above her head, and he had covered her with his body. She stiffened, fighting her body’s riotous reaction to his-tender breasts swollen against a hard chest, a concave belly arching to male hips, slender thighs pressed to corded muscles of steel.

Her voice bit like a whip, hard and sharp. “Let me go.”

“You will stay at the hacienda?”

Sloan’s lip curled derisively. “Is this the way you treat all your guests? Am I a prisoner now?” She watched as chagrin altered his stony countenance, then saw a wry smile forming.

“No one else would dare to provoke me the way you do.”

Cruz caressed the calluses on her hands, recognizing them as the signs of a life spent laboring as no woman should have to do. He wanted to cosset her, to treat her like a queen. But she wanted none of it. He could not help admiring her for her spirit, but at the same time he shook his head in dismay at her willfulness. Perhaps it would not be so bad to let her come with him… another time.

He released her hands but did not free her completely. He felt her shiver as his hands moved slowly down her upraised arms to her shoulders, until he finally curled one hand around her nape. Absently, his fingers threaded through the dark, silky hair.

“How can I convince you to stay here? Shall I say it would please me if you do? I do not understand what makes you want to do a man’s job. Is it not enough simply to be a beautiful woman?”

“No. And I’m not beautiful.”

His hands framed her face to prevent her from looking away from him. “Oh, but you are. Very beautiful.” His thumb brushed her full lips, then traced the arch of her brow. He caressed her high cheekbone, and admired the softness of her skin.

Sloan fought against the tremors that shook her as Cruz’s hands worked their magic. Tonio had never made her feel like this. She was strung tight as a bow with anticipation. She could not move, could not break the contact between them. Her hands were fisted above her head. It was the only way she could resist touching him back.

“You are very tempting, Cebellina,” he murmured.

When she opened her mouth to speak, his fingertips stopped her. “Also very stubborn.” He smiled at her, his eyes lambent with suppressed desire. “I cannot let you come with me on the roundup, but if you must work, then perhaps Mamá can find something for you to do here at the hacienda. Although you must know, there is no need for you to do anything.”

“All right. Fine. I’ll stay here and work in the house.”

Desperate to escape Cruz’s sensual onslaught before she succumbed to it, Sloan would have agreed to anything. The way Cruz made her feel… She could not understand or explain it; she could only fight it. Allowing these feelings to grow could only lead to more pain when she returned to Three Oaks… as she would. As she must.

When his eyes locked on her mouth, she thought he was going to kiss her. She held her breath as he hesitated, suddenly afraid he would not.

His hooded eyes focused on her lips, his nostrils flared for the scent of her. And then his mouth covered hers, their lips clinging for too brief a moment.

Slowly, as though he were tearing himself away and it was a painful thing, he released his hold on her and stood up.

“I will see you at supper tonight,” he said. Then he was gone.

Sloan lay still, waiting for the trembling to stop. She tried not to think about what had happened between her and Cruz, but avoiding the truth wouldn’t change it. She had wanted him to kiss her. She had wanted to kiss him back. How traitorous her body was! It refused to acknowledge the danger Cruz represented. She would have to be more careful. She would have to try harder to stay out of his way. And she would have to make it clear he was no longer welcome in her bedroom.

Sloan exhaled as the tension eased from her body and shook her head in disgust. She had actually agreed to do housework! Stephen usually took care of such matters at Three Oaks. Yet housework would be something to do to pass the time until Cruz returned.

Sloan had no wish to approach Doña Lucia, conscious as she was of the woman’s dislike of her, but she knew herself well enough to realize that she would find staying idle all day a worse penance than any chore a vindictive Doña Lucia could find for her.

In deference to where she was, Sloan put on a simple long-sleeved brown calico dress that she had brought with her in her small carpetbag. The dress buttoned all the way to the neck and had a simple white butterfly collar that she adorned with the one piece of jewelry she owned, a cameo brooch that had belonged to her mother.

Sloan so seldom wore a dress that the strangeness of her attire emphasized her predicament. She endured the awkwardness because she had no other choice. She didn’t like being in corners, and she was determined to find a way out of this one.

Sloan had just put on her shoes when she heard a knock on the door. Before she could respond, Doña Lucia stepped inside.

“My son tells me you want something to do to keep you busy today, Señorita Stewart.”

“I would rather be busy than not,” Sloan replied honestly.

“I have servants to do the work in the house.”

It was plain to Sloan that Doña Lucia not only didn’t want her help, she didn’t want her in the house. She bit her tongue on a sharp reply and said, “I’ll be glad to do anything.”

“Very well. I have asked Josefa to take the rugs outside today and beat them clean. If you would like to help her, you are welcome to do so.”

“Thanks.” Sloan thought she saw a smile appear on Doña Lucia’s face, but if it had been there, it was gone too quickly to comment upon.

Doña Lucia started to leave the room but suddenly stopped and angled her head back toward Sloan. “Stay away from Cisco. Seeing you, talking with you, will only confuse him.”

Sloan, who had fostered no intention of seeking out her son, retorted, “I’ll see him if I please.”

Doña Lucia’s face contorted with fury. As suddenly as she had lost control, she regained it and her features resumed their regal mien. The mellifluous voice gave no evidence of anger when the Spanish woman spoke.

“It is respect for my son that makes me hold my tongue when I wish to speak plainly to you. I do not understand why Cruz has invited you to stay in this house. But he has asked me to extend my courtesy to you. As I honored his father’s wishes when he was patrón, so do I honor my son’s.

“But do not mistake me. I will do what I must to protect Cisco and to see that Señorita Hidalgo is not embarrassed by your presence here.”

The woman was gone before Sloan could respond. What could she have said? Doña Lucia’s animosity was something she would have to bear for however long she stayed at Dolorosa-which she hoped wouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks.

She had been thinking a lot about how she could change Rip’s mind, and the solution that seemed simplest was to stay away from Three Oaks and let him try to manage the harvest on his own. Whether Rip realized it or not, for the past few years she had taken a great deal of the responsibility for Three Oaks on her shoulders. Since his stroke, she had carried it all.

Of course, he could hire an overseer to replace her. But Three Oaks had suffered financial losses for two years in a row, and Rip could ill afford the expense. No. If she just stayed away for a couple of weeks, Rip was bound to discover that he needed her far more than he had ever realized.

He wouldn’t like admitting he had been wrong, but she would make it easier by resisting whatever urge she felt to say “I told you so” when he asked her to come home.

The only thing wrong with such a plan was that it meant she would have to find a way to survive the scorpions and rattlers at Dolorosa until Rip became suitably enlightened. As Sloan was discovering, that wasn’t turning out to be as easy as it might sound.

Sloan convinced Josefa that she wanted to work alone and took advantage of the chore Doña Lucia had given her to beat out her frustration. The job was a dirty one, and before long, her hair and clothing were covered with a fine layer of dust.

Even though it was fall, the sun was warm, and she felt rivulets of sweat trickling between her breasts and down the small of her back. It occurred to her that this work would have been better done in trousers and a shirt. So much for maintaining the facade of femininity.

She was nearly finished when Josefa sought her out. “It is time for the noon meal, señorita.”

“Can you bring me something out here?”

“Oh no, señorita. You are a guest. You must eat at the big table.”

Sloan sighed and did her best to repair the damages. She rinsed her hands and face in the cool water of the tile fountain in the courtyard, then brushed off her dress and hair as best she could. There was nothing she could do about the rings of sweat beneath her arms.

“Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered.

She bit back an even stronger epithet when she saw Tomasita sitting quietly at the table, her shiny, blue-black hair in a neat bun, her pastel green dress an immaculate confection of layered silk and almond lace that fitted her like a glove through the bodice and then flared in gathers at the waist.

Tomasita smiled brightly at Sloan when she saw her. “I looked for you this morning after breakfast, but Doña Lucia told me you had decided to work outside.”

“Uh, yes. I did.” Sloan avoided looking at Doña Lucia, knowing she couldn’t keep a straight face if she did. Before Sloan got a chance to sit down, there was an interruption.

One of Cruz’s vaqueros, a short man with a leathery face that matched the chaparejos he wore to protect his legs from brush, stood with his sombrero in hand at the door to the dining room. He spoke in rapid Spanish to Doña Lucia.

Sloan had spent a great deal of time practicing the language after she had caught Cruz forcing Cisco to learn English so he would be able to communicate with his mother, and she understood the vaquero amazingly well.

“There are three covered wagons camped at the northern border of Dolorosa,” he said, “filled with gringos. A wheel is off one of their wagons. I do not think they know how to fix it.”

“Did you speak with them?” Doña Lucia asked.

“Oh no, señora. I came quickly to tell my patrón what I found.” His face filled with disdain for the gringos. “They cannot care much for their children. They have no sentry posted to watch for Comanches or-”

“They have children with them?” Sloan interrupted in Spanish.

The vaquero turned to her and Sloan saw in his wrinkled brow the same disdain that must have been accorded the white men with the wagons. “Sí, señorita. Two young boys and a little girl.”

Sloan turned to Doña Lucia. “We have to help them.”

The vaquero looked to Doña Lucia to see whether she agreed.

Doña Lucia bent her head slightly to the vaquero in dismissal. “You may go now. I will tell my son what you have seen.”

He never looked at Sloan again, only nodded his head in obeisance and left.

“It will be dark before Cruz comes back. We have to send help now,” Sloan said. “Those people are in danger every moment their wagon is disabled.”

“This is not your concern. My son will settle the matter when he returns.”

“But there are children-”

“My son will take care of the matter,” Doña Lucia said, her voice hard.

“If you won’t do something, I will.” Sloan was up and gone from the table before Doña Lucia could say anything to stop her. She ran outside after the vaquero, who had stepped back into his saddle.

“Wait!”

The vaquero paused at Sloan’s command, uncertain whether he should obey, but afraid to disobey.

“Where are the wagons? Can you take me back to them?” she asked in Spanish.

Startled, the vaquero’s eyes skipped over the dress she wore, wondering how a woman such as she could hope to be any help. “Sí, I can take you to them. But how-”

“Wait here while I change into riding clothes, and I’ll come with you. Don’t leave. Ask someone to saddle my horse for me.” She waited a moment to make sure the vaquero understood before she whirled and ran back into the house.

Sloan stripped quickly to her chemise and pantalets, then yanked on her osnaburg trousers, a long-sleeved gingham shirt, vest, socks, and Wellingtons. She stuck her flat-brimmed hat on her head and strapped on a knife with her belt. Grabbing the two Colt Pattersons in the holsters designed to fit across her saddle, she settled them across her shoulder. Finally, she picked up her Kentucky rifle and checked to make sure she had ammunition.

Sloan had seen the gruesome remains of a Comanche attack in the past and had no desire to be a part of such a tragedy. She would make sure the women and children were taken somewhere safe to wait until the wheel was repaired. A broken-down covered wagon in the Texas wilderness was not a safe place to be.

By the time she reached the dining room again, she felt more like herself. It was amazing what a difference it made to be wearing pants and boots. “I’ll be back as quickly as possible. If I’m not here when Cruz returns, tell him where I am.”

Sloan had completely forgotten about Tomasita, but the young woman’s frightened voice stopped her before she could leave. “Why are you doing this?”

“Those people need help.”

“But you do not even know them!”

Sloan smiled at Tomasita’s naïveté. “Neither do the Comanches. That won’t stop them from killing and scalping the men, raping the women, or taking the children captive. All I’m offering is simple Texas hospitality. I’m sure Cruz would do the same if he knew they needed help.”

“Why do you not wait for Don Cruz?”

“If I wait it may be too late.” With that, she turned on her heel and left.

It never occurred to Sloan to wait for Cruz, because she was used to doing things for herself, used to taking action where action was warranted. Nor did she consider what Cruz’s reaction would be to her precipitous journey. It simply didn’t matter. Delay might mean death to those who were stranded.

It took nearly two hours to reach their destination. By then it was late afternoon. But Sloan knew the fate of the immigrants long before they reached the wagons.

There were vultures circling overhead.

“There is nothing we can do, señorita. We must go back now,” the vaquero said when he spied the black cloud of birds.

“Someone may still be alive,” Sloan said.

The vaquero shook his head. “Those who may have survived the Comanches are better left to the vultures. It is not safe here. The Comanches may still be near. We must go back.”

“You go back if you must. I’m going on.”

The vaquero was clearly torn, but he remembered that Doña Lucia had agreed to tell El Patrón what he had found, and surely El Patrón could not blame him if he did not follow this strange, foolish woman to her death. “Adiós, señorita. Vaya con Dios.”

Sloan sat for a moment without moving. The vaquero was probably right. About everything. The danger was real. The possibility of finding someone alive was slim. And yet, what if someone had survived? She spurred her horse and headed for the immigrants’ wagons.

What she saw when she arrived at the camp sickened her.

A young man lay where he had fallen, an arrow in his throat and another in his chest. He had been partially scalped, and only patches of his red hair remained.

She forced her gaze away from him and found another young man sprawled not far away, an arrow in his leg and several more in his arms and chest.

She saw a woman on her side, with her arm outstretched toward one of the fallen men. She had an arrow in her stomach… but her back looked like a pincushion.

The bile rose in Sloan’s throat. She quickly searched the barren plains for any sign of the Comanches, but saw nothing. Were the Comanches still out there? She felt the hairs rise on her neck. Maybe they were watching her right now, so rocklike and still that she couldn’t discern them.

She steeled herself to walk farther into the pitiful circle of Conestoga wagons. Here she found yet another man and woman. The woman had been shot in the back of the head. The man had put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Flies buzzed around their heads, nature’s fanfare for two tragic deaths.

Sloan staggered a few steps away and dropped to her knees to retch. When she was done, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and turned back to survey the carnage.

The two boys and the little girl the vaquero had mentioned-the children she had come specifically to rescue-were not here. Sloan shuddered to think of their fate as captives of the brutal Comanches.

She wished she had never come here. And she was getting the hell out of here as fast as she could!

Sloan started walking toward her horse, which was tied to one of the high yellow Conestoga wheels. As soon as she turned her back on the dead couple, she heard a noise behind her.

She broke into a run.

The noise followed her.

Sloan was too afraid to look back and identify the danger, afraid of what she would see. She had nearly reached her horse when she heard a child’s screech of terror.

Sloan whirled in her tracks and was astonished to see a fragile little girl of five or six racing toward her at breakneck speed. The little girl threw herself into Sloan’s arms, which were open to receive her, and clung desperately to Sloan’s neck while her legs wrapped themselves in a death grip around Sloan’s waist. The child repeated one word over and over, sobbing hysterically.

“Mama, mama, mama, mama, mama…”

“It’s all right, baby,” Sloan crooned as she rocked the child in her arms. “Everything’s all right now. I have you now. You’re okay. Everything’s okay. Easy, baby. It’s all right.”

Sloan spoke the words without realizing what she said. Nothing in this child’s world was all right. Nothing was okay. But she rocked and crooned until the child was quiet, though the little girl continued to shiver in Sloan’s arms.

“Do you have a name?” Sloan asked.

The little girl nodded solemnly.

“What is it?”

“Betsy.”

“How would you like to take a ride on my horse, Betsy?”

“I’m not allowed to ride. I’m too little.”

“How would it be if I hold you in my arms?”

“Okay.”

Sloan carried Betsy over to her stallion and reached out to stroke the animal’s neck. “He’s a very friendly horse. Would you like to pet him, too?”

The little blond girl reached out a hand and tentatively patted the horse. When the animal turned its head toward her, she quickly snatched back her hand.

“He won’t bite you,” Sloan reassured the child. “He’s only curious. All right, now. I’m going to set you up here in the saddle and-”

Sloan froze as she recognized the sound of unshod horses coming at a gallop. She yanked Betsy down out of the saddle and settled the child on her hip. She grabbed her revolvers and a belt of ammunition and threw them under the nearest Conestoga. As the hoofbeats came nearer she crouched low to the ground, cocooning the child in her arms as she slipped under the wagon for the meager protection it provided.

As she did, the sun slipped beyond the horizon. It was the moment between “can see” and “can’t.” She knew the Comanches never attacked at night, afraid that if they were killed, their spirits would be doomed to wander forever in the darkness. If she could only hold off the savages for a little while, surely Cruz would come looking for her and find them before morning.

She curled her body around the child at the same time she reached for one of the Pattersons. The Comanches would not find her easy prey. She didn’t intend to be taken without a fight.