Texas Woman

Chapter 8

“I’VE COME TO SEE SLOAN STEWART.”

Tomasita stared entranced into the gold-flecked hazel eyes of the young man who stood before her. His tall, lean body was slouched deceptively in an easygoing, loose-limbed posture. His thumbs were hooked into the waist of his fringed buckskin trousers, his right hip cocked at a comfortable angle. “She is not here.”

“Where is she?”

“I do not know.”

The young man flashed her a teasing, confident smile that took her breath away, and Tomasita realized she should not have answered the door. Never having greeted a man without her father or her duenna to chaperon, she had no idea what she should say or do next.

She was horribly conscious of the casual way she was dressed. Her short-sleeved embroidered white camisa had a wide yoke that tended to slip off her shoulders and hug the swell of her breasts and her plain black wool skirt didn’t come down far enough to conceal the simple leather sandals on her feet. She looked more like one of the pobres, the peasants who lived in the village, than the future wife of the don.

She couldn’t help staring at the stranger, noting the triangle of bare bronze skin at the opening of his navy blue linsey-woolsey shirt, the size and shape of his hands as they splayed across his belly, and the blunt fingertips that drew her gaze to the display of his masculinity in the form-fitting buckskins.

She followed the movement of his hands as he slipped his worn, flat-brimmed felt hat off his head, releasing a tumble of sun-streaked brown hair over his brow. Then he thrust his fingers through the silky stuff to shove it away from his sun-browned face.

Tomasita knew she should speak, but she found her senses occupied with the curious feelings roiling about inside her. Her abdomen pulled tight, as though someone had yanked a drawstring shut. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath and brought her hand up to her chest as though that might prod her lungs into action.

She remained silent, unmoving, overwhelmed.

The matter was resolved for her when the tall stranger pushed the door farther open and stepped inside.

“I’m Luke Summers. Sloan’s brother.”

“Oh.” Tomasita searched for something to say besides how relieved she was that he was related to Don Cruz’s guest and not some bandido who had come to rob the hacienda and ravish her. She chided herself for her vivid imagination, but with the wild stories she had been told since she had arrived in Texas, surely it was understandable.

“May I come in?” Luke asked.

Since he was already inside, Tomasita said, “But of course, come in,” and stepped back quickly as he closed the door behind him.

Fortunately-or perhaps unfortunately, Tomasita thought with a wistful sigh as she sneaked a glance at the handsome man from beneath lowered lashes-Doña Lucia heard her speaking to someone and came to investigate.

“Who is it, Tomasita?”

“Señor Summers has come to see Señorita Stewart.” Tomasita saw the censure in Doña Lucia’s eyes, and hurried to add, “I was going to come find you-”

“Go to your room, Tomasita.”

Tomasita dropped her chin to her chest and lowered her eyes, humiliated at being ordered about like a child in the presence of the handsome young man. But she did not dare disobey. She knew Doña Lucia was only acting to protect her reputation.

She had been wrong to open the door, wrong to speak to the stranger without a chaperon present. The only dowry she had to offer a husband here in this new land was her purity. Don Cruz would not want a wife who had been sullied by the touch of another.

Yet Luke Summers had not threatened her. She had felt only warmth as he had gazed into her eyes. She stole a peek over her shoulder before she left the room and found his golden eyes admiring her. And then-he winked at her!

Tomasita gasped in disbelief. No man had ever presumed to do such a thing! Was this the result of her wanton boldness in answering the door unchaperoned?

Not watching where she was going, she stumbled over a rough woven rug made of jerga. Her blush spread heat from her neck to her cheeks. Her hands flew to her face to hide the rosy marks as she fled the room.

She reached her bedroom and pressed the door closed behind her, feeling safe in the cool sanctuary. Moving quickly, she kneeled on the prie-dieu, the low padded bench at the base of the recessed arch that held a painted wooden statue of the Virgin Mary.

She crossed herself and folded her hands tightly before her to stop their trembling. Holy Mary! What was wrong with her? Had Luke Summers seen something in her eyes, something in her stance, that had given him permission for what he had done? But how thrilling it had been!

She bit her lip in consternation while wrinkles formed on her smooth brow. She was betrothed to Don Cruz. She had no right to be thrilled by another man’s look. She had no business even thinking such thoughts. And, she solemnly vowed, she would not think of the young man… Luke… of the warm, golden hazel eyes… ever again.

Tomasita pressed her hands hard against her thumping heart and began the prayer of forgiveness she had learned from the sisters in the convent she had left behind for a new life in Texas.

Doña Lucia Esmeralda Sandoval de Guerrero raised herself to her full, estimable stature and stared down her aquiline nose at the young Texas Ranger who stood before her in the sala.

“She is not for you.”

Luke didn’t bat an eyelash. The Spanish woman couldn’t have spoken words more sure to provoke him if she had planned them for months. Yet he gave no outward indication that he had taken umbrage. “I didn’t come to see the girl. I came to see my sister. Where’s Sloan?”

Doña Lucia frowned in confusion and for the first time noticed that the man in front of her had a revolver stuck in his belt. “That woman has no brother.”

“We share the same father.”

Doña Lucia’s frown deepened, and she made no effort to hide her scorn. “What business do you have with Señorita Stewart?”

“I want to talk with her.”

“That will not be possible.”

Luke had kept his tone polite, his manner charming, or at least as charming as the situation allowed. That was his way-preferring honey to vinegar. But the woman was trying even his infinite patience. “Get Sloan.”

“She is not here,” Doña Lucia explained, suddenly aware of the threat posed by the deceptively relaxed man who stood before her.

“Not here?”

Doña Lucia’s lips pursed in a moue of contempt. “She left several hours ago-dressed in men’s trousers-with one of my son’s vaqueros. I do not know when she will return.”

Luke suspected it would be as useless to prod Doña Lucia for more information as it would be to fight quicksand. He reined his temper and said, “Tell Sloan I was here looking for her, and that I’ll be back.”

Doña Lucia nodded imperiously.

He turned at the door and said, “And say good-bye to Tomasita for me.”

“I will say nothing to the girl. Stay away from her.”

Luke’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice was almost pleasant when he tipped his hat and said, “I can find my own way out.”

As Doña Lucia watched him leave, a chill of foreboding shot up her spine. She did not like that one. Trouble seethed inside him.

She rolled the golden wedding band around and around on the third finger of her left hand. It was a nervous habit she had developed after Juan Carlos’s death, a tangible reminder of her widowhood and what her destiny might be if her son married a woman whom she could not control.

Cruz must marry Tomasita. She was of noble blood. She was pure. And she was as malleable as butter softened by the sun. Doña Lucia would settle for nothing less in her son’s wife.

Doña Lucia was waiting for Cruz in the sala when he arrived home that evening, dressed like his vaqueros in a wool shirt overlaid by a striped poncho, with rawhide chaparejos to protect his buckskin britches. His only concession to his status as don were the black Cordovan leather boots to which his large rowled Mexican spurs were attached.

He was covered with trail dust and worn from a day spent chasing Spanish longhorns. He had barely stepped through the front door when Doña Lucia rose and confronted him.

“We must talk about Tomasita.”

Cruz slid his flat-brimmed black hat back off his head, letting the tie-string catch it at his throat as it fell. He ran a tired hand through his hair, brushing the damp curls off his brow where they had been flattened by his hat.

His eyes surreptitiously combed the room and the hall beyond, searching for Sloan. When he didn’t see her, he turned back to his mother.

“Good evening, Mamá.” A weary smile curved his lips. “Have you a brandy to offer me?”

For a moment it seemed Doña Lucia would demand their discussion come first, but she turned abruptly and sought out the crystal decanter on an ornately carved credenza. She poured out a small measure of brandy into a silver goblet and turned to find that Cruz had removed his hat and settled himself into one of the rawhide chairs situated before the stone fireplace.

“Gracias,” he said, accepting the brandy. Doña Lucia paced the room while he took his time sipping the mellow-tasting golden liquid. “So. What is wrong with Tomasita? Is she unhappy? Does she want for anything?”

“She wants only a husband to make her a wife,” Doña Lucia said, impatient with her son’s attitude toward the young woman. “Your father promised you would wed the girl when she was of age. It is past time you kept that promise.”

Cruz hadn’t changed his mind about marrying Tomasita, and his mother had to know it. “When the roundup is finished, I will find the girl a husband.”

Doña Lucia crossed to Cruz and stared down at him, her black eyes flashing. “You are the husband for her. If you do not lay claim now to what is yours, it may be too late for anyone to take her to wife.”

Cruz sat forward, suddenly all attention. “What are you saying?”

“Today a man, Luke Summers, came to the door asking for Señorita Stewart.”

“Luke is Sloan’s half-brother.” Cruz refrained from adding that Luke was also now heir to Three Oaks.

“So I learned. Tomasita answered the door to this man. She is an impressionable young woman, and Señor Summers was very charming. If I had not arrived when I did…” Doña Lucia let her voice trail off as though Tomasita’s ravishment were a foregone conclusion.

“I know Luke. Tomasita was in no danger. He would touch no woman who was not willing,” Cruz said certainly.

“Ah, but therein lies the problem,” Doña Lucia said. “Tomasita was totally in awe of the young man, no doubt a result of all those years spent among the sisters. Although that is where a young woman of good family should be kept until her husband comes to claim her.”

Doña Lucia carefully adjusted the lace ruffle on one of her elbow-length taffeta sleeves before she continued, “You must declare yourself. You must announce your engagement to Tomasita to protect her good name and yours.”

Cruz set his brandy on the delicate spool-legged table next to the sturdy rawhide chair, then languidly rose and walked to the fireplace. He pressed his palms hard against the stone mantel, arching his back to stretch out the stiffness that came from a day spent in the saddle. “I do not wish to discuss this any further.”

“You must marry Tomasita.”

“I cannot.”

“Why not?” Doña Lucia pressed, her voice sharp with anxiety. She had begun to have her suspicions, since that woman had come to Dolorosa, that her son might have fixed his attentions where he should not.

Cruz looked away toward the smooth Talavera jar, his jaw rigid. “Perhaps I should say instead that I choose not to marry her.”

Doña Lucia felt the knot growing inside her. “It is that woman. She is the reason you do not choose to make your vows to Tomasita.”

Cruz tensed, then turned slowly to confront his mother. “Who told you such a thing?”

“Then it is true?”

“My reasons for taking or not taking a wife are my own.”

“I saw you coming from that woman’s room this morning-”

“Enough!” Cruz interrupted. He asked the question that had been foremost in his mind since he had walked through the door. “Where is Señorita Sloan?”

“Who knows?” Doña Lucia said.

“Send someone to find her. I wish to speak with her,” he said, by now equally aggravated.

“She is gone.”

Cruz felt his heart skip a beat. “Gone? Gone where? When did she leave?”

Cruz’s evident concern for the woman annoyed Doña Lucia even further. “Paco came at mid-meal with a message for you about some gringo wagons broken down on Dolorosa land. That woman took it into her head to go there by herself.”

“You did not think to send word to me of this?”

Doña Lucia saw the anger blazing in her son’s eyes and, underlying it, something else very much like fear. “Why should you care-”

He was halfway to the door when he said, “Send someone to Paco’s jacal to find him and bring him to the stable. I will wait there for him.” On his way out the door, he yelled for another servant to send someone to the village for his foreman Miguel and the rest of his vaqueros.

It was clear now to Doña Lucia that her son cared for the gringa a great deal more than was proper for a man who was betrothed to someone else. Doña Lucia began planning at that moment to make certain that this impediment was removed.

If Cruz would not send that woman away, then she, his mother, would have to do what must be done. She would be first in her own home, first with her son-no matter what steps she had to take to accomplish it.

Cruz had cinched the high-cantled Spanish saddle on his golden bayo when Paco arrived breathless at the stable door.

“Patrón?” he called out anxiously. He had half expected this summons after he had left the woman by herself to find the gringo wagons. Had he done wrong? One look at El Patrón’s face convinced him that his carefully thought out excuses would not serve.

El Patrón cared for his people, much as a father cared for his children. But likewise, the pobres owed obedience and service to their master. The old don had been a fair man. His son had proved himself the same.

Yet there was a steely hardness in the son that had not been present in the father, and a fierceness that Paco had seen aroused in Don Cruz but which had heretofore always been kept under control. The vaquero shuddered to think of that ominous wrath unleashed on any man, but most especially on himself.

Cruz led his horse to the stable door, appearing like an avenging devil out of the darkness. “Today you escorted Señorita Stewart to the gringo wagons on my land?”

Paco quickly crossed himself and mumbled, “I only did as the señorita asked. No more. No less.”

“Can you take me there?”

“Sí, Patrón.”

“Let us go, then. Pronto!”

Cruz vaulted into the saddle even as his vaquero did the same. Once he had collected the other vaqueros, they rode fast, using the light of the full moon to show them the way.

Cruz knew the Comanches frequently took advantage of the full moon, often called a Comanche moon, to travel on their raids of the white settlements. He felt a prickle of unease and spurred his bayo to greater speed, trusting the stallion to make good use of the day-bright moonlight.

While they rode, Cruz questioned Paco about the gringos. How many were there? Were they well armed? How had they greeted Sloan? He jerked his bayo to a halt when the vaquero admitted that after seeing the vultures hovering over the gringo camp, he had left Señorita Sloan to go on to the wagons alone.

“You saw vultures?”

“Sí, Patrón.”

“And you left the woman to go on by herself?”

The vaquero sat stoically awaiting El Patrón’s judgment as he confessed, “Sí, Patrón.”

It was only with the greatest effort that Cruz kept himself from felling the man with his fist. Instead, he whirled his mount and brutally spurred the stallion into a gallop.

As he rode, his anger with Sloan grew out of control. She had promised she would stay at the hacienda. He grimaced. No, she had not promised anything. He should have known better than to leave her alone. He should have realized she would do exactly as she pleased.

The fluffy white covers sat like grounded clouds on the immigrants’ wagons, yet Cruz breathed no sigh of relief upon seeing them. For there was no cheery fire in the center of the small grouping of tall, swaybacked Conestogas, nor was there the acrid smell of smoke to suggest that a fire had recently been snuffed. There was no movement of any kind. It was too quiet.

Cruz pulled his bayo to an abrupt halt and signaled his vaqueros to silence. He searched the nearly flat terrain that surrounded them and noted there was a stand of brush and mesquite trees along the creek a short distance from the wagons. A perfect hideout for Comanches. Cruz felt himself go cold. He had not waited all these years for Sloan Stewart only to lose her to a Comanche lance.

He dismounted and handed his reins to the nearest vaquero. “Wait here while Miguel and I see if there is anyone in the wagons.”

Cruz’s segundo Miguel slid from the saddle, and the two of them moved in opposite directions yet in tandem toward the silent camp.

Paco watched with disbelieving eyes as his patrón and the older vaquero disappeared into the undergrowth. He knew how lucky he was to still be unpunished, but he wondered fearfully what El Patrón would do to him if he did not find the woman he sought.

By the time Cruz reached the wagons, he was certain he would find no one alive. In that he was correct, but he was confused by what he did find. The bodies of two men and women, riddled with arrows, and the bodies of another man and woman killed by bullets, lay inside the circle of wagons. Only one of the dead had been scalped, and the job had been half done, as though something had interrupted the Comanches in their gruesome work. Yet the Conestogas had been completely ransacked, their contents spilling from the wagon beds like beans from a broken jar.

Cruz closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He did not want to believe the Comanches had taken Sloan. In such a way had Sloan’s sister Bayleigh disappeared into Comanchería. It had taken three years, and a stroke of blind luck, for Long Quiet to find and rescue her.

Cruz met Miguel at the center of the circle of wagons. “Comanches!” he spat. “Did you see any signs that they have taken the woman I seek?”

He was asking Miguel for a word of hope, but he trusted the vaquero to tell him the truth.

“I cannot tell, Patrón.”

“Can we catch them?”

Miguel squatted in the grass next to one of the dead. “The Comanches were here maybe five, maybe six hours ago. They will not stop until they are safe in Comanchería. But there is something else here I do not understand.”

Cruz followed Miguel’s gaze and saw the clothing and tools tossed here and there at random in the circle of wagons. “I know what you mean,” Cruz said. “The Comanches would have taken as many of these things with them as they could carry… and they would have scalped all of these settlers. Unless…”

“… unless someone else was here and ran them off,” Miguel finished. “Bandidos, maybe?”

Cruz pushed his hat off his head and let the tie-string catch it so he could thrust a hand through his hair. “That seems most likely, judging from the condition of the wagons. But who took my-Señorita Stewart? And where are the children Paco mentioned? Do the Comanches have them? Or the bandidos?”

Miguel shook his head. “There is no way of knowing.”

“Then we will have to follow both. You take half the vaqueros and go after the Comanches. I will follow the bandidos with the rest.”

“The roundup-”

“The roundup will have to wait,” Cruz snarled. He left Miguel and stalked back through the circle of Conestogas to where he had left his vaqueros waiting. When he arrived, he simply stood there, his face twisted in a scowl of rage.

“Patrón?” Paco’s terrified voice brought Cruz from his nightmarish thoughts.

“Juan, Luis,” he said to the two closest vaqueros. “You stay here and bury the dead. Tomorrow, get someone to fix that broken wheel and find mules to haul these wagons back to the hacienda. Also, send a message to the Texas Rangers in San Antonio to see if they can discover whether these people have any family who should be advised of their deaths.”

He turned to Paco and said, “Tell Doña Lucia what happened here, and that I will not be returning until I have found Señorita Stewart.”

“Sí, Patrón.”

Cruz’s thoughts were bleak as he watched Paco cross himself in fervent relief and spur his mount away.

Miguel had followed Cruz away from the wagons but had stopped to examine the tracks on the ground. “There is something more here, Patrón, that you should see.”

Cruz kneed his stallion over to the spot where Miguel knelt next to a jumble of hoofprints.

“These tracks were not made by Indian ponies,” the vaquero said.

Cruz read the sign that headed west toward Goliad and San Antonio. Suddenly, he felt the urgency to be gone from this place, a need to know what waited for him at the end of the trail.

“Vaya con Dios, Miguel. Till we meet again.”

Cruz kicked his fatigued bayo into a gallop without thought to the equally tired vaqueros who followed doggedly after him. He was calm. Too calm.

Anyone who knew him well would have realized the signs of danger. Like a feral animal, he hunted his prey. He relished the fight to come. His nostrils flared at the remembered scent of blood, the feel of flesh against his fist. If his wife had been hurt…

He forced his mind away from that thought, but it kept returning. His eyes narrowed, and his jaw tautened. He would kill any man who had harmed a hair on her head.