Texas Woman

Chapter 2

“I HAVE COME FOR MY WIFE.”

Rip Stewart leaned back in his rocker on the front porch of Three Oaks until the floorboards creaked. His flinty gray eyes never left the tall, proud Spaniard who stood spread-legged, fists on hips, confronting him. Cruz Guerrero wasn’t a man to be crossed. “And who might that be?” Rip inquired.

“Your daughter Sloan.”

Rip threw back his head and bellowed with laughter. “You want to back up and try that again?”

“You did not mistake me. I have come to take Sloan to Rancho Dolorosa as my wife.”

Rip’s auburn hair, tinged now with silver, fell in careless hanks over his brow as he shook his head in disbelief. “There’s been some mistake here, son. Sloan didn’t say anything to me this morning about going anywhere with you-not as your wife or otherwise.

“I’ll admit I made plans with your father before he died to have you marry my youngest girl Cricket. But my eldest daughter Sloan was never part of the bargain. Besides, Juan Carlos called off the deal himself when Cricket ran off and married that Texas Ranger Jarrett Creed. What’s this all about?”

“Sloan has agreed to come live at Rancho Dolorosa.”

“Like hell she has! Sloan’s hip-deep in cotton right now, and that’s where she’s going to stay. She’s already taken off on one wild goose chase this week without a word of explanation, and that’s enough. Come back when the cotton’s been baled and sent down the Brazos to Galveston, and maybe she’ll have time to see you.”

Cruz’s dominating stance remained as unyielding as granite. “She will come home with me today.”

“You care to tell me what makes you so all-fired sure of that?”

“Perhaps it would be best to explain when Sloan is here to answer your questions.”

“Perhaps it would be best to explain right now,” Rip said, all humor gone from his voice.

Cruz met Rip’s stern gaze with icy blue eyes that revealed nothing.

Rip cursed the stroke that had made it awkward for him to rise from his chair with any kind of grace. He wanted to give this young pup his comeuppance. But the stroke had happened, and while Rip could stand with the aid of his oak cane, he chose instead to rely on his imposing physical presence and his sober stare to force the younger man to yield.

The two men faced one another in unspoken challenge, neither backing down.

“Where is she?” Cruz demanded.

For a moment it appeared Rip wouldn’t answer. Finally, he said, “Where you might expect my overseer to be. She’s out in the cotton fields, making sure the snatching gets done in good time. She’ll be back along about sundown.” Rip squinted into the lowering ball of golden fire along the horizon. “It may be a while yet.”

“I will wait.”

Rip shook his head again. The man had spleen, all right. He had to admit his curiosity was aroused. Why was Cruz Guerrero making such an outrageous claim? When Sloan arrived, the fur was sure to fly. He looked forward to the coming confrontation between this bullheaded man and his strong-willed daughter. “If you’re determined to wait, you might as well find yourself a seat.”

Cruz looked from the weathered wooden swing that hung on ropes from the porch ceiling, to the rocker that sat next to Rip’s. Then he settled himself on the highest of the three porch steps, his long legs stretched out before him. He braced his back against the round pillar that supported the upper-gallery porch.

His gaze narrowed as he sought out Sloan on horseback in the distant cotton fields. If she was out there, she was too far away to be seen with the naked eye. Cruz took a thin cheroot from a pocket in his jacket and lit it, then leaned back to wait.

The only sounds were the creaking of Rip’s rocker, the buzz of flies, and the faint harmony of Negro voices that drifted to them on the warm September breeze.

Rip wasn’t uncomfortable with the silence, but he had been isolated from his friends during the months he had spent recuperating from his stroke and yearned for the give and take of conversation.

“How was your trip to Spain this past summer?” he asked, smoothly sidestepping the issue of Sloan.

Cruz pulled his rapt attention from the fields and turned to the older man. “I accomplished what I set out to do. I have copies of the royal Spanish decree granting land in Texas to the Guerrero family. Rancho Dolorosa’s claim cannot be challenged now if Texas is annexed by the United States.”

“It’ll be annexed, all right. Don’t you ever doubt it. We’ve got men in Washington right now convincing legislators it’s the right thing to do.”

“They have not been very successful so far.”

“The American Senate will be voting again soon, and they won’t make the same mistake they did in June. Next time they’ll ask Texas to become a state of the Union. They have too much to gain and nothing to lose if they do.”

“I thought you stood against annexation-that you favored Texas remaining an independent Republic,” Cruz said.

Rip harrumphed, uneasy with being caught in any change of opinion, especially one as monumental as this. “I’m entitled to have a change of heart.”

“That must mean you think Texas has something to gain from statehood.”

“We get federal troops to control those murdering Comanches,” Rip spat, “and the protection of the United States against those Mexican bastards who keep testing our southern border!”

Rip felt renewed fury at the memory of how his middle daughter Bay had been stolen by marauding Comanches. She had spent three long years living in a Quohadi village as a Comanche war chief’s prize possession before she had been rescued by Long Quiet, the half-breed Comanche who had become her husband.

He fairly sputtered when he recalled the tragedy that had struck when Antonio Guerrero had involved Sloan in a plot with the Mexicans to invade Texas. Six months after Antonio’s death, Sloan had borne Antonio’s bastard son and, to Rip’s everlasting fury, had given the child to the Guerrero family to raise.

Rip stared at the Spaniard who had come to lay claim to Sloan. Cruz Guerrero already had his grandson Cisco. He wasn’t about to hand over his eldest daughter without a second thought. He took some comfort in the fact that Sloan wouldn’t welcome the Spaniard’s advances. She had loved his brother-before she had learned to hate him. Rip was certain she would never agree to marry Cruz.

Rip rubbed his square chin thoughtfully. Not that he wouldn’t have been glad to have the Guerrero wealth and bloodlines in the family.

Cruz was descended from royal Castilian stock, and the Guerreros had prospered in the New World. Rancho Dolorosa, southeast of Three Oaks along the Brazos River, was the largest cattle ranch in Texas.

When Juan Carlos Guerrero had passed away three summers ago, Cruz had inherited the vast estate that included thousands of hectares of land and the Spanish longhorn cattle that populated it. Cruz might have made a good son-in-law-if his brother hadn’t broken Sloan’s heart.

In the uncomfortable silence, both men were acutely aware of one another, of the unspoken tragedy that lay between them, and of the tribulations yet to come. The strain increased as the sun slipped beyond the gently rolling landscape, revealing the silhouette of a rider loping toward them.

Cruz stood and ground out his cheroot in the grass at the foot of the steps. Tension thrummed through him as he waited to confront the woman he was ready, at last, to make his wife.

When Sloan recognized the tall figure standing in the shade of the moss-covered oaks that shrouded the white frame plantation house, her heart rose to her throat. She had known Cruz would come, but she had hoped it would not be so soon. She had not yet made up her mind what she was going to say to keep him at bay.

She was grateful for the help he had given her at a time when she hadn’t known where else to turn. But she didn’t want to repay him by becoming his wife-even if it was what she had promised him at the time.

She walked her horse the rest of the distance to the two-story house, taking the extra time to search for an answer she could give to Cruz’s demand. It might not have been so bad if she felt nothing for the man. But, however much it chagrined her to admit it, she was attracted to Cruz. If she went to live with him at Dolorosa, she was deathly afraid her attraction might grow into something more.

She refused to take the chance of falling in love again. Love had made her foolish. Love had made her lose control of her life.

Moreover, she had learned enough about Cruz Guerrero to know he would expect his wife to follow his lead. Sloan was not, had never been, a follower.

Yet she knew from her experience with Tonio that a woman in love might do anything. A woman in love was vulnerable. A woman in love went a little crazy.

Sloan had no intention of repeating the experience. She would never give another man the chance to control her through love.

Sloan’s eyes never left Cruz’s face as she dismounted and walked the remaining few steps it took to reach him.

“Cruz, I-”

Before she had a chance to speak further, he reached out and drew her into the possessive circle of his embrace. He smelled of soap and sweet tobacco, of horses and leather. She stiffened as her cheek grazed his soft ruffled shirt.

“Well, well, well.”

Sloan whipped her head around at the sound of her father’s mocking voice, seeing him for the first time in the shadow of the porch. When she tried to back away from Cruz, his powerful arms would not release her.

She put her hands flat against his chest to keep him from drawing her any closer. His heart pounded beneath her fingers, causing her own pulse to race.

She had hoped to avoid involving Rip in her confrontation with Cruz. Perhaps it was not yet too late if she chose her words carefully.

Rip had risen from his rocker and was leaning on his cane, his feet braced wide apart to hold himself steady. “You two look mighty friendly.” His eyes narrowed as he added, “Cruz says he’s come to take you back to Rancho Dolorosa-as his wife.”

Sloan’s eyes met Cruz’s with an unspoken plea for discretion. “I thought we settled this in San Antonio.”

“I said I would come for you,” he said, “and I have. I will wait while you pack what you need, Cebellina.”

Sloan jerked herself from Cruz’s embrace. “I thought I made my feelings clear. I won’t-”

“What the hell is this all about, Sloan?” Rip asked. “I want an explanation, and I want it now.”

“This doesn’t concern you,” Sloan retorted.

“Sounds to me like Cruz is ready to cart my daughter off to Rancho Dolorosa-over his shoulder if necessary. That makes it my concern.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You are my wife,” Cruz said. “You will go where I tell you to go.”

Sloan avoided the questioning look Rip gave her and said to Cruz, “I can’t come with you. I… I… need more time.”

His voice was equally quiet, but adamant. “My part of the bargain is met. Now you must meet yours.”

Sloan sought desperately for some other excuse to deny his demand and blurted, “What about the young woman I heard you brought home from Spain with you?”

Cruz frowned. “Señorita Hidalgo?”

“That’s the name I’ve heard.”

“She is not your concern.”

“Is Sloan your wife or not?” Rip demanded.

“She is.”

“I’m not.” Exactly.

Rip turned on Sloan, his patience gone. “What the hell is going on? And I want a damn straight answer!”

Sloan’s lips flattened against making an explanation. “I’ve said all I have to say on the matter. I’ve got more work to do before it gets dark, so if you’ll both excuse me-”

Cruz’s sudden fierce grip on Sloan’s arms cut her off. “I will not excuse you. I will not allow you to ignore me or to pretend nothing exists between us. We have an agreement. Alejandro is dead. The time has come for you to finish the bargain.”

Sloan shivered, feeling something halfway between fear and anticipation at the words that were both a threat and a promise.

“Let go of my daughter.”

Sloan froze when she realized Rip held a Navy Colt Patterson aimed at Cruz. She knew Cruz had seen the gun, but he tightened his hold rather than freeing her.

“I will have you for my wife, Cebellina,” he said, his voice a harsh breath that fanned her ear. “Do not doubt it.”

He released her and stepped back to meet Rip’s dangerous stare with one of his own. “I expect Sloan to come to me within the week. If she does not, I will be back with my vaqueros to get her.”

Cruz turned and threw himself onto his palomino stallion. He raked its belly with his spurs and the beast bounded away as though the hounds of hell were chasing him.

Sloan’s body trembled with agitation as the dust settled. She was completely unaware of Rip until she heard him slump back into the rocker. She watched her father warily, wondering what he would say now that Cruz was no longer a buffer between them. She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“What kind of claim does he have on you, Sloan? What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“I don’t need you to judge me,” she snapped. “I only did what I thought I had to do to get Cruz to take the baby.”

“You should have kept the boy.”

“It was Tonio’s child!”

“It was your child-my grandchild.”

“It was a child born of deceit. I would have hated Cisco, though he was faultless. Don’t you understand? I couldn’t keep him. I was too angry-”

“Peace!” Rip interrupted. “Peace, I say.”

Sloan bit her tongue and slowly sank into the rocker next to Rip’s. She leaned her head back against the varnished wood and began to rock gently back and forth. The steady creaking sound made by the two rockers soothed the tension between them as the deepening twilight claimed the land.

“Do you plan to go to Dolorosa?” Rip asked.

“I can’t be his wife.”

“He’ll be back.”

“I know. Don’t worry. I can handle Cruz.”

As darkness fell, Stephen, the slave who had managed Rip’s household since Amelia’s death, when Cricket was still a child, lit the lanterns inside the house. The bright yellow light spilled through the front windows, enabling Sloan and Rip to see each other’s faces.

“It’s too bad things worked out the way they did. I know you miss seeing your boy-”

Sloan felt her stomach begin to churn at the further mention of her son. “Please. I don’t-”

“Don’t interrupt me, girl. And don’t contradict me!”

Sloan wrapped her arms tightly around herself, but she remained silent.

“I know your sister Bay finally got you and Cisco together this past year at her husband’s ranch. I know that about the time you started letting yourself care for your son, he got hurt and nearly died. I also know that as soon as he got well again, you stopped seeing him. I’m sure you had your reasons for that.”

Sloan’s glance skittered off Rip as she recalled holding her three-year-old son for the first time since she’d handed her day-old baby to Cruz. Cisco’s skin had been incredibly soft against her cheek. She had loved the feel of his chubby legs wrapped around her waist and his arms clinging to her neck as he murmured a mixture of English and Spanish childwords at her neck. She had suddenly felt the full brunt of what she had done.

It had been too easy to love her son. When he had been attacked by a renegade Comanche and nearly killed, she had been thoroughly shaken to realize how devastated she would have been by such a loss.

It had been frightening to realize that even the tender love of a mother for her son was fraught with danger. It was better, she had decided, not to love at all. It seemed the only way to avoid the pain that seemed irrevocably to come along with loving.

“You can’t keep ignoring the fact you’ve got a child,” Rip continued. “When you’re as old as I am, you realize you don’t get a second chance in this life. If I had a son out there somewhere, you can believe he’d know I cared about him.”

But he didn’t have a son, Sloan mused, which was why she and her sisters had taken the place of sons in her father’s dreams. How different things would have been if he’d had even one son instead of three daughters.

Sloan rarely let herself think what her life might have been like if she had not been her father’s heir. Would she have been so ready to reject love if she had not been so sure she would always have the demands of Three Oaks to fill up the lonely hours?

Sloan realized she ought to seek out Cruz and speak with him, to settle this matter once and for all. His cause was hopeless. She would never allow herself to love him. And she could never be the willing and obedient wife she was sure he expected her to become.

He would do much better to marry the young woman he had brought home with him from Spain, the one who had a long Spanish name regal enough to be joined with his. She had heard the señorita was unbelievably beautiful… and most certainly a virgin.

She turned her head to tell Rip what she had decided and realized he had fallen asleep. His body was no longer equal to the demands he put on it. The stroke had taken his strength and left him only his will.

In sleep he looked a gentle man, yet she knew he wasn’t. He was as hard and uncompromising as the land he had fought to tame. And he had raised her in his image.

Her future was tied to Three Oaks. She loved the land, and it gave her joy to see its burgeoning harvest. Somehow she would convince Cruz Guerrero she had nothing left to give to a man.

Cruz had not anticipated, when he made a personal vow to repay the Republic of Texas for Antonio’s treachery, that the Republic would recruit him as a double agent. But it had.

Because of his brother’s previous connection to the Mexican government, it had been easy to convince the British government that he was willing to spy on the Republic in order to help Mexico in its dealings with Texas.

Recently, he had been ordered to find out what plans the British government was cooking up with Mexico to interfere with President Houston’s plans to get Texas annexed by the United States. When necessary, he was to feed misleading information to the British.

While he was anxious to have Sloan in his household, having her around was going to complicate his work as a spy considerably. If he could have explained everything, he was sure she would have understood and approved his actions. Unfortunately, he was bound to secrecy.

After her experience with Antonio, Cruz was certain that if Sloan got an inkling of his activities, she would draw all the wrong conclusions. Therefore, he planned to speak today with the British agent he regularly dealt with and make certain that the man never came to Rancho Dolorosa again.

Cruz was careful not to be seen entering the upstairs hallway of Ferguson ’s Hotel. He quickly found the room where he was to meet with his contact, who reported directly to the British minister to Mexico. Cruz knocked twice, waited a moment, and knocked once more.

“Who’s there?”

“The Hawk,” he murmured, giving the code name the British government had assigned to him.

The door opened, revealing a short, rotund Englishman dressed foppishly in bright-colored silks and satins. Sir Giles Chapman had purposely adopted the foolish clothes as a disguise. Together with his bloodshot eyes and florid jowls, they had kept many a man from discovering the shrewd brain that resided beneath his shiny bald pate. Sir Giles gestured with beringed fingers for Cruz to enter, then checked the hall one last time before he closed the door behind him.

“Do you have your report for the minister with you?” Sir Giles asked, his British accent crisp and authoritative.

“I have written everything down.”

Sir Giles nodded his head in distracted acknowledgment as he accepted the missive. He smiled as he finished reading the document. “So. President Houston is still leaning toward keeping Texas an independent nation rather than accepting the offer of annexation from the American government?”

“It appears that way from everything I have been able to learn.”

Sir Giles snickered. “Thank goodness Houston hasn’t changed his song over the summer. There were rumors… Well, it’s good to know that at least we don’t have to concern ourselves with trying to delay an offer of annexation from the United States.”

“I have not told you anything in this report that your own British chargé to Texas could not have found out for you,” Cruz pointed out.

“Yes, but the official version of Texas policy given to our chargé might not have agreed with the version you’ve given us. And that, my good man, is where your true value lies. I will expect another report next month, or sooner if the political climate changes. Do you understand?”

“But of course.”

“Is that all?”

“There is one thing more,” Cruz said.

The Englishman raised an inquiring brow.

“I am taking a wife. Since her political sympathies are not precisely in accord with mine, I must ask that you no longer attempt to reach me at my hacienda.”

The Englishman pursed his lips. “Can’t you control your own wife, sir?”

Cruz ignored the scarcely veiled sarcasm and said, “I have made my wishes known to you. I expect you to abide by them.”

“I make no promises,” the Englishman said. “In this business, you understand, we must all make allowances for necessity.”

“Then make sure it is never necessary to come again to my home,” Cruz said. He nodded curtly to the Englishman, turned on his heel, and left the room.