Texas Woman

by Joan Johnston

  But she didn’t have many alternatives. She could never impose on her sister Bay. Her relationship with her middle sister, which had only become something more than tolerance in the past year or so as they had each matured, was too fragile to handle the stress of such close quarters. Besides, the two-room adobe ranch house Bay shared with Long Quiet and their son, Whipp, was too small to house a guest.

  She knew Cricket would welcome her with open arms at Lion’s Dare, and it was tempting to accept her youngest sister’s hospitality. Cricket’s sense of humor would no doubt provide a ready salve for her battered feelings.

  But Sloan could not bear the thought of admitting to Cricket how badly she had botched things. Running to her youngest sister for sympathy would make her feel like a whipped dog slinking home with its tail between its legs. She would never get over the humiliation of it.

  She knew it was lunacy to let mere pride stand in the way of help, but there it was, and she found it an insurmountable barrier.

  It was a waste of time to consider seeking work as an overseer for someone else’s plantation. Rip was right. No Texan would hire a woman to fill such a role.

  There was no other acceptable choice. She would have to go to the Guerrero hacienda.

  She told herself it was only a temporary measure while she figured out how to convince Rip he had been a harebrained idiot to disinherit her. All she needed was a place to stay for a while.

  Despite her reluctance to confront the ghosts of the past, and her reluctance to spend time near her son, she rode steadily all day and on into the dark toward the one sanctuary that promised solace.

  Sloan groaned in dismay when she reached the fortress-like walls that surrounded the Guerrero hacienda and discovered a celebration in progress. She hadn’t paid much attention to the parchment Rip had thrust at her, but she had apparently arrived in the middle of the fandango.

  Gay lanterns strung across the central courtyard reflected off the water sparkling in the tile fountain. Ladies in elaborate satin dresses dotted the courtyard like a colorful flock of birds, but their amiable chatter grated on her ears like the raucous cawing of jays and crows. The aroma of beef roasting over a fire reminded her she hadn’t eaten since noon.

  She searched for someone she recognized who would allow her access to the hacienda so she wouldn’t have to be seen dressed as she was, in her travel-worn planter’s garb. Her body went rigid as her eyes lit on the tall, raven-haired Spaniard who wanted her for his wife.

  Cruz wore a waist-length sapphire-blue jacket that strained over muscular shoulders and snug black velvet pants that hugged him like a second skin, emphasizing his flat belly, his maleness, and the length of his legs. His ruffled white shirt was the only hint of softness to break the hard, proud lines of his body.

  But it wasn’t his blatant masculinity that made her pause. It was the way his hawklike features focused on the vision of loveliness dancing in his arms.

  They moved slowly, their bodies separated by the appropriate distance but seeming intimate nonetheless. The señorita smiled shyly at Cruz and he smiled warmly back at her, his white teeth flashing in the lantern light.

  Sloan could find nothing to fault in the looks of the young woman dancing with Cruz. She was dressed elegantly, her sky-blue silk gown cupping full breasts and showing off a tiny waist before it belled over legs that had to be nearly as long as Cruz’s. It had to be the Hidalgo girl. No wonder Cruz had brought her back from Spain. They fit together so well.

  The hard, quick stab of jealousy surprised her.

  I don’t care. I have no right to care.

  The only thing binding her to Cruz was an agreement, words on paper to give his nephew the proud Guerrero name. So why did she feel as though she had just been pressed through the baling screw?

  Sloan grunted in disgust at her thoughts. She had followed her feelings with one Guerrero brother, and look where they had gotten her-pregnant and widowed before she was a wife. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  She shunted aside the unaccustomed feeling of jealousy. She had told Cruz she did not want him. This was no time to be having second thoughts.

  But she couldn’t help worrying what Cruz would say when she told him she wanted to stay for a while at Rancho Dolorosa-but not as his wife. Would he turn her away?

  “What are you doing here tonight, Señorita Stewart? Your father said you were busy with the harvest and could not come.”

  Sloan summoned her dignity and turned to face Cruz’s mother. Before she could deny that she had come to attend the celebration, Doña Lucia was speaking again.

  “I suppose you could not resist coming to meet Cruz’s novia.”

  Sloan stiffened. “Cruz’s fiancée?”

  “My husband arranged her betrothal to Cruz years ago. Is she not beautiful? Such milk-white skin, not a bit browned by the sun. Such beautiful blue eyes, such a winsome smile. And as tall as my son. See how he does not need to bend at all to speak with her?”

  Sloan turned and saw very well that the señorita was a better match for Cruz’s height than was her own five feet four inches. She watched as Cruz flashed a smile and lifted the señorita’s hand to his lips.

  “It will be a most proper match. She is a distant cousin, far removed, but she bears the same royal Castilian blood that flows in my son’s veins. Would you like to meet her?”

  Sloan was still too much in shock at Doña Lucia’s announcement that Cruz had brought back a fiancée from Spain to relish the thought of spouting polite amenities. How could Cruz have demanded she become his wife under such circumstances? She refused to let Doña Lucia believe she was the least bit distressed by her news, which would surely be the case if she begged off. She squared her shoulders and said, “I’d love to meet her.”

  It took the tap of Doña Lucia’s fan on her son’s shoulder to draw Cruz’s attention away from the young woman. “You have a visitor, my son.”

  Sloan was grateful for the evening shadows that hid her expression when Cruz turned to see who it was. She fought to control her pulse as he lifted her sun-browned, callused hand to his lips.

  “Cebellina! How pleased I am that you decided to come.”

  Sloan swallowed, suddenly struck dumb by the pleasure she saw in Cruz’s blue eyes and heard in his voice. “I… I… that is…”

  Cruz kept her hand in his as he drew her forward and said, “Cebellina, I wish to present Señorita Refugia Adela María Tomasita Hidalgo. Tomasita, this is my… my very dear friend, Señorita Sloan Stewart.”

  The young woman respectfully nodded her head to Sloan and said in beautifully accented English, “Please, call me Tomasita. Don Cruz told me so much about you on our journey from Spain that I think of us already as friends, Señorita Stewart.”

  “Call me Sloan, please.”

  Tomasita smiled. “If you wish.”

  It was a smile of warm welcome and acceptance and therefore completely confusing to Sloan, who had expected this high-bred Spanish woman to be as arrogantly condescending to her as Doña Lucia was.

  “I hope your journey to Texas was a pleasant one,” Sloan said.

  “Don Cruz has been more than kind.” Tomasita’s lashes lowered to conceal her expressive eyes, even as her hand timidly touched Cruz’s sleeve. “I do not know what I would have done if he had not arrived when he did.”

  Cruz dropped Sloan’s hand and covered the slender fingers resting on his sleeve. “You have nothing to fear ever again, little one.”

  Sloan watched as Tomasita raised her lashes to reveal wide blue eyes that gazed shyly at Cruz. In the next instant, Tomasita turned to Sloan and said, “You are not yet dressed for the party. Shall I take you to a room where you can bathe and change?”

  Sloan found herself liking the young woman, who had extended only courtesy and friendliness to a stranger. “I need to speak privately with Cruz for a moment.”

  “My son is-”

  “Excuse me, Mamá,” Cruz said. “Will you please take Tomasita to
get a glass of punch while I speak with Sloan?”

  He had phrased it as a question, but when Doña Lucia responded with tightly pressed lips, Sloan realized that it had actually been a polite command.

  A moment later, Cruz had slipped his hand under Sloan’s elbow and was guiding her inside the hacienda, where they could be alone.

  They crossed the covered wooden veranda and entered the sala, the Spanish version of a Texas parlor. Sloan was struck again by the mixture of delicate Moorish spooled tables from Spain and heavy wooden furniture crafted by the Mexicans to sustain the rigors of the New World. Candlelight reflected off the white walls and made shadows of the numerous recessed arches around the room.

  Cruz led her to a heavy rawhide chair near the stone fireplace that took up one whole wall of the room, and bade her sit down.

  “I would rather stand.”

  “As you wish. I am glad you came, Cebellina.”

  When Cruz reached out to replace a wayward strand of her hair, his knuckles accidentally brushed against Sloan’s bruised cheek. She winced at the pain of even that slight pressure on the tender flesh.

  “What is this?”

  “Nothing.” Sloan instinctively covered her cheek with her hand. She realized her mistake and quickly stuck her hand in her pocket. But she saw that she had only increased Cruz’s suspicions.

  “It’s nothing,” she repeated.

  Cruz reached out and captured her chin, turning her face so her cheek was fully exposed to the candlelight. She watched his eyes narrow and his cheeks pale as his thumb skimmed the dark bruise on her face. “Who would dare to do this?”

  She bit her lip and held still in his grip, uncertain what he would do if she tried to escape and unwilling to test his temper right now.

  “Who?” he demanded.

  “Rip and I had a disagreement. It’s nothing to fuss about. The bruise will go away in a few days.” She tried a wry grin, but winced when it reached her bruised cheek. “Believe me, I know. It’s happened before.”

  “But it will not happen again. You belong to me now, and I protect what is mine.”

  His hand circled her nape under her hair and he tilted her face up to his. Sloan shivered at the low animal threat in his voice as he continued, “You will not return to Three Oaks.”

  “You presume too much!” But her voice came out in a whispered croak that was somewhat less than convincing.

  Sloan would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation, except she was afraid she might become hysterical. Cruz’s authoritarian announcement rankled, but at the same time, she could hardly defy him and return to Three Oaks under the circumstances. The feeling of being trapped returned.

  Sloan freed Cruz’s hand from its disturbing caress. When he started to reach for her again, she grabbed both of his hands and held them in front of her. Never having held his hands before, she was surprised at the size and strength of them.

  She looked up earnestly at him. “I didn’t come here to fulfill our bargain, Cruz.” She immediately felt the tension in his hands and quickly continued, “But I do need your help.”

  “You know you only have to ask, and anything I have is yours.”

  Completely unnerved by her body’s tingling reaction to his touch and the husky sound of his voice, Sloan sought some way to break the growing spell between them. “Won’t you need to talk with Tomasita first?”

  Cruz frowned. “Why should I want to speak of such things to Tomasita?”

  She pulled her hands from his. “There’s no need for any more pretense, Cruz. Your mother told me.”

  “Told you what?”

  “That you’re betrothed to Tomasita. That you have been for several years.”

  Cruz’s indrawn breath made Sloan feel as though the air had been sucked from her own lungs.

  “Mamá speaks of her dreams as reality.”

  “Did she dream your betrothal?”

  Cruz sighed deeply. “That much is true. When your sister Cricket ran away to marry Creed, my father was furious. He still needed the gold your father had promised him as a dowry if she married me… and so he sought it elsewhere.

  “Meanwhile, I made my vows to you. My father did not tell me until he was on his deathbed that he had arranged my betrothal to the daughter of an old and dear friend.”

  Cruz reached out again to lift Sloan’s chin, so she had no choice except to look into his eyes. “I promised my father only that Tomasita would be well wed, not that I would marry her myself. She is only seventeen. She would have lived her life out among the sisters in the convent if I had not brought her back with me from Spain.

  “You must see I had no choice. I could not leave her there.” He searched Sloan’s face for understanding.

  “Does Tomasita know… about us?”

  “Of course not! And she knows nothing of the betrothal, either. She knows only that I am her guardian,” he admitted gruffly. “She will, of course, remain my responsibility until I can find her a suitable husband.”

  Sloan wasn’t sure what to think. She had seen the looks exchanged by Cruz and Tomasita. Maybe he would rather have the younger woman after all. “I’ve never wanted to hold you to our bargain. I never thought it was fair to you, anyway. If you want to marry Tomasita, I won’t stand in your way.”

  Cruz slanted his thumb across Sloan’s mouth to silence her. “I am happy with things as they are. I already have a wife. Just because you have denied me the right to take you to my bed does not make our vows any less sacred.”

  He bent his head slightly and his lips grazed hers. By the time Sloan tensed, his lips were gone. She avoided Cruz’s eyes, afraid of what she would see there, focusing her gaze instead on the frogged braid that trimmed his velvet coat.

  The touch of his lips had left her heart pounding. What was it she feared? She could not name it. She only knew there was danger if she stayed near him. Yet she had nowhere else to go. She tried to find words to put the barrier back between them.

  “I can never be more to you than a friend. Your brother-”

  “-was a fool.”

  “-was my lover. The father of my child.”

  Cruz swallowed the urge to shout, “It does not matter what you were to my brother!” It mattered. It wounded him to know she had loved his brother in a way she could never love him. He had fought the vision of Tonio lying next to her, touching her. He’d had honor enough not to try and take her from his brother, but that had not stopped him from wanting her.

  “I can wait a little longer to take what is mine,” he said quietly. He did not have to say more to know that Sloan understood him.

  “Can you tell me what made your father so angry that he struck you?” Cruz asked.

  “I told him I wouldn’t share Three Oaks.”

  Cruz frowned.

  Sloan sighed and explained, “Rip found out Luke Summers is his bastard son. He’s made Luke heir to Three Oaks.”

  Sloan met Cruz’s eyes and couldn’t bear the sympathy she saw there. He understood what losing Three Oaks meant to her. She had already chosen Three Oaks once before over a husband and a son. Battling her urge to weep, she forced her chin up another notch and crossed her arms under her breasts.

  “My coming here doesn’t change things between us. I’ll only be here until Rip…” Her voice was strained with the effort to talk. “Our bargain was made in the dark of night. It can be ended the same way. I will never…”

  Cruz did not give her a choice about accepting his comfort. He merely enfolded her in his arms. He laid his face against her cheek and held her until her trembling had eased, and she was once more in control.

  “I will have your things brought here and ask Mamá to help you get settled,” he said.

  “I’ll only be here-”

  “Do not think of going away. Think only of the pleasure you bring me by staying.”

  Cruz ignored the desolation he saw in Sloan’s eyes. For years he had lived in the belief that someday she would come to him. She was fina
lly here. And she would never be leaving Dolorosa-or him-again.

  “Rest tonight, Cebellina. Tomorrow we will talk. I will send Mamá to you as soon as I can.”

  Sloan stared after him until he was gone. What had she done? What if he decided not to let her go? He could do it. As her husband, he had absolute power over her. No man would say him nay.

  She realized she would have to trust him not to hold her against her will. Sloan shivered. It was a frightening thing, to trust a man.

  When Doña Lucia appeared in the doorway, Sloan didn’t have to hear words spoken to know she wasn’t welcome in the other woman’s home. “Follow me, Señorita Stewart.”

  Sloan’s heart began to race when she realized where Doña Lucia was leading her. “I can’t sleep here.”

  Doña Lucia turned, her eyes narrowed in dislike. “I do not want you in Antonio’s room either. But Tomasita is staying in the guest room and I have no other bed to offer. It will only be for one night.”

  Sloan held her tongue. She would leave it to Cruz to explain things to his mother. Anything she said now would only open the floodgates of ill will that existed between them. For the sake of Cruz’s generous offer of hospitality, she determined to make an effort to avoid ruffling Doña Lucia’s high-flown feathers.

  “I will have Josefa bring you some water to bathe.”

  “Gracias,” Sloan said.

  “Do not thank me, señorita. I do this for the sake of my son. Soon he will be married to a woman worthy of him, and the son you abandoned, my grandson, will have a suitable mother to care for him.”

  Sloan blanched at Doña Lucia’s cruel taunt but, in a supreme effort of will, said nothing. It was clear from the older woman’s grim-lipped smile that she knew her barb had found its mark. The gauntlet had been thrown, and Sloan was more than willing to pick it up-but not tonight. Too much had already happened that day.

  “Good night, Doña Lucia,” Sloan said in a steady voice.

  “Buenos noches, Señorita Stewart.” Having come away triumphant from the first sortie, Doña Lucia was perfectly willing to depart the field of battle. She closed the door quietly behind her.