Texas Woman

by Joan Johnston

  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.

  Chapter 9

  SLOAN TIGHTENED HER GRIP ON THE SLEEPING child in her lap and nudged her horse with her spurs to keep him moving at the same steady jog as the mounts of the bandidos who surrounded her. Her left arm and shoulder ached from holding the little girl.

  She welcomed the pain because it kept her mind off the paralyzing fear that had gripped her since the bandidos had taken her prisoner at the immigrants’ camp. She forced her thoughts away from the ordeal to come. She and Betsy were still alive. For now, that was enough.

  The outlaws seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere and her presence had slowed them down. The leader of the ragtag band, called Ignacio by the other bandidos, had more than once urged her to spur her horse to greater speed.

  In a very short time, she had grown to hate the Mexican whose tiny eyes disappeared into the sagging flesh on his cheeks when he grinned and whose bulging stomach was so huge that even his striped serape couldn’t disguise it.

  When her hiding place beneath the wagons had been discovered, Ignacio had admonished his men, who had openly stared at her with lecherous eyes, to use her if they must but to do it quickly.

  Sloan knew she had to act fast, but she wasn’t quite sure what she should do. Each of her two younger sisters had faced a similar crisis and come through it alive.

  But she was nothing like Cricket or Bay. In the same situation, Cricket would have used her hands and wrestled the bandidos to the ground. Bay would have used her soft heart to turn away their wrath.

  Sloan had used her head, blurting a promise of wealth if the bandidos would return her and Betsy-unharmed-to Three Oaks.

  Ignacio had laughed cruelly at her offer. They had important business, he had said, and could not be burdened with a woman and a child on their journey. But several of the other bandidos, including an older, rail-thin, leather-faced man called Felipe, had been insistent that they take her along with them and collect the huge ransom she had promised her father would pay for her safe return.

  Sloan had tried not to wonder where they were going, tried not to wonder what could be more important to Ignacio than the fortune she had offered for her and Betsy’s release. But it was certain Ignacio could be bent on nothing good.

  It appeared they were finally nearing their destination and that her curiosity would soon be appeased. In the distance stood a lone live oak. Underneath the tree she saw the silhouette of a rotund man standing next to a closed, single-horse carriage. Her speculation was interrupted by the low rasp of Felipe’s guttural voice.

  “You should send someone to take a message to the woman’s father while we meet with the Englishman.”

  “Chingada! Leave me in peace, Felipe.”

  Sloan stiffened at the crude profanity spoken by Ignacio. The response she heard from Felipe was equally foul. The sleeping child in her arms stirred restlessly. “It’s all right, Betsy. Everything’s going to be all right,” she crooned.

  “Silencio! If you cannot control the niña, I will get rid of her,” Ignacio warned.

  Betsy writhed desperately, trying to escape Sloan’s grip while fighting demons in her sleep.

  “Be still, baby, I don’t want to drop you,” Sloan cautioned. She felt her pulse speed at the venomous look on Ignacio’s corpulent face.

  Then the little girl began flailing and kicking in earnest, and Sloan was forced to pull her horse to a stop to try and calm her. “Please, baby, don’t fight me. It’s all right. You’re all right now.”

  Nothing she did seemed to calm Betsy, whose struggles soon left her panting for breath. Sloan was tempted to wake the little girl, but that seemed cruel since Betsy would likely find the waking world no more pleasant than her nightmare sleep.

  The sun crept farther above the horizon, bringing the lone figure in the distance into greater detail. An Englishman, Ignacio had said.

  Sloan was aware of the political intrigues surrounding the annexation of Texas, of England ’s efforts to get Mexico to recognize the Republic as a sovereign state while at the same time encouraging Texas to remain an independent nation. But she had purposely chosen to ignore the whole political situation. Once burned, twice chary.

  She knew now why Ignacio hadn’t wanted to bring her here. It was entirely likely that political messages were being passed through the outlaws to the Englishman, or the other way around.

  She determined that she would stay as far away from the Englishman as possible so as not to hear or see anything she shouldn’t. She wasn’t about to give the bandidos any excuse to keep her prisoner once Rip had delivered the promised ransom.

  She wondered if Cruz was searching for her and whether he was angry with her for leaving the hacienda. He didn’t know her very well if he thought she could have stayed at the house once she knew the immigrants were in danger.

  She had learned from Betsy as they talked through the night that the little girl was five years old and came from Pennsylvania. Her father’s name was Joseph Randolph and her mother’s name was Susanna. They had been traveling with her two uncles and her aunt. She had another aunt and uncle who had stayed in Pennsylvania. The nine- and ten-year-old boys who had been stolen by the Comanches were her cousins, Franklin and Jeremiah Randolph. Sloan fought back the tears welling behind her eyes at the memory of the carnage the Comanches had caused.

  The Texas frontier was harsh and wild. Annexation meant inviting the civilized world to come and tame it. That couldn’t happen soon enough for Sloan.

  She blinked her eyes to clear them. There was no time for womanish emotions now. Betsy must be subdued before Ignacio lost patience. The little girl’s life depended on it.

  “Give me the child,” Ignacio said, his beefy arms outstretched to take her.

  “She’s quiet now. I can handle her,” Sloan replied quickly.

  At that moment, Betsy awoke abruptly. Terrified, not recognizing where she was or what was happening, her tiny hands turned into claws that raked Sloan’s cheeks and chin. She kicked out with her hard-soled shoes and left bruises on Sloan’s thighs.

  When Betsy gasped a breath and opened her mouth to howl in rage, Sloan covered the child’s mouth with her hand.

  “Take it easy, Betsy. It’s me, Sloan, remember? You’re safe with me,” Sloan said in a voice made breathless by her efforts. “No matter how hard you fight me, I’m going to hang on to you.”

  Betsy reached up with her hand and grabbed a hank of Sloan’s hair that had come free of its binding and pulled hard enough to bring a muffled cry to Sloan’s lips.

  Sloan lowered her head, but it wasn’t enoug
h to ease the pain. She dropped off her horse on the opposite side from Ignacio, taking Betsy with her.

  “Chingada!” Ignacio shouted, spurring his horse around Sloan’s mount.

  Sloan had dropped to her knees in the mesquite grass and altered her grip on Betsy. She turned the child to face her and pulled her into her embrace, capturing Betsy’s punishing hands, which still gripped a handful of Sloan’s long sable hair.

  “It’s all right to be angry, sweetheart. But no one’s ever going to hurt you again. I’ll make sure of that. Nobody’s ever going to hurt you again.”

  Ignacio reached down and grabbed Sloan by the hair. He yanked hard, pulling Sloan to her feet with Betsy in her arms.

  “Puta! Bruja! We cannot stop. We are late already. If you do not get on your horse right now, I will-”

  “You will do nothing,” Sloan said, gripping the child tightly. “Or my father will pay you nothing.”

  Her dark eyes sparkled with fury; her body was rigid with anger. She held her head high, ignoring the pain where he grasped her hair, and dared the leader of the bandidos to do his worst.

  Several of the bandidos snickered. One of them, a gaunt youth with a pockmarked face and lank black hair clubbed into a long tail down his back, said, “It would be worth giving up all those reales to have such a woman.”

  “Maybe Alejandro would like to have a piece of this one, eh, Ignacio?” Felipe said. “Too bad her father has so much money.”

  Sloan froze at the name Alejandro, but realized almost instantly it could not be the same man who had killed Tonio. That man was dead.

  “Shut up, Felipe. I will handle this,” Ignacio said.

  Felipe laughed. “Are you sure she is not too much for you, Ignacio? Perhaps I should give you some help.”

  The bandidos laughed at the idea of the older man helping the younger one.

  “Bah!” Ignacio jerked Sloan’s hair one more time. “Get on your horse.”

  Sloan might have been able to manage such a feat if she were not worn out from supporting Betsy’s weight. But her legs were trembling with fatigue and her arms were numb. It wasn’t a case of having a choice.

  Despite the fact she knew Ignacio was at the limit of his tether, she looked him straight in the eye and said, “You’ll have to help me.”

  “Chingada!” Ignacio turned to the boy with the pock-marked face and said, “Ramón, put her on her horse.”

  Ramón quickly dismounted. His palms dug into Sloan’s ribs, his fingers creeping up to grasp at her breasts as he lifted her enough so she could slip into the saddle and settle Betsy before her. Sloan jerked herself away and glared at the boy, who smiled insolently back at her. As Ramón remounted, Sloan gathered the reins in her hands.

  “Now, we ride!” Ignacio said, digging his spurs into his horse’s flanks.

  Sloan tightened her hold on Betsy as her mount was caught up in the frantic race toward the live oak.

  Short minutes later, Ignacio raised his hand to stop his small band of cutthroats and robbers. Sloan watched the frown form on the Englishman’s face when he saw her. She frowned, too, with the realization that she could easily identify him if she saw him again.

  She quickly turned away from the Englishman’s scrutiny. She accepted Felipe’s help getting down from her horse but kept Betsy clutched in her arms.

  “Felipe, you will guard the woman while I speak to the Englishman.” Ignacio didn’t wait to see if Felipe followed his order.

  Sloan followed the bandido with her eyes as he walked the short distance to the Englishman. The next thing she heard was, “You fool! This meeting was to remain secret. Secret! Do you understand? Your brother’s life hangs in the balance. Alejandro will be here tomorrow night, as will the Hawk. You’ll ruin everything. Get rid of the woman, and do it now.”

  “I cannot,” Ignacio replied.

  “Why not?” the Englishman demanded.

  There was silence, and Sloan knew the bandido was looking for a way to explain that the combined will of his band of cutthroats outweighed his own. “The woman says her father will pay a ransom for her safe return.”

  “Bloody hell! You’ve jeopardized everything for a handful of reales? I’m paying you well for your help. If it’s not enough, I’ll find someone else to do the job. Get rid of the woman!”

  “I will see what I can do,” Ignacio said at last.

  Sloan had found a spot against a grounded limb of the live oak and settled down in the grass with Betsy in her lap. She had offered no threat to the bandidos since her capture, and she was certain that as far as they were concerned, she was nothing more than a helpless woman. She was sure they did not know she could speak their language-and that it might be just such knowledge that saved her life.

  She listened carefully as Ignacio approached Felipe and spoke to him in Spanish.

  “You heard the Englishman?”

  “Who did not?” He turned and eyed Sloan, who focused her attention on the exhausted child in her arms. “Will the Englishman pay us for the ransom we will lose if we kill the woman?”

  “We will be well paid for the work we do for him,” Ignacio said. “It is enough.”

  “It is not enough for me,” Felipe replied curtly. “How will he know if we kill the woman or not? We will take her away and tell him we have done the deed. He will never know the difference.”

  “I do not think-”

  “You are an idiot! You never think,” Felipe interrupted. “She has not seen Alejandro, only the Englishman. I will take her away from this place. When you have finished your business and the Englishman is gone from here, we will send a message to her father and collect the ransom.”

  Sloan held in her sigh of relief as Felipe walked away from her toward the other bandidos. It appeared the immediate danger was past. But she would keep her eyes and ears open-just in case things changed. She shifted Betsy into a more comfortable position in her arms. It was bound to be a long, long day.

  Sloan didn’t see Ignacio’s eyes narrow or his nostrils flare in anger as he watched Felipe march away from him. She didn’t see him walk over to where Ramón was grooming his horse. Nor did she hear what Ignacio said in low tones to the boy whose features had been left distorted by disease.

  “Ramón, you will go with Felipe. When you are well away from here with the woman, you will kill Felipe.”

  The boy’s eyes flickered with the fiendish relish of a wolverine with its blood-rimmed jaws tearing at still-warm flesh. “And the woman?”

  “You may use the woman if you wish, but when you are done with her, kill her.”

  “And the niña?”

  “Kill them both.”

  Sloan had no explanation for her lightheartedness. After all, she wasn’t safe yet. She and Felipe and the boy called Ramón had left the other bandidos at noon and headed back in the direction from which they had come. Every step took her closer to home. Betsy was sleeping again, her breathing even. Sloan listened absently as Ramón argued with Felipe about the importance of not offending the Englishman.

  “If not for the Englishman, Alejandro would be dead,” Ramón said.

  “We could have rescued Alejandro ourselves,” Felipe retorted. “We had no need of the Englishman to save him from the hangman.”

  “We would have been caught. Los Diablos Tejanos were watching for us. They knew we would come for him. The Englishman’s plan was best.”

  Felipe snorted loudly through his nose. “Of course! If you do not consider that another bandido had to die in Alejandro’s place.”

  “The Englishman did not kill Jorge,” Ramón insisted. “It was the Rangers who did the hanging.”

  Sloan’s heart pounded in her chest like a Comanche war drum. She had naturally assumed when the name Alejandro had been mentioned earlier by the bandidos that it could not be the same man who had killed Tonio. But the conversation she had just overheard between Felipe and Ramón left her aghast. Surely it was not possible!

  She had not waited in San Antonio
to see Alejandro hanged, but Cruz had been there. Surely if Alejandro were still alive, Cruz would have said something to her. Besides, how could the bandidos have duped the Texas Rangers?

  Sloan was so involved in her own thoughts that the gunshot at close range was a complete surprise. Her horse leaped sideways at the noise, and she had her hands full to keep Betsy from falling. When she had regained control of her mount, her eyes widened in horror.

  Ramón had shot Felipe in the back! The bandido had fallen to the ground and lay in a widening pool of blood.

  Ramón turned to Sloan, the gun still in his hand, his boyish face aged years by the lascivious glitter in his eyes. “Now, chiquita, we will see how much of a woman you are.”

  Sloan had no time to indulge her sickened senses. She simply spurred her horse in a quick bid for escape.

  Ramón’s hand darted quick as a rattlesnake’s fangs, catching the reins. Her horse shied at the pull on his mouth, and Sloan made a one-handed grab at Betsy, who started to fall.

  It was too little too late. The child’s weight pulled Sloan off balance, and the sudden, unexpected scream that issued from Betsy’s mouth set the horse to bucking.

  Sloan’s hands tightened in a death grip around Betsy, and she pulled herself into a tight protective ball around the child as the horse’s abrupt change of direction sent them both flying.

  The last thing Sloan was aware of was the hard ground reaching up to meet her.

  When Cruz saw Sloan riding toward him flanked by two disreputable-looking tejanos, his hand clenched into a fist around the reins, causing his bayo to sidestep. In the next instant Cruz heard a gunshot, saw the glint of sun off hot iron, and watched in disbelief as one of the two men fell sprawled on the ground.

  The terrified scream that followed sent his stomach plummeting. He spurred his horse viciously as Sloan’s mount began to buck. By the time she hit the ground, his stallion had closed half the distance between them.