Texas Woman

by Joan Johnston

  “I’m obliged to you for puttin’ yourself in danger to help my kin,” he said, his voice a deep, sincere bass that rumbled in his broad chest. “And for takin’ care of Betsy. It near broke my Lizzie’s heart when my brother and his wife took off for Texas. My Lizzie and me, we love this child like she was our own.”

  “I’m glad she’ll have a home where she’ll be welcome and can grow up happy,” Sloan said.

  When Louis met her eyes, she realized he was trying to make this as easy for her as he could. She was grateful to him and looked for a way to thank him for his kindness. “Can you stay and have a meal with us?”

  “I’d like to, but I’ve got to get back on the trail if I want to catch the packet from Galveston back to New Orleans. I’d welcome the chance to thank your man for his hospitality, though,” Louis said.

  “I’m sorry, but Don Cruz was in an accident and he’s not well enough to…” Sloan’s throat closed and she couldn’t continue.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. I truly am. Betsy, why don’t you say good-bye to Miz Sloan now.” Louis lifted Betsy off his knee and stood her in front of him.

  Sloan went down on one knee and opened her arms to Betsy, who flew into them. “I’m going to miss you, Betsy.” Sloan levered Betsy away from her embrace and forced herself to smile at the little girl.

  “I’m going to miss you, too,” Betsy said. “I’ll remember what you told me, and I won’t be afraid.”

  Sloan hugged Betsy again, fighting tears.

  “I’ve made arrangements to have all my kin’s things shipped back to Pennsylvania,” Louis said. “Is there anything of Betsy’s here that has to be packed for her?”

  “A few things. I can get them for you now.” Sloan was grateful for the excuse to leave the room. She released Betsy and said, “You’re going to have a wonderful life, Betsy. Maybe someday you can come back to Texas and visit me.”

  Sloan looked over Betsy’s head and met Louis’s eyes. She knew then that Betsy would never be coming back. It had probably taken Louis and Lizzie’s life savings for him to make this trip. There would be no money for anyone to make such a trip again. Sloan rose and it was all she could do not to run from the room.

  She was in Cisco’s bedroom putting the last of Betsy’s clothes and toys into a traveling bag when Cisco tugged on her pants leg. She turned and sat down on his bed. “What is it, Cisco? Do you need something?”

  “I don’t want Betsy to go away. I want her to stay.”

  He stared up at her, and Sloan heard his unspoken request for comfort. She abruptly brushed at his sable curls, then pulled her hand back when she realized what she was doing.

  “I don’t want her to go, either. But Betsy’s Uncle Louis and her Aunt Lizzie love her and want her to come live with them in Pennsylvania.”

  “But I will miss her.”

  “So will I, darling. I’ll miss her very, very much.” Sloan clasped her hands tightly together to keep from lifting Cisco into her lap. Unable to hold back the tears that had begged shedding for the multitude of things that had happened today, she let them fall.

  Cisco’s lip quivered when he saw the wetness that scoured her face. “Mamá?”

  Sloan looked down and saw that her son’s brow was furrowed worriedly, his chin trembling. She swiped at her tears with the heels of her hands, realizing she was upsetting him. “Yes, sweetheart, what is it?”

  “Maybe I could play with you. Then you wouldn’t be so lonely when Betsy is gone.”

  Sloan felt the tears welling again as she stared down at her son, with his blue eyes and his curly brown hair, his high cheekbones and his cleft chin-the innocent face of a child who had borne the brunt of all her anger at his dead father… and her fears of being hurt again. Yet despite it all, he had offered love where love had been withheld.

  “Oh, Cisco…”

  She reached out and suddenly scooped him up into her arms, hugging him tightly to her breast. “Oh, Cisco… my baby… my darling son… I do love you so!”

  She rocked him in her arms, crooning love words. She told him all the things they would do together while Cruz was getting well and all the things they would do together once Cruz was back on his feet.

  “But first,” she said, swiping at her nose and eyes with her sleeve, “we had better get Betsy’s things packed so her Uncle Louis doesn’t miss his ship in Galveston.”

  Betsy’s leave-taking was not nearly so bitter for Sloan with Cisco’s warm body snuggled sleepily in her arms. She was able to wave good-bye with a smile on her face before turning back to the adobe house and all that waited there, good and bad, frightening and infuriating.

  An hour later, after she had been admonished by María that she must keep up her own strength if she was to be any help to Don Cruz, Sloan was sitting at the dinner table with a subdued Doña Lucia and an equally quiet Tomasita when they were approached by Paco, the vaquero who had brought word of the gringo wagons on Dolorosa land.

  “What is it, Paco?” Doña Lucia asked irritably.

  “The storm damaged many of the jacals in the pueblo. I came to ask Don Cruz’s permission to have his vaqueros help fix them.”

  “Don Cruz is ill,” Doña Lucia said.

  Paco stood waiting for further instructions.

  Doña Lucia frowned in exasperation and said, “The jacals will have to wait.”

  “But, señora-”

  “Do not dare to question me!”

  Paco had started to back away when Sloan interceded. “Go out to the veranda, Paco, and wait for me there.” When Paco had left the room, she turned to Doña Lucia and said, “Perhaps whoever Cruz usually leaves in charge of the vaqueros when he is away from Dolorosa on business could take care of the problem.”

  Doña Lucia sat sullen and silent for a moment until it became clear that Sloan was willing to wait her out. “Miguel Padilla is Cruz’s foreman, but he would not presume to act without orders from his patrón.”

  “Can’t someone else give orders?”

  When Doña Lucia once again remained silent, Sloan demanded in exasperation, “Who’s going to manage Dolorosa until Cruz recovers?”

  “I… I do not know.”

  “Unless you have a better suggestion, I will give the orders that need to be given.”

  Doña Lucia rose imperiously from her chair. “How dare you-”

  Sloan rose to her feet with equal dignity at the opposite end of the table. “Shut up and sit down.”

  Doña Lucia was so shocked at Sloan’s order that she sank back into her chair, mouth agape.

  “We don’t know how long it will be before Cruz is back on his feet, but I don’t intend to have him recover only to find that Dolorosa has been neglected in his absence. I’m giving you fair warning that I intend to make sure that doesn’t happen. If you think you can do a better job, you’d better say so now.”

  “Why would you do this for us?” Doña Lucia asked, eyes narrowed speculatively.

  “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for Cruz.”

  “The vaqueros will not listen to you, gringa.”

  “I assume, then, that you won’t interfere if I give it a try.” Without further ado, Sloan pivoted on her good heel and limped out to joined Paco on the veranda. “Take me to Miguel Padilla.”

  Paco’s face did not hint at what he was thinking, but he had seen how El Patrón cared for this woman. He would not dare take a chance of offending her. He simply said, “Follow me, Señora Guerrero.”

  Sloan’s nervousness built during the short, uncomfortable ride to the village. She stepped inside Miguel’s jacal with great trepidation. She had to convince Cruz’s foreman to take her seriously. Otherwise her efforts to help Cruz would come to naught.

  “Buenos días, Miguel.”

  “Buenos días, Señora Guerrero.”

  “Doña Lucia told me you’re in charge of Don Cruz’s vaqueros.”

  The rangy vaquero nodded. His face was as ageless as a mountain peak, eroded by wind a
nd weather. He wore the spurred wing boots and rawhide chaparejos of the vaquero.

  Sloan’s mouth was bone-dry. She licked her lips to dampen them and continued, “You’ve probably heard that Don Cruz was injured in the storm last night. Until he’s well, I’ll be giving the orders on Dolorosa.”

  “Please pardon me for asking, señora, but what do you know of ranching?”

  “To tell the truth, cotton’s really what I understand best,” she said with a self-effacing smile. “But I learn fast. For instance, I know that vaqueros will work harder and with better tempers if they have a dry, warm bed to come home to-which means the first thing we must do is repair the jacals that were damaged in the storm.”

  “What you say makes sense.” Miguel’s lips quirked at the corners, creating deep crevices in his granite face.

  “So my first order is to repair the jacals.” Sloan’s body tensed in anticipation of his refusal to obey her.

  Miguel stole a glance at Paco, who had been the source of several colorful stories around the campfire about the patrón’s gringa wife, none of which had been believed.

  Miguel assessed the petite woman who stood before him dressed as a man. It appeared Paco’s stories of a beautiful young woman with fire in her eyes and steel in her backbone had not all been the fanciful imaginings of a storyteller.

  “It shall be done,” Miguel said at last.

  Sloan exhaled a breath of air she didn’t realize she had been holding. “Good. When can we start?”

  Miguel cocked a questioning brow at Sloan’s inclusion of herself in the work detail. “The work begins now.”

  Sloan threw herself into the effort to chop more mesquite posts to replace those that had been broken, sank her elbows deep in the mud and straw mixture that was packed between the cracks left once the posts had been stood upright to form a wall, and restored thatching on ruined roofs.

  She wasn’t the only woman who joined in the effort to repair the jacals. But her seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy despite her injury earned her the awe and respect of the vaqueros, their wives, sisters, and mothers.

  As the day ended in a gorgeous sunset of pinks and purples striping the horizon, Sloan sought out Miguel once more. “Are there other matters that require immediate attention?”

  By now Miguel was ready to do anything Sloan demanded, so it surprised him to hear her asking for his opinion of what should be done next. Her earnest expression convinced him that she was sincere in her desire to do what was best for Dolorosa in her husband’s absence. And what was good for Dolorosa was good for the vaqueros who lived there. Any lingering resentment he might have had about taking orders from a woman were quelled. “Sí, señora. Don Cruz wanted a brush corral built to hold the mustangs we will capture in the spring hunt.”

  “Then we must begin with that tomorrow.” Sloan rubbed her hand gently along her bruised hip, then arched her back and rubbed her balled fists into the aching muscles just above her buttocks. “I’ll meet you at dawn at the fortress gates.”

  She was rolling her head in slow circles when Miguel replied, “As you wish, Doña Sloan.”

  Sloan’s head snapped up at the title of respect and met the wily vaquero’s dark brown eyes with gratefulness. Miguel nodded his obeisance before he turned and left her.

  For the next week, Sloan worked with the vaqueros during the day and spent the nights sitting beside Cruz, holding his limp hand in hers and recounting everything she had said and done, as though he could really hear her.

  The double duty took its toll on her. Shadows formed beneath her eyes, and her face became gaunt with the signs of fatigue. Yet she couldn’t rest. She was determined that when Cruz awoke he would find Dolorosa had not suffered in his absence.

  Paco’s stories around the campfire about the devoted and spirited wife of El Patrón were no longer greeted with chuckles of disbelief. In fact, other vaqueros offered their own stories of how Doña Sloan had thrown her lasso over the head of a bawling calf and pulled it from a boghole, how Doña Sloan had ridden her horse like the wind in pursuit of an especially fast mustang, and how Doña Sloan had taken the time to sit with Esteban’s wife as she labored to deliver their first child.

  They did not understand how she could do the work of a man and yet have the soft heart of a woman, but she had proved it time and again. They would have walked through fire for her.

  But it had been whispered on more than one set of lips that when Don Cruz was well, he would never allow Doña Sloan such freedom to come and go. For, after all, a man’s wife belonged at home.

  Sloan was oblivious to their speculation. Anyway, she was too exhausted and sick at heart to care.

  She was sitting in a chair beside Cruz’s bed, her cheek lying on Cruz’s hand where it lay on the bed, when she heard the door open. It was a sign of how tired she was that she didn’t even raise her head to see who had entered the room.

  She heard voices murmuring behind her and the sound of something heavy being settled on the tile floor. Finally, her curiosity roused her.

  She turned to find that Tomasita was directing the servants to set up a bath for her. She sat, unmoving, while the wooden tub was filled with hot water. Finally, Tomasita sent the servants from the room and closed the door.

  “I thought a bath might relax you so you can sleep,” Tomasita said.

  “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

  Tomasita helped Sloan undress, then wrapped her in a towel.

  “You must rest more,” Tomasita chided, “or you will soon be sick yourself.”

  “I know you’re right,” Sloan readily agreed. “And I wish I could but-”

  “Come, step into the bath.” Tomasita led Sloan over to the steaming water like a helpless child and then held on to the towel as Sloan settled her sore muscles into the hot water.

  Sloan sighed in ecstasy. “Ahhhh. This is wonderful. Thank you, Tomasita.”

  “It is the least I can do.”

  Sloan looked at Tomasita and realized she wasn’t the only one with dark circles under her eyes. “How are you, Tomasita? Have you been feeling well?”

  “As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do about Don Ambrosio?”

  “I am going back to Spain.”

  “What?”

  “To the sisters at El Convento del Sagrado Corazón in Madrid.”

  Sloan watched Tomasita slowly lower herself into a nearby rawhide chair. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

  Tomasita met Sloan’s eyes and said, “What other choice do I have?”

  “You can tell Luke about the baby.”

  Sloan watched the pain darken Tomasita’s sapphire eyes before the Spanish woman replied, “He would never forgive me for forcing him to marry me. I could not live with him knowing that he did not want me.”

  “Perhaps he cares for you a great deal more than you think.”

  “Please do not offer me hope where there is none.”

  Sloan leaned her head back against the cool metal rim of the wooden tub and closed her eyes. “You can run away if you want. But I thought you had more gumption.”

  “I did… I do…”

  “Do you really want your son or daughter to grow up without knowing his father, the way Luke did?”

  They were both silent while Sloan soaked in the tub. At last, Sloan stood and Tomasita quickly wrapped the towel around her.

  “Promise me you’ll think about it,” Sloan said.

  “All right. Now I will leave you to get some rest,” Tomasita said. “It has been a long day.”

  “Yes, it has,” Sloan agreed with a wan smile. “A very long day.”

  Sloan was too tired even to put on a nightgown. She simply crossed to the opposite side of the bed and slipped under the covers beside Cruz. She only meant to doze, but it had been too long since she had given her body a rest, and as soon as she closed her eyes, she was sound asleep.

  Sloan
was having a wonderful dream. Cruz was making love to her, his hands gently roaming the naked curve of her hip, spanning her belly, cupping her swollen breasts. She felt his lips follow where his hands had been, until his thumb caressed her jaw. His lips touched hers and it felt so real. It felt-

  “Te adoro, Cebellina.”

  Sloan stiffened. That voice was no dream. Her eyes flew open to the sight of Cruz lying beside her, his eyes open and-seeing her.

  “You’re awake!” She embraced him, their bodies warm against each other as tears of relief welled in her eyes. A brilliant smile broke across her face and she leaned back to look up at him.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said.

  “Have I been ill long?”

  “You’ve been unconscious for eight days.”

  “Eight days! I have to-” Cruz tried to sit up, but he got so dizzy Sloan had to help him lie back down again.

  “Don’t worry. Everything’s been taken care of while you’ve been ill.”

  “How could that be? Miguel only takes orders from me. There must have been damage from the storm and-”

  “It has all been taken care of,” Sloan repeated, soothing his troubled brow with her hand. “I handled everything.”

  Cruz was very still for a moment, and Sloan looked to make sure he was still all right.

  “You handled everything?”

  “Someone had to take charge. So I did.”

  “My vaqueros followed your orders?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “You do?” Sloan said, surprised at his apparent acquiescence to her activities.

  “Yes, and I thank you. Now that I am well, though, I can take over and leave you free to-”

  “Not so fast,” Sloan said, sitting up and using the sheet to cover her nakedness. “I don’t want to be free.”

  “No?”

  “No. Besides, you’re not getting out of this bed until I’m sure you’re completely well. And that means not until María says so. There’s no sense in your vaqueros tramping in here to disturb you, either. If you want to give orders, fine. You can do it through me. I won’t have you getting up too soon and winding up dead. Do you understand me?”