Texas Woman

Chapter 15

TWO WEEKS LATER DOÑA LUCIA WATCHED FROM the veranda as her son arrived back at Dolorosa, his laughing, smiling wife by his side, more in charity with one another now than they had been before they left.

“How was your journey?” she asked as her son climbed the few steps to greet her.

“It went well,” Cruz said, “except Sloan was ill the day we arrived in San Antonio.”

“Oh? That is too bad.”

“A stomach ailment. But it quickly passed, and as you can see, she is fine now.”

“So I see.”

Cruz and Sloan quickly excused themselves and hurried inside to search for Cisco and Betsy.

Her back stiff, her black eyes inscrutable, Doña Lucia turned and walked into the sala to be alone. She seated herself imposingly in one of the heavy Mediterranean chairs, spread her ruffled burgundy satin skirt around her, and carefully straightened the lace at her elbows. This was how she had planned to meet her son when he told her of his grief at the tragic death of his wife.

Doña Lucia tightened her grip on the thick arms of the chair. She was greatly disappointed with the failure of her bold plan. What had gone wrong? Perhaps that woman had not drunk enough of the water in her canteen. Perhaps the tasteless poison had not been as strong as the old gypsy woman had promised.

Or perhaps Cruz’s tender care had saved his wife’s life.

Apparently, it had not occurred to her son that his wife might have been poisoned. Which meant that she would have another chance to accomplish what she had failed on the first try. She would have to wait until the gypsies came again to get more poison from the old woman.

Next time, she would make sure she had enough. Next time, when that woman became ill, she would not recover.

In the six weeks following her return to Dolorosa, Sloan spent a great deal of time with Betsy, knowing that her days with the child were numbered. She waited anxiously for the arrival of Betsy’s Uncle Louis. She knew if she were smart she would be drawing back from her involvement with the little girl. But there was something about Betsy that precluded that possibility.

On the other hand, since her return from San Antonio, Sloan had consciously backed away from Cisco, as though it were only a matter of time before something happened to take him from her, too. It wasn’t rational, but there was nothing reasonable about her deep-seated fear that those she cared for most were destined to be torn from her.

Sloan opened the letter she had just received from Bay. The missive turned out to be softly worded and steel-laced, very like Bay herself.

Dear Sloan,

You know I’m not much good with horses (except for petting their noses) or I would have come sooner to see how you are.

I’m sorry Cruz was away when I came to visit, but at least that gave us more time to talk. I agree with you that Betsy is adorable, but honestly, I don’t know how you can resist Cisco. He looks more like Cruz every day.

Tomasita is absolutely charming. Did you notice she spent the whole afternoon holding Whipp? She said she has always dreamed of having a baby of her own. Do you think her husband should be chosen by Cruz? That doesn’t seem fair. How do you think she and Luke would get along?

Oh my! This is turning into a book, so I had better close. I wish you happiness. Please let me know if Long Quiet and I can ever be of help.

All my love,

Bay

Sloan was gazing out the bedroom window at the many flowers blooming in the courtyard, musing about the hidden messages in Bay’s letter, when she saw Tomasita grab onto a rose trellis to steady herself, close her eyes, and take several deep breaths, all the while holding a hand to her belly.

Sloan picked up Bay’s letter and reread the paragraph about Tomasita. When she looked up again, Tomasita had sunk onto one of the stone benches in the courtyard. When had Tomasita’s waist thickened? Where had she gotten the dark circles that shadowed her eyes?

Sloan could hardly credit what she was thinking, yet the signs were there. It was true Tomasita had seen several young men over the past few weeks, as Cruz had brought a parade of suitors to supper. But how could Tomasita possibly be pregnant when she had been so carefully guarded, so closely watched?

Sloan rose from her desk and walked out into the courtyard.

When Tomasita heard footsteps, she quickly opened her eyes and stood up, nervously smoothing her wool skirt.

“You look tired, Tomasita. Are you all right?”

Tomasita blanched. “I am fine. Why do you ask?”

Sloan noticed the girl’s hands had gone reflexively to her womb before she had clasped them together at her waist. “Is there anything you would like to talk about, Tomasita?”

“Like what?” Tomasita asked, brazening it out.

“If you are in any trouble-”

“What makes you think I am in trouble?” Tomasita interrupted.

Sloan’s heart went out to the other woman. “I can help,” she said softly.

“No one can help me,” Tomasita said, her eyes bleak. “I am lost.”

“I will speak to Cruz-”

“No! Say nothing. Please, if you care for me at all, say nothing.” Tomasita turned and fled the courtyard.

Sloan knew Tomasita couldn’t hide her problem for long, but for so long as she could, Tomasita’s secret was safe with her. Yet Sloan could not help wondering-who was the father of Tomasita’s child?

The day of Tomasita’s reckoning came sooner than either of them had expected, for the moment they sat down to supper, Cruz said, “I have found a husband for you, Tomasita.”

All eyes turned to Tomasita, who kept her gaze riveted on her plate of enchiladas, beans, and rice.

Cruz continued, “Do you remember Don Ambrosio de Arocha, the gentleman who came to dinner the first Sunday after I returned from San Antonio?”

“Sí, Don Cruz. I remember him,” Tomasita answered.

Sloan remembered the prospective bridegroom, too. Don Ambrosio was a thin, erect, very stern-looking man. Distinctive, dark-eyed, he had a pointed beard and a thin moustache. But he was gray-haired and, frankly, old.

Cruz continued, “Don Ambrosio has asked me for your hand in marriage. I have arranged for a dowry, and we have signed a betrothal contract. The wedding will take place as soon as the banns are read.”

Sloan wondered if Don Ambrosio could be the one who had gotten Tomasita pregnant and if that was the reason for such haste. That hardly seemed possible, though, since she herself had acted as duenna to the mismatched couple and they had spent only a few moments together in the courtyard.

Sloan watched Tomasita to see whether the news of her betrothal pleased her. The young woman said nothing, did nothing. In fact, her face remained impassive. Sloan knew Cruz had noticed Tomasita’s lack of eagerness or excitement, because she saw him frown.

Doña Lucia was livid.

After they had finished eating, Sloan followed Tomasita, planning to offer whatever solace she could. To her surprise, the young woman did not go directly to her room. Instead, she walked out of the hacienda, through the fortress gates, and down toward the river.

Sloan traced the younger woman’s steps to a spot along the river bank where the grass grew tall and thick cypress trees allowed only scattered rays of late-evening sun to reach the ground.

When Tomasita realized she was being followed she froze and demanded, “Who is there?”

“It’s me. Sloan.”

Tomasita slowly turned to face her. “Oh. I thought… I wished… never mind.”

“Did you think it might be the baby’s father?”

Tomasita gasped.

Sloan took another step closer to Tomasita. “I know you’re pregnant, Tomasita.”

“How could you? I only found out… Holy Mary. Who else knows?” she said as she grabbed Sloan’s forearms, her voice frantic.

Sloan turned her hands and grasped Tomasita’s arms, wanting to comfort the other woman. “It appears no one else knows. Although all the signs are there for anyone to see.”

When Sloan heard the first sob, she opened her arms and the young woman threw herself into her consoling embrace. For a few minutes Sloan did nothing but hold Tomasita while she cried. She had been in this position herself, and hearing Tomasita’s hopeless sobs brought back memories.

“Oh, Sloan, what am I going to do?” Tomasita wailed through her tears. “I cannot marry Don Ambrosio. I cannot! I am in love with another man.”

“The father of your child?”

“Yes.”

Sloan grasped Tomasita by the shoulders, looked into the other woman’s tear-streaked face and demanded, “Who is he, Tomasita? What bastard got you pregnant and then disappeared?”

Tomasita stared at Sloan wide-eyed but remained silent.

Sloan’s heart began to race and her stomach turned over as she had a horrifying thought. “Please… not Cruz…”

“No! Oh no. It is Luke. Luke Summers!”

“Luke?” Sloan asked, her voice sharp with relief, her mind not fully grasping what had been said.

“Sí. Your brother, Luke.”

Sloan was stunned. “He couldn’t do such a thing!” But she realized that of course he could.

Luke was adept at seducing women. A rake. A rogue. A bastard in name, and now in deed. But she had never believed he would stoop so low as to steal an innocent’s virtue. “When? How?”

“Do you remember the day you went home to Three Oaks? Luke came here to find you, but you were gone. He asked me to meet him later, here at the river. I was not going to do it…”

“But you did,” Sloan said flatly.

Tomasita covered her face with her hands. “Holy Mary. What a mess I have made of everything.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not too late to straighten things out,” Sloan said soothingly, her arms once again surrounding Tomasita in comfort. “We’ll simply go to Cruz and explain what’s happened. He’ll talk with Luke and arrange for Luke to marry you instead of Don Ambrosio.”

Tomasita jerked out of Sloan’s embrace. “No! Don Cruz must not speak to Luke. I do not want Luke to know about the baby. Promise me you will not say anything to Don Cruz!”

Sloan realized that Tomasita was on the verge of hysteria and calmed her by agreeing to keep her secret. “This isn’t something you can keep hidden for long,” she warned. “And you certainly can’t marry Don Ambrosio without telling him about the baby.”

“I know.”

“Tomasita, why don’t you want Luke to know about the child? I can’t believe he wouldn’t want to know you’ll bear his son or daughter.”

“Luke has already made his wishes known. He does not want to marry me.”

“But if Cruz spoke to him-”

Tomasita cut Sloan off with a bark of bitter laughter. “Sí, Don Cruz may very well be able to convince Luke to marry me. But do you think I want him for my husband on those terms? At least if I marry Don Ambrosio, there is hope that someday he will learn to love me.”

“Are you so sure Luke doesn’t have any feelings for you?”

Tomasita turned to face Sloan, her mouth drawn in harsh lines. “Would he have left me as he did and stayed away this long if he cared?”

Sloan’s voice was soft when she asked, “Why did you make love with him, Tomasita, if you weren’t sure he loved you?”

Tomasita dropped her chin to her chest and twined her hands together in front of her. “Because I love him. I think I have loved him from the first moment I saw him. Even before I discovered you had married Don Cruz, I wanted to meet Luke at the river. Finding you with Don Cruz only gave me the excuse I needed to do what I had wanted to do all along.

“If that was all I could ever have, I was willing to take the risk to have it. When I gave myself to him, I thought he wanted to marry me. I did not understand that he did not feel the same way about me as I did about him.”

“What about the child? Will you keep it?”

Sloan watched as serenity bathed Tomasita’s features. “Oh yes, I will keep the child. And I will love it with all my heart.”

Sloan desperately hoped that Tomasita’s feelings didn’t change. For so, too, had she begun her pregnancy, with vows of everlasting love for her unborn child. “Let’s go back to the hacienda. It isn’t safe to be out here alone.”

The two women made the trip back to the hacienda arm in arm, separating at the rear of the house to quietly make their way to their respective rooms.

“Where have you been?”

Sloan hadn’t been expecting Cruz to confront her the instant she walked into their bedroom. She settled for the truth. “I went for a walk.”

“Alone?”

“Am I not allowed to be alone?” she asked to avoid the need to lie.

She felt Cruz’s arms surround her, felt him almost crush her with his strength as he pulled her close and nuzzled her ear. “I was worried about you, Cebellina.”

“I can watch out for myself, Cruz.”

“Do this for me, querida,” he coaxed. “You have your hands full with so many other things. Let me worry about you.”

He kissed her ear, slipping the tip of his tongue along the shell-shaped rim, heating her skin with his breath. She felt herself melting against him, defenseless against his onslaught.

“Say you will.”

“I will,” she said as she sought out his throat with her mouth. She loved the salty taste of his skin, the man-smell of him. When her hands curved around to grip his buttocks, she heard him laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“I am hoping I will be one of the things that keeps your hands full.”

She laughed and playfully squeezed his buttocks. “Me too.”

Sloan awoke in the middle of the night with a lazy stretch, feeling loved, sated, and satisfied. She turned over and reached for Cruz, only to discover his side of the bed was empty.

At that moment a streak of lightning slashed across the sky, followed by a horrendous blast of thunder. She supposed Cruz must have been awakened earlier by the storm. She slipped a robe on over her nakedness and set out in search of him, lantern in hand.

She stopped by the room now shared by Cisco and Betsy to see whether the storm had woken either of them. Cisco was sound asleep, but she found Betsy whimpering in her bed.

She set the lantern down on the bedside table, then sat down next to Betsy and lifted the little girl into her lap. “Are you afraid of the storm, sweetheart?”

Betsy trembled in her arms. “Yes.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Sloan crooned. “It’s just a lot of light and noise.”

“The lightning killed Jenny,” Betsy said.

“Who was Jenny?”

“My sister. She didn’t come in the house when Mama called her. The lightning hit Jenny, and I saw her catch fire. Mama said God came and struck Jenny dead for disobeying her. I’ve been good, haven’t I, Sloan? God won’t strike me dead, too, will he?”

“Oh, sweetheart, you’ve been very, very good.” Inside, Sloan raged at the mother who had been so heartless as to suggest that God punished disobedient little girls by striking them dead with lightning bolts.

How could she possibly assuage the little girl’s fear? She started by saying, “You know, if you stay inside during a storm, the lightning can’t reach you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.” She felt Betsy relax slightly in her arms.

“Mama said-”

“I know what your mama said,” Sloan interrupted. “But it wasn’t true. Your mama was feeling bad because your sister died and she put those unhappy feelings into words. God isn’t going to strike you dead with lightning if you misbehave, Betsy. If that was the case,” she said with a reassuring smile, “think of all the thunderstorms we should have had here at Dolorosa by now.”

Betsy smiled back tremulously. “I guess you’re right.”

Sloan brushed the bangs back from Betsy’s forehead, never more aware that Betsy was going to live with her aunt and uncle-strangers who might tell her equally terrifying stories.

She hugged Betsy hard, then forced herself to lay the child back in her bed. “You should try to go back to sleep. Any day now your Uncle Louis will be coming to get you, and you want to be well rested when he arrives.”

“I like Uncle Louis,” Betsy volunteered. “He lets me ride on Ben.”

“I trust Ben is a horse,” Sloan said, dropping a smacking kiss on Betsy’s nose.

“Oh no, Ben is a mule. He pulls Uncle Louis’s plow.”

“Riding Ben sounds like fun.” She tucked the quilt snugly around Betsy. “Do you think you can sleep now, sweetheart?”

Another bolt of lightning flashed, followed brief seconds later by a deafening rumble of thunder.

Sloan felt Betsy trembling, but the little girl gave her a brave smile.

“That’s my girl. Remember, you’re safe as can be, snug in your bed.”

She kissed Betsy once more on the forehead before she rose to leave the room. She had reached the door when Betsy called, “Sloan?”

Sloan stopped and turned back to her. “Yes, Betsy?”

“Could you tuck Cisco in real snug, too? Just in case.”

Sloan stood stunned for a moment before she followed the little girl’s bidding. She set the lantern back down on the bedside table and sat down beside her son.

Bay had been right in her letter. How much like Cruz he looked! She ran her fingertips across his baby cheek, then leaned over and kissed him on the brow. So soft. So sweet. Her child and not her child.

His hands were thrown above his head in abandon, and one leg lay crooked outside the covers. She made no effort to rearrange him, simply tucked the covers in at shoulders, waist, and hips, knowing she was being watched from across the room.

“I want to love you, sweetheart,” she whispered to her sleeping son. “I do want to love you. But I’m so afraid. I know it’s as foolish for me to fear that you’ll be taken away from me as it is for Betsy to fear the lightning. But oh, my son, how real the fear feels!”

She kissed her son again, picked up the lantern, and crossed to the door. Without looking back she said, “Good night, Betsy. Sleep tight.”

Sloan desperately wanted to be held by Cruz. She hurried to the sala and almost wept when she found it empty. She went back to their room, but the bed was still empty. Where was he? Had he been called out into the storm by one of his vaqueros?

What she had told Betsy hadn’t been a lie-the little girl was safe inside the house. But outside in the storm, there was great danger. As flat as the surrounding terrain was, a man on horseback provided a tantalizing target for lightning.

Sloan had already dressed herself in pants, shirt, and boots to go in search of Cruz when she admitted the folly of such a gesture. It would be far better if she went back to bed and tried to sleep. However, she wasn’t the least bit tired, and she knew she would never be able to sleep so long as the storm was lashing the adobe house with its fury.

She was having a glass of brandy in the sala when she heard voices at the front door. She rose from her chair before the fireplace, a smile widening on her face because she knew it had to be Cruz, home safe at last. She had only taken two steps toward the front door, however, when she heard another voice-a voice she recognized all too well.

“I expect you to do your part, Hawk.”

“I always have, have I not?” Cruz answered.

“Well, good-bye then. Damn and blast this storm!”

“Never come here again, Englishman.”

Sloan sagged back against the adobe wall as she heard the front door close and the sound of Cruz’s boots on the tile floor as he walked toward the sala.

For an instant she thought of hiding. But what purpose would that serve? She already knew more than she wanted to know. Hiding wouldn’t change the facts.

Cruz Guerrero was as much of a liar and a traitor to Texas as his brother had been.