Texas Woman (20 page)

Sloan stared after him as he walked out the bedroom door, his satchel under his arm. He hadn’t even given her a chance to say good-bye.

A moment later she wondered what possible use he could have for a satchel of business papers on the roundup.

Cruz walked quickly through the house, frustrated with the series of events that had made it necessary for him to attend to affairs of state at a time when he would much rather attend to affairs at home.

He had meant what he said about including Sloan in his work at Dolorosa—even the roundup. However, that was impossible right now, because he wasn’t headed directly for the roundup. First, he had a rendezvous with the Englishman, and he had no choice except to be there.

He rode like a man possessed, certain he would never arrive in time. He pulled up his
bayo
as he reached the camp of Mexican bandidos under the lone oak tree. He searched the gathering for the dapper Englishman and found him by the fire. Cruz froze as he recognized the man sitting beside Sir Giles.

However incredible it seemed, Alejandro Sanchez was alive.

Cruz saw from the startled expression on Alejandro’s face that he was equally surprised to see Cruz.

Alejandro turned to Sir Giles and demanded angrily, “What is he doing here?”

“Didn’t you know? My dear man, this is the Hawk. From now on, you two will be working together.”

“I think not,” Cruz said in a cold voice. “This bastard murdered my brother.”

“I executed a traitor and a fool,” Alejandro retorted. “One in whose footsteps you follow—Hawk. Or were you also involved in Tonio’s plot? For shame, Don Cruz, letting the Rangers capture your brother. If not for that—”

“You have said enough, Alejandro,” Cruz said curtly, interrupting the bandido’s speculation. “Whatever I was . . . whatever I am . . . you will pay for taking my brother’s life.”

Sir Giles looked from one man to the other, and saw them bristling, hands fisted, ready to fight. “Bloody hell!” he exclaimed. “I don’t give a damn what your personal differences are. I have work that has to get done.”

“Have you tasted the delights to be offered by Tonio’s
puta
?” Alejandro taunted Cruz.

“Shut your mouth, Alejandro, or this time I
will
cut out your tongue.”

“Where is she now?” Alejandro asked. “Have you tired of her so soon? I would not have thought she was much in bed myself, but Tonio bragged—”

Cruz’s hand shot out to grip Alejandro’s throat. In an instant the civilized man was gone, replaced by a ferocious beast. Alejandro was helpless in his grasp. The cold point of a sharp blade was pressed to the flesh beneath Alejandro’s jaw. “If you say another word about my wife, I will kill you.”

The two men measured one another, a mad dog and a ferocious hawk, both deadly, both capable of dealing swift and sure death.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Sir Giles stepped toward the two men, but stopped short, suddenly aware how little he could do to stop them.

Cruz regained control by reminding himself of the importance of his mission. As suddenly as the beast had come, it was gone. He released Alejandro and sheathed his knife.

There was more at stake here than seeking revenge for his brother’s death and the insults to his wife. Tonio would be avenged—when the time was right. And for all his threats, Alejandro could not reach beyond the fortressed walls of Cruz’s hacienda to harm Sloan.

“I don’t care what your personal grievance is against this man,” Sir Giles said to Cruz. He turned back to Alejandro. “What is important to me is that the two of you manage to deal with one another. Now, what is it to be?”

Alejandro shrugged. “So long as you pay me well, I will work with the devil himself.”

Sir Giles looked at Cruz and thought maybe Alejandro was going to get his wish. “And you, Hawk? What say you?”

“I am willing to put my personal feelings aside. Until my mission is finished.”

Cruz’s gaze clashed with Alejandro’s. They both knew the day would come when they would fight to the death. Until then, they would watch and wait.

Because neither man intended to be the one to die.

Two days after Cruz had left, Sloan received a letter from Cricket.

Dear Sloan,

Luke wrote and told me what happened. I can hardly believe we have a brother! But then, I’ve always known there was something special about Luke. Can you believe what a noodleheaded lumpkin we have for a father? Imagine giving everything to a
son
!

Luke said you had gone to Dolorosa. I would say my feelings were hurt because you didn’t come here, but I suspect you had your reasons.

Is there any truth to the romance Bay suggested might be sprouting between you and Cruz? I hope so. I saw how Cruz watched you at Jesse’s christening last year. His eyes fairly glowed!

I expect you to write me all about everything. I wish I could be there, but this muffin growing inside me (we’re probably going to end up naming the poor thing Muffin), isn’t cooperating lately.

Your worried sister,
Cricket

It took Sloan hours to compose a reply, but time was something she had a great deal of lately.

Several days after Cruz had left, Miguel returned with the rest of Cruz’s vaqueros, empty-handed from their search for the two Randolph boys.

Sloan was glad she hadn’t offered any hope to Betsy that her cousins were alive. In a few years, they would be very much Comanches in thought and deed. They were as lost to Betsy as though they had died.

Besides writing to Cricket, Sloan had spent a great deal of time sending out letters in hopes of reaching Betsy’s aunt and uncle. She had also sent a note to Luke telling him about the mysterious Englishman, and Alejandro and the Hawk. She had urged him to come visit Dolorosa again so they could talk.

The rest of her time was spent playing with Betsy, avoiding Cisco, and missing Cruz.

It was devastating to admit that she was thinking about Cruz, because it meant she cared. And if there was one thing she had been determined to do, it was to avoid caring. Loving meant becoming vulnerable to hurt. And she had already been hurt enough for one lifetime.

She didn’t understand her feelings for the proud Spaniard, but she could hardly deny they existed. The question was what she should do about them. She had married Cruz because she had owed him that much. But that didn’t mean she had to open her heart to him.

She stayed close to the hacienda for two weeks after she had sent her letter to Luke, expecting him to arrive any day. When she received neither a letter of response nor a visit from Luke, and Cruz still hadn’t returned, she decided to put an end to the waiting—and escape for a while the golden cage in which Cruz had imprisoned her.

Early the next morning, she packed a few of her belongings in her carpetbag before going in search of Tomasita. She found her still abed.

Sloan leaned over Tomasita and whispered, “Tomasita, wake up.”

Tomasita woke abruptly and sat bolt upright. Sloan had to put a hand out to keep the young woman from jumping out of bed.

“Oh, Sloan, it is you. I thought it was Mother María and that I was late for morning vespers again.”

Sloan chuckled. “You can go back to sleep in a minute. I wanted to ask a favor of you.”

“Anything.”

“I’m riding to Three Oaks today. I don’t expect I’ll be back tonight. I left Betsy sleeping in my bed. Will you keep an eye on her for me while I’m gone?”

“But of course,” Tomasita said, and then added, “Are you not afraid to go riding so far by yourself?”

Sloan shrugged. “Not especially.”

“It must be wonderful to be so brave, not to fear the Comanches or bandidos or wild animals or snakes or scorpions or—”

“If you keep that up, I may begin to wonder whether you think I’m brave or just plain crazy,” Sloan said with a grin.

“I often wished for the courage to leave the convent and go in search of . . . I do not know what. But I suppose courage is something one is born with. And I was not.”

“I’m sure if you had really wanted to leave the convent, you would have found a way to do it,” Sloan said. “I don’t think any of us really knows what we’re capable of doing until the need arises. Then I think we sometimes surprise ourselves.

“I have no choice about making this journey. I have to find out what’s going on at Three Oaks. Give Betsy a hug for me.”

“I will.” Tomasita’s voice was slightly accusatory as she added, “And I shall hug Cisco, too.”

Sloan turned her head so Tomasita wouldn’t see that the jibe hurt. “Of course.” She whirled on her heel and headed for the door.

“Sloan?”

Sloan paused at the sound of Tomasita’s anxious voice.

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

The ride to Three Oaks was hours long, the flat, grassy terrain becoming rolling hills studded with an occasional pin or live oak the closer she came to Three Oaks. As far as Sloan was concerned, the journey gave her far too much time to think.

When the plantation house finally came into sight, she had long since planned arguments to use on both Rip and Luke in order to reclaim her lost heritage. She stepped down off her horse and hitched the reins to the post in front of the house.

She left her carpetbag tied behind the saddle. There was no sense announcing she planned to visit for a few days before she was sure she would get the answers she wanted from Rip.

She opened the door and walked inside—to utter silence. “Hello? Is anybody home? Rip? Luke? Stephen?”

No answer.

She walked into Rip’s office to see if there was anything on his desk that might tell her where he had gone. She found the notice of Wilkerson’s regular sale of slaves, livestock, and a variety of wares in Houston, but couldn’t believe Rip would have traveled that far in his weakened condition.

In fact, she couldn’t believe he had left the house at all. He had only done so rarely since his stroke in January, unwilling to expose the weakness in his right hand and leg to his neighbors and business associates.

So where was he now? Where was everybody?

Luke was furious with Rip, furious enough to spit nails. Their relationship had deteriorated over the past few days to barely veiled animosity.

Each day since Sloan had left for the Guerrero hacienda had been harder than the one before. He had about made up his mind to have it out with Rip when the letter had come from Sloan. Then Rip had discovered a problem with the cotton gin that he had sworn he couldn’t handle alone, and what with one thing and another it had been weeks, instead of days, before Luke could get away.

He sighed with relief as he spotted the whitewashed adobe hacienda where it sat on a hill, its broad veranda overlooking the Brazos River. He would get an answer from Sloan today. Whether she planned to stay with Cruz or go home to Three Oaks, he was giving her fair warning that he would be saying his
adiós
to Rip and riding back to San Antonio before the month was out.

Luke rode slowly through the small village where Cruz’s vaqueros lived in a combination of mesquite
jacals
and adobe homes. Chickens roamed freely in the streets, and were occasionally forced to abandon some tasty morsel in indignant haste in order to stay beyond the threat of his horse’s hooves.

He passed a mercantile store that reminded him he hadn’t had a cherry stick in a long time, and a cantina with swinging doors that reminded him he hadn’t had a whiskey in a long time, either. Time enough for that later, he decided.

The last and largest building he encountered before reaching the walls that surrounded Cruz’s hacienda was an obviously abandoned mission with a high bell tower. Luke might have sought out a priest, if there had been one, to rid himself of the guilt and hate that sat upon his shoulders like a hair shirt.

But perhaps it was just as well there was no holy man here. He was not yet ready to give up his lifelong animosity for his father.

He almost didn’t see Tomasita.

She was standing by the mission, her hand running delicately over the pockmarks left by musketballs and cannon over the past years of strife. Nearby, a heavyset Mexican woman played with two children, one of whom he recognized as Cisco.

He had forgotten how beautiful Tomasita Hidalgo was . . . but not how far beyond his reach she was. He was a bastard, a Texas Ranger who had to feed his horse, buy his ammunition, and provide himself with room and board on thirty-seven fifty a month. Doña Lucia had made it clear he was totally unsuitable for the high-born, well-bred Spanish woman whose loveliness now caught his eye.

As he approached her, he slowed his gelding. He really shouldn’t stop. It could only cause problems. But at that moment his horse’s shoe struck a stone and she turned.

When she recognized him, a shy, fleeting smile crossed her face, before she quickly turned away again to face the crumbling wall. Her hand brushed its surface as though by doing so she could read the story it had to tell.

He pulled his chestnut to a stop behind her. “Howdy.”

Tomasita pivoted slowly, her eyes lowered so that lush black lashes lay in crescents along the milky white skin of her cheeks. Her hands were clasped together in front of her, and her voice was breathless when she responded, “
Buenos días,
Señor Summers.”

Luke dismounted in a single graceful movement that left him standing a foot in front of her. “Call me Luke.”

Tomasita glanced quickly at Josefa only to discover that the old woman had followed the children around the corner to the back of the mission. She was alone.

Flustered, she could only think to say, “All right . . . Luke.”

Her eyelids flew open when she felt the knuckles of his hand brush her face. His hand cupped her cheek, and he lifted her chin. She felt herself begin to tremble even before he spoke.

“I like the way you say my name.”

Tomasita cleared her throat but couldn’t seem to form any words. She kept her eyes lowered so all she could see was his strong, masculine forearm, covered in a light dusting of sun-bleached hair. She wanted to reach up and touch it to see how it felt. Appalled at her thoughts, her eyes flew to his face to see if he had realized what she was thinking.