Texas Woman (30 page)

The
curandera,
María, was a wizened old woman, who wore ragged clothes and generally smelled of the poultices she devised. When she entered the room, she found Sloan and Cruz both asleep on the bed.

She checked Cruz first, clucking her tongue and shaking her head as she pried open his eyelids and peered into his eyes. She rinsed the blood from the wound at his temple and decided that it would not need stitching if she pulled it together and bound it that way. With quick, sure hands she checked to make sure he was otherwise uninjured before turning her attention to the woman.

She remembered Señora Sloan well. She had first met the señora a year ago when Cisco had been knifed by a Comanche, and Don Cruz had defended the señora’s right to stay with her son when the
curandera
had demanded that the room must be cleared of those who had no need to be there. Doña Lucia had left. Señora Sloan had remained and efficiently assisted María as she had stitched the wound closed.

The
curandera
had seen the adoration for this woman in Don Cruz’s eyes when he had thought no one was looking, and she had thought then that Señora Sloan would make a worthy wife for her patrón. She wondered, as she gently woke the señora, whether the young woman had learned to return Don Cruz’s affections. If so, she would need all her courage to face the news that María had to impart.

“Señora, wake up,” the
curandera
said, gently slapping Sloan’s cheeks.

Sloan blinked her eyes open. “Is Cruz—”

“I have done what I can for El Patrón. Now it is time to take care of you.”

“I’m only a little bruised—”

María shook her head and clucked her tongue as though chiding a small child as she helped Sloan strip off her clothes and put on a chambray wrapper. “That is a bad bruise on your thigh, señora, and needs something to reduce the swelling.”

“What
is
that?” Sloan demanded, her nose wrinkling in disgust as María applied a strong-smelling poultice.

“Something that will have you feeling much better soon,” the
curandera
assured her. “But I am afraid I must bring you more pain, señora,” María said as she covered Sloan with the sheet.

“What do you mean—more pain?”

“Don Cruz—”

“What’s wrong!” Sloan turned frantically to look at the man who, until now, she thought had been peacefully sleeping. “He’s not dead, is he?”

“No, señora. He sleeps.”

Sloan turned back just as quickly and frowned at the
curandera
. “If he’s just sleeping, then what’s wrong with him?”

“It is not only his body that sleeps,” María explained, “but his soul as well.”

Sloan all too quickly realized what the
curandera
was trying to say. “Oh my God. You mean he’s in a coma? He’s not going to wake up?”

“Be calm, señora,” the
curandera
said. “I do not know how long he will sleep. It may be he will wake in the morning, his body and soul rested. But it may also be that he will take longer to wake.”

Sloan stared at Cruz in horror. “He might die?”

They were interrupted when Doña Lucia appeared at the door and announced, “There is someone here to see you, Sloan.”

“Who is it?” she asked.

“He says his name is Louis Randolph. He says he has come for Betsy.”

S
LOAN FELT THE DISBELIEF GROW, SPINNING HER
insides like a tumbleweed in the wind. “It can’t be. He can’t take her right now. I mean . . . it’s too much . . .”

She directed all her senses inward in an effort to calm the furor there, so she didn’t notice the astonished look on Doña Lucia’s face when the older woman realized Sloan was not the least bit sick. Nor did she see the look of horror when Cruz’s mother realized that her son lay unmoving on the bed.

“Did he—Did you—?” Doña Lucia gasped.

Sloan stared down at Doña Lucia’s hand, which had curled, like a bird’s claw, around her forearm. Sloan pulled her hand free and said, “Did he what? Did I what?”

Doña Lucia crossed to the mahogany bedstead in a haze and reached out a hand to touch her son’s pale whiskered cheek, fearing the worst. He simply could not have drunk from the poisoned goblet. She had watched carefully to make sure—and then she saw the wet brown stain on the sheets.
That woman
must have spilled the poisoned brandy, rather than drinking it. Doña Lucia ground her teeth in fury. She had failed again. And she had barely kept herself from blurting out what she had tried to do.

“Will he recover?” Doña Lucia asked the
curandera
.

“Only time will tell,” María said.

Sloan followed Doña Lucia and now stood beside her looking down at Cruz.

Doña Lucia stepped back as though Sloan was filth that would soil her gown. “You should be lying there, not my son. The blood of kings runs in his veins. He should never have married his brother’s
puta
!”

Sloan was in shock. Too much had happened in too brief a time. “I want you to leave this room now,” she said. “I have to dress to greet my guest.”

Doña Lucia didn’t know what to make of Sloan’s calm but firm request. Left without an enemy with whom to do battle, she looked one last time at her unconscious son, turned, and left.

Sloan pulled on a clean shirt and vest, but needed the
curandera
’s help getting her pants and boots on.

“You should be in bed, señora,” María said.

“I can’t sleep now. I’ll rest later.”

In the
sala,
Sloan found Betsy perched on one of her Uncle Louis’s knees and Cisco straddling the other. Louis Randolph was a big man. He was dressed like a farmer, in a dark gray homespun shirt, baggy denim overalls, and short, heavy black boots, all of which had seen a great deal of wear. He had shaggy light brown hair and ears that stuck out from his head like handles on a sugar bowl.

“Hello. I’m Sloan Guerrero.”

Louis smiled, his brown eyes sparkling with good humor. “I’d get up, ma’am, but I seem to have two bronc riders here holdin’ me down.”

He briefly released Betsy to reach out his hand, and Sloan bent forward to shake it. His hand was heavily callused, and though Sloan was sure he was quite strong, his grip was gentle.

“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 and weather. He wore the spurred wing boots and rawhide chaparejos of the vaquero.