Texas Woman (33 page)

“Miguel promised that today he would put up the
corrale
in the village,” Sloan said as she dressed in the predawn light.

She could hear the control in Cruz’s voice as he asked, “What
corrale
?”

“The one for orphaned newborn calves.” Sloan crossed to Cruz and put her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his broad chest. “It’s a perfect solution to a cruel problem. Your vaqueros don’t have the time or patience to bother with calves that have been orphaned before they can survive on their own. If we build a
corrale
in the village, the vaqueros could leave the newborns there and the women and children could raise them and have their own source of beef.”

“You are giving my longhorns to the
pobres
?”

“Only the calves that would die if they were left on the range.”

“Those longhorns are wild. What makes you think their calves will accept nourishment from a human hand?”

“Because we’ve already tried it, and it works.”

Cruz shook his head in resignation. “I should have known you would have your arguments well planned. All right. When do we start?”

Sloan hugged him tightly and felt a fierce spiral of need well inside her.

Sensing her tension, Cruz tipped her chin up with his hand and touched his lips to hers.

Her response was instant and powerful. She sought his lips with hers, feeling a hunger that grew even as she fed it. She felt her nipples budding against his hair-rough chest and rubbed against him. She heard him groan and tugged at his ears, pulling his head down to kiss her again.

“We have work to do,” Cruz said, his breath shallow.

“It can get done later,” she whispered. “I . . . I want you.”

Sloan was almost as surprised as Cruz was by her admission. She had little time to think about what she had said before Cruz swept her into his arms and carried her back to bed.

Their lovemaking had a different tenor, less restrained, a joining of not just bodies but spirits. Demands were made and answered. Prayers were offered and fulfilled. Touching one another became a matter of necessity. Ravenous with hunger, Sloan took what she needed; thirsting, she drank from the cup of love. There was nothing gentle about their mating; it was wild, tumultuous, consuming.

Cruz tried to be gentle, but Sloan would not allow it. Her hands were all over him, touching, embracing, scratching, pressing. Her mouth and tongue and teeth tantalized him, seeking pleasure in the giving of it.

The need to be inside her was excruciating, but she would not let him in. She kissed her way down his belly, laughing deep in her throat as he groaned in pleasure. He grabbed a hank of silky sable hair and pulled her away before she drove him mad.

Then his mouth was on hers, his tongue thrusting deep inside.

Sloan felt everything, heard everything, smelled everything with senses that were heightened beyond bearing. She tried to keep Cruz’s tongue in her mouth, but failing that, followed his tongue when he retreated and tasted the roof of his mouth and his tongue and the silky cavern beyond.

His mouth moved to her throat, biting, then soothing. She arched her hips up into his, sheathing him, and felt him harden and swell inside her.

Then his mouth was on her breasts, gentle licks and strong sucks, the contrast exciting beyond belief. She was forced to release her grasp on him as he kissed his way down her stomach to the nest of curls that hid her femininity.

His tongue was gentle and slow, and she had trouble catching her breath.

Sloan writhed helplessly beneath Cruz as he held her up to his mouth and took what he wanted. Her body quivered as his tongue dipped and retreated, teasing and taunting. She gripped the sheets with her fists as she welcomed the waves of satisfaction.

The coarse, grating noise in her throat was bestial, primal, a harsh evocative sound that was echoed by Cruz. Her hips arched upward one last time, all her muscles tensed, her body concentrated on the ecstasy that rolled across her.

Sloan lay enervated after the last spasm had passed, her body trembling as Cruz’s silky hair lay against her belly.

Their loving had been so much more than she had bargained for. She lay still as her body quivered with feeling.

She felt his tender kiss on her belly and lifted a limp hand to lay it on his head and tunnel it through his hair. She turned her head away to hide the tears that welled. “I . . . this was . . . wonderful.”

Sloan wanted to give back to Cruz what he had given her. “Come here,” she said.

“Where?”

She smiled. “Here.” She urged him up over her, spreading her thighs to make a cradle for him between them.

In moments he was hard and ready, and she reached down with her hand and slowly guided him inside her. Her smile broadened as she heard his hissing sigh of satisfaction.

Then they lay still.

Sloan felt full. She welcomed the swelling in her breasts, the achy feeling of need, the urge to arch upward, to take him deeper inside her, to keep him there and take his seed.

She arched her hips slightly, but it was enough. He grasped her buttocks and angled her for his thrust. His mouth sought hers gently, and his tongue mimed the slow, steady movements below.

She was on fire. Her pulse raced, and she felt her heart beating crazily. Her breath came in short spurts. He kept his thrusts slow, building the tension, building the pressure.

“Cruz, I need . . . more.”

He thrust deeper, harder, faster. She arched up to take more of him, her hands and mouth desperately tasting and touching whatever part of him she could reach. The tension was unbearable. She clutched his back and bit his shoulder hard as she climaxed in wave after wave of unbearable pleasure.

Cruz felt her body tightening around him and released his seed deep inside her with a sigh of utter satisfaction.

They lay together for a long time—until their bodies had stopped shuddering, until their breathing had returned to normal, until the sweat had dried on their skin.

Cruz was the first to move. He rolled onto his side and pulled Sloan into his embrace. “There is work to be done, Cebellina.”

“I don’t want to get up.”

He chuckled. “Neither do I.”

“Cruz, what just happened between us . . . It doesn’t mean I’ve made up my mind to stay.” She felt Cruz stiffen beside her. “I care for you a great deal. More than I thought I could care.” She took a deep breath and said, “More than I cared for Tonio.”

She felt him shudder beneath her fingertips.

“But I’m not sure whether I can ever love you fully, whether I can completely let go of the past . . . or ever trust you again. And I care enough for you to want you to have more than I fear I can give to you.”

His arms tightened around her. “We have time on our side, Cebellina. There is no rush to decide anything now.”

“I just wanted you to know,” she said in a quiet voice.

“I thank you for that,” he replied solemnly. “And now we have important work to do.”

She lowered her brow quizzically. “Important work?”

He smiled. “Think of all those orphaned calves that will not get any breakfast if we do not get moving.”

She smiled back at him and rose to dress. She felt wonderful. In fact, she couldn’t keep the smile off her face. She greeted Doña Lucia at the breakfast table unaware that she radiated happiness.

Doña Lucia had watched with growing frustration as Sloan insinuated herself into every facet of life at Dolorosa. Her hopes of having a daughter-in-law who would defer to her wishes, one who would be meek and obedient to her will, had remained woefully unfulfilled.

She had tried twice to be permanently rid of her nemesis, and failed both times. The near catastrophe of her second attempt had convinced her that perhaps she should change her tactics.

So Doña Lucia had looked around for another way to control her new daughter-in-law. She had found what she considered the one soft spot in
that woman’s
underbelly: her son. Through Cisco, Doña Lucia hoped to bring Sloan to heel.

Sloan was on her way out the door with Cruz when Doña Lucia said, “Do you want me to send for the
curandera
to come see Cisco?”

Sloan halted in her tracks. “Is he ill?”

“He did not feel well this morning. I had Josefa put him back to bed.”

Sloan turned to Cruz, worry plain in her eyes, and said, “I think I had better stay—”

“You do not need to stay,” Doña Lucia interrupted. “Tomasita and I can take care of your son.”

At that well-aimed prod, Sloan turned to Cruz and said, “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll join you as soon as I’m sure Cisco is feeling better.”

Cruz leaned down to kiss Sloan quickly on the mouth and murmured, “You are a good mother, Cebellina,” before he left.

When Sloan entered Cisco’s bedroom, she saw him playing quietly on his bed with a wooden horse. That by itself was a good indication something was amiss. Cisco was seldom quiet. He looked flushed, and his eyes were overly bright. She sat down beside him and put a hand on his forehead. It was more than warm.

“How do you feel,
mi hijo?
”

“Not so good, Mamá.”

“Where does it hurt, sweetheart?”

“Right here.” Cisco covered his stomach with a small hand.

“Would you like for me to hold you for a while until you feel better?”

“
Sí
, Mamá.”

Sloan settled onto the bed, then lifted her son into her arms. He snuggled against her, laying his head on her breast. The newborn calves would have to wait, she thought. She had a child of her own that needed her attention.

She held Cisco most of the morning while he slept. Toward noon, Doña Lucia came to check on her grandson. She sat down in the ladder-back chair beside the bed and asked, “How is he?”

“Fine,” Sloan said. “It seems to have been a simple stomachache. He’s better, I think. But now that he’s asleep, I think I’d like to get some fresh air.”

“As you wish,” Doña Lucia said agreeably, as she watched Sloan square her shoulders and march from the room.

It had all been so easy she could hardly believe it. Easy to give Cisco a potion that would upset his stomach. Easy to separate Sloan from Cruz at the front door. And she would find other ways to keep
that woman
and her son apart.

Doña Lucia smiled with satisfaction. Not a bad day’s work, and the day was only half done.

Once outside, Sloan was appalled to see how bruised the sky looked. It was only midday, yet angry black, purple and gray clouds spilled over one another, digesting one another. They hung low, protruding from the sky like swollen udders, completely blocking the sun.

The breeze felt cool after the warmer weather of the past week, and it didn’t take much guessing to know they were in for a bad thunderstorm. She almost turned back around, but the thought of confronting Doña Lucia again kept her moving toward the river.

Sloan had just found a comfortable spot in the shade of a cypress and sat down when she heard a distinctive yet indescribable hissing sound. Her eyes widened in terror when she turned and saw a grayish white funnel snake down from the clouds, just beyond the hacienda. Twisting and bending with deadly grace, the vortex began to suck up the surrounding countryside. Dragging its writhing tail along the ground, it quickly became clothed in a shaggy sleeve of dust and debris.

Sloan’s scream of terror and fear was lost in the deafening roar of the tornado as it mauled the face of the earth. The hacienda was in the direct path of the twisting nightmare, but its freakish behavior made it impossible to tell whether it would actually strike the house.

Sloan jumped up and started to run. There was a root cellar beside the adobe house to which they could all escape to safety, if only she could reach the house in time.

“Tornadooooooo!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

She had barely taken five steps when the tornado enveloped the hacienda with its insensate fury. Terror held her paralyzed as she watched nature’s bedlam—a black cage full of screaming lunatics—beating at the house, clawing at it, trying to crush it.

Even at this distance, the menacing wind ripped at her, sending her hair whirling in a mock dance of death. She felt her skin pierced with flying splinters and looked down to discover it was only straw, borne with tremendous force by the screaming, hissing dervish.

As swiftly as it had come, the tornado turned and headed away, leaving the village beyond the hacienda untouched.

A cacophony of wailing and crying erupted from the village. The women and children who had taken what refuge they could from the storm now ran for the hacienda, in hopes of rescuing those who might have survived the tornado’s onslaught.

Sloan stood frozen for another instant before she joined the throng.

The first thing she saw as she approached the carnage left by the tornado was a rooster that had been stripped of its tail and back feathers—plucked alive! The sight of its naked pink skin made her shiver. Her heart was in her throat as she forced herself to gaze upon the devastation nature had wrought.

The hacienda had been flattened. The stable had been picked up and moved a hundred yards away. The fountain in the central courtyard remained untouched. It made no sense!

All Sloan’s thoughts were focused on the house. Cisco was inside. And Tomasita. And Doña Lucia. And Josefa and Ana. No one could have survived such a disaster.

She tore at the broken adobe bricks, along with the
pobres
from the village, hoping against hope that someone was alive inside the house or that they had seen or heard the tornado coming and had taken refuge in the root cellar.

Sloan’s fingers were soon raw and bleeding, but she kept on digging. She fought the strong hands that tried to drag her away from her work until she realized that Cruz had come with his vaqueros.

She burrowed into his arms and held him tight for an instant, before she pushed him away again. “I can’t find Cisco. And I haven’t seen Tomasita or your mother, either. We have to keep digging!”

With the help of Cruz’s vaqueros, the work went much faster. What they found as the debris was cleared away was not encouraging. Ana was dead, and Josefa, both crushed to death by the kitchen wall and ceiling, which had collapsed. Where were the rest who had been inside the hacienda? Could they possibly be alive?