Texas Woman (5 page)

“I will find a good husband for her,” he said.

“And what of you? Will you not marry and breed up heirs? Who better than Tomasita to be the mother of your children?” his mother demanded.

“Rancho Dolorosa has an heir. Have you forgotten my brother’s son, Mamá? Tonio was your favorite. I have taken his son as my own. Is Cisco not heir enough for you?”

“He is also
that woman’s
son,” she spat.

Cruz’s eyes narrowed to slits and his lips pressed flat in anger. “You will speak of Sloan Stewart with respect.”

If Cruz had ever lifted a hand to his mother she might have been cowed by his fury, but although her son’s voice was hard, she was willing enough to fight words with words. She dismissed his obdurate stare with an angry wave of her ivory fan.

“Something must be done about
that woman
.”

“She has a name, Mamá.”

“I will not have it spoken in this house!”

“This house is mine,” he said, his voice harsh with the effort it took to control his temper. “I decide what names will be spoken here.”

“Of course,” she replied, her pride bringing her chin up another notch. “I see I cannot expect any more consideration for my wishes than you have given to the wishes of your father.”

Cruz refused to answer his mother’s challenging words with the taunting response on the tip of his tongue. Since his father’s death, he had found himself in almost constant conflict with his mother. She wasn’t ready to concede the father’s place to the son, any more than she was ready to concede her own place to a daughter-in-law.

He had told himself to be patient, that her abiding grief made her say things she did not mean, and that with time she would accept her new role in the household with grace. She needed his support and his solace in this time of change. He would not allow her to goad him into saying something now that he would regret later.

Instead of answering her accusation, he countered, “Are the plans completed for the
fandango
celebration to introduce Señorita Hidalgo to our neighbors?”

“All is in readiness, as you requested. I have invited all the noteworthy families in the area—including the Anglo planters from along the Brazos whom you added to the list—to come and welcome Tomasita.”

Cruz noted the disdain with which his mother referred to the wealthy Anglo planters. In the eight years since Texas had won its independence from Mexico in the Battle of San Jacinto, she had not accepted the reality of Anglo dominance in Texas. She had always retained the hope that someday Spain would step in and reclaim Texas. That was never going to happen. Annexation by America was a far more likely fate for the Republic—unless England could somehow manage to forestall it.

For now, Texas was free of oppressive Mexican taxes and military rule. Cruz would do everything in his power to keep it that way for himself and for the children he hoped to have with Sloan Stewart . . . assuming he could bring her to his home and to his bed.

He had hoped to present Sloan as his wife at the
fandango
. His mother’s enmity for
that woman
reminded him that she would not have been above “forgetting” to invite Sloan to the
fandango
.

“Did you send an invitation to the Stewart family?” he asked.

“If they were on the list—”

“You know they were on the list.” He dug deep for the patience to treat his mother with the respect that was her due and in a calmer voice asked, “Did you send the invitation?”

“I cannot remember,” she replied sullenly.

“Then perhaps you should check and make sure,” he said, his words both a command and a warning.

Cruz swore under his breath as he felt his shoulders knot with tension. Even if Sloan received an invitation, she probably would prove her independence by staying away.

He reached out to touch the smooth blue Talavera jar that stood in one of the recessed arches found at intervals along the interior walls of his adobe hacienda. Sloan’s skin was softer, smoother, than the finish on the delicate jar. He jerked his hand away from the glazed pottery and thrust it through his hair in what had become a habitual gesture of agitation.

His mother’s attitude toward Sloan troubled him, yet nothing he said seemed to change it. As far as Doña Lucia was concerned, Sloan Stewart had given herself to a man beyond the bounds of marriage and borne a bastard child. She would never forgive Sloan that transgression, even though the man Sloan had taken to her bed had been her favorite son and the child born of that union was her own grandchild.

He should have told his mother long ago that he was not free to align himself with Tomasita Hidalgo. But he could not—would not—explain his agreement with Sloan to his mother. At the time Cruz had learned of the betrothal contract, Tomasita had still been a child. Cruz had thought he would settle the matter with Sloan long before Tomasita had reached an age to marry.

But things had not gone as he had planned.

Tomasita’s father had died and his will had instructed the Convent of the Sacred Heart to send for Don Cruz Almicar Guerrero to come and claim his bride.

Cruz regretted the circumstances that had kept his relationship with Sloan Stewart in abeyance, because now Doña Lucia had her heart set on becoming mother-in-law to the aristocratic young Spanish woman he had brought home with him from Madrid.

Fortunately, Tomasita knew nothing of the alliance that had been proposed by their fathers, and Cruz had sternly forbidden his mother to tell the girl about it. It was enough for Tomasita to know he was her guardian until she married. For, indeed, he was.

He had asked his mother to plan the
fandango
in the hope that a prospective bridegroom for Tomasita would show himself. After all, once word of Tomasita’s beauty spread, he had no doubt the suitors would flock to his door. He planned to watch closely at the
fandango
to see if Tomasita favored any particular man.

Not that the girl could be allowed to make her own choice of husband, but perhaps she would show a preference for some suitable man. He was happy in his own choice of mate, and he wished Tomasita to be happy as well.

“You would be wise to make your claim on Señorita Hidalgo known at the
fandango,
” Doña Lucia said, demanding his attention.

“I have no claim to make.”

The sound of running feet on the tile floor suspended their argument.

“Papa! Papa!”

Cruz opened his arms wide as the three-year-old he thought of as his son threw himself forward. He scooped Cisco up and hugged him hard.

“Diablito! What demon is chasing you?” Cruz asked.

“She is coming. Hide me.
Pronto!
” Cisco hid his face in Cruz’s shoulder as though that could make his sturdy little body disappear as well.

“Who is coming?”

At that moment the beautiful young woman Doña Lucia wanted Cruz to wed skidded to a halt inside the arched doorway to the
sala
. “Holy Mary . . . I did not know . . . I did not expect . . . we were only . . . Holy Mary . . .”

Cruz watched as the seventeen-year-old he had brought from Spain blushed from her neck to her hairline. She had folded the sleeves up on her elegant blue silk day dress, exposing slender arms. Several buttons had slipped free to reveal the soft white—now rosy—skin at her throat. Her hair had escaped from its neat bun, and silken ebony strands curled at the edges of her heart-shaped face.

She quickly clasped her hands together in front of her and bowed her head, hiding her vivid, sapphire-blue eyes, which had been sparkling with laughter when she had first entered the room.

Cruz felt his heart go out to the girl. She made quite a lovely picture in her disarray. It would have been easy to fall in love with her if his heart had not already been taken. She possessed the joy in life, and the innocent belief in happily-ever-after, that had been stolen from Sloan when his brother had betrayed her.

He opened his mouth to reassure the girl there was no harm done but was preempted by his mother.

“Tomasita, such behavior is totally unbecoming to a woman of your age. You will go to your room immediately!”

“
Sí,
Doña Lucia. I am sorry—”

“There is no need to apologize,” Cruz found himself saying, unwilling to see the girl punished simply for behaving as the child she still was in many ways. “There is no harm done. I am sure Cisco was enjoying the game. Were you not,
niño
?” He ruffled his son’s sable locks.

“
Sí,
Papa,” Cisco replied, grinning back at Cruz.

“Thank you for your kindness, Don Cruz,” Tomasita said demurely. Her head came up, but the moment she caught sight of Doña Lucia’s reproving stare, she began backing hurriedly out of the room. “I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

Cruz spoke quickly before the girl could flee. “We were finished talking, and it is time for supper anyway. There is no need for you to go to your room. You would only have to leave it again to join us.”

He had countered his mother’s harshness with leniency because it seemed a shame to curb the girl’s natural ebullience. To his surprise, his mother seemed satisfied, rather than annoyed, by his gesture.

He stooped down and set Cisco on his toddler’s legs. “As for you, Diablito, it is time to wash up for supper. Where is Josefa?”

“I promised Josefa I would take care of Cisco,” Tomasita said, her voice timid and still a bit breathless from running. “She was very busy helping Ana set the table for supper.”

“Then I give him over to your safekeeping.” Cruz gave Cisco a gentle nudge in Tomasita’s direction. “Be a good boy and mind Tomasita.”

Cisco turned back and said, “
Sí,
Papa. I like Tomasita. She is more fun to play with than Josefa.”

Cruz watched as Tomasita’s blush became even rosier. His desire to ease her discomfort made him say, “I have some business to take care of with my vaqueros before supper. I will excuse myself and see you later.”

Once Cruz had left the room, Doña Lucia approached Tomasita, who by now had captured a wriggling Cisco in her arms. “I defer to the wishes of my son that you be allowed to dine with us. But before you come to the table, be certain you fix your hair, roll down your sleeves, and button your dress properly. After you have eaten, you will go to your room and you will pray on your knees that you learn to behave with more decorum.”

With that, she turned her back on the young woman and made a regal exit through the arched doorway of the
sala
.

When she was gone, Tomasita let out a huge sigh of relief. Doña Lucia’s stern admonition reminded her so much of Mother María de los Angeles that she could not help feeling homesick for her life in the convent. Yet she knew she would not have been happy staying there.

To be honest, she had welcomed the rescue—yes,
rescue
—by Don Cruz. For lately she had been guilty of precisely the same rowdy behavior at the convent for which Doña Lucia had chastised her.

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how many Ave Marías or Hail Marys Mother María had made her say on her knees on the hard stone floor of her convent cell, she simply could not seem to act as she should.

Now she was to become a wife. Of course she was not supposed to know about her betrothal to Don Cruz. But she had been sitting in the tree outside Mother María’s window and so could not help overhearing Mother María discussing the matter with one of the sisters.

So far, Don Cruz had not mentioned their betrothal even once. She supposed he must be waiting to speak to her until she had become more accustomed to him. She could only thank him for his sensitivity to her feelings.

Because she trembled when she thought of what it would mean to marry Don Cruz, as her father had decreed she must. Don Cruz’s face was so forbidding. As fierce as a hawk’s. And he was so much older, nearly twice her age.

Yet she could not deny he was very handsome. She admired his deep blue eyes crowned by slashing black brows, his proud cheekbones, his blade of nose, his full lips and slightly cleft chin.

However, the thought of touching him, or any man, terrified her.

At least he was kindhearted. For that, she thanked the Good Lord. If only she did not have to marry him. Perhaps if she spoke to Don Cruz of what was in her heart . . .

But it was childish nonsense to think that her feelings mattered. The decision had been made by her father and by his. It was not as if either she or Don Cruz had a choice.

She would do her duty. She owed her father’s memory that much.

Tomasita straightened her shoulders and put a cheerful smile on her face. The day of reckoning had not yet come. Until it did, who knew what the Good Lord had planned for her? She would enjoy each day as He had intended and leave tomorrow’s worry for tomorrow.

“Come, Cisco,” she said. “Let us go wash up for supper.”

Sloan lay in the early morning shade of a cypress on the banks of the Brazos River and watched a hawk catch the warm air on an updraft and soar higher into the cloudless blue sky.

It had been five days since Cruz had come for her. Five days that she had worried and wondered whether he would actually return for her with his vaqueros.

She had no business lying here doing nothing. As overseer for Three Oaks, she had responsibilities. Nonetheless, she had left old Uncle Billy in charge of the field slaves snatching cotton and come here to think.

She had felt a desperate need to discuss her problem with someone, so she had sent a message to Cricket to see if her youngest sister, who was also her best friend, could come and visit. But Cricket had written back in typical Cricket fashion.

Dear Sloan:

You’re never going to believe what’s happened. I’m pregnant again! It’s a relief to be free of the female miseries for nine months, but like a gooseberry clumperton I’m plagued with morning sickness instead. Needless to say, I’d have to be a picklehead (which I’m not) to take a trip on horseback right now.

Anyway, I know you’re going to work out your problem with Cruz just fine on your own. You’ve always been good at solving problems—think how many you’ve solved for me and Bay over the years. I’ll keep in touch. Let me know how things turn out.