“I can carry her,” Sloan protested.
“She is too heavy for you. I will take her.”
Sloan sighed. “All right.”
Cruz caught himself before he smiled. Yes, just so were long journeys begun.
Sloan had expected the child to protest being shifted to Cruz’s arms, but Betsy just looked up at him and was silent.
“Can you mount by yourself?” Cruz asked Sloan.
“Of course,” she replied, although she wasn’t at all sure she had the strength. One of the vaqueros brought her horse to her and held it while she pulled herself into the saddle. As Sloan watched, Cruz easily bore Betsy’s weight with one arm as he mounted his
bayo
.
As they rode, Sloan was aware of Cruz’s piercing gaze on her and turned away from him to escape it. The sight of the two bandidos slung over their horses reminded her of something important she had forgotten to mention to Cruz.
She turned back to him and was startled by the longing she found in his eyes. It took her a moment to regain her train of thought.
“There’s something I forgot to tell you,” she said. “After the bandidos captured me, they took me with them to a meeting they had with an Englishman. I overheard the Englishman say that he planned to rendezvous with a man named Alejandro and someone called the Hawk tomorrow night. This man called Alejandro they were talking about . . . I think it’s the same Alejandro who murdered Tonio.”
“That is not possible,” Cruz said. “I saw Alejandro Sanchez hang with my own eyes.”
“They said something about it being someone else who was hanged—not Alejandro. Is that possible?”
She watched Cruz and thought for a moment she saw doubt flicker in his eyes.
“Alejandro is dead.”
“But we should contact the Rangers, don’t you think, and tell them about all this.”
He said only, “Perhaps.”
“Aren’t you even a little bit curious about what’s going on?” she persisted.
“I am not my brother. I do not concern myself with political intrigue.”
He watched the pain come and go on her face, and it tore away at something inside him to speak so harshly—and falsely—to her. But he had no choice. He called to one of his vaqueros.
“Patrón?”
“Take those two bodies to the pueblo and see if anyone can identify them. Tell Doña Lucia that the señorita and I will not return until tomorrow.”
“
Sí,
Patrón.”
A moment later, he and the other vaqueros were gone in a cloud of dust.
“We aren’t going back to Dolorosa?”
“Not right away.”
Sloan waited for Cruz to explain himself, but when he didn’t, she asked, “Where are we going?”
“We are going to Gonzales to be married by a priest.”
“Y
OU
’
RE CRAZY IF YOU THINK
I’
M GOING TO
agree to bind myself more closely to you,” Sloan said.
“I was not asking for your permission.”
Cruz spurred his horse into a trot, and Sloan quickly kneed her mount to catch up to him.
“Why are you doing this?” she demanded.
“We made a bargain. Tonio has been avenged. It is time you kept the promise you made to me four years ago.”
“There’s no need to say vows before a priest,” Sloan argued.
“I want no question in your mind that we are truly man and wife—that we belong to one another body and soul.”
Sloan was desperate to avoid saying marriage vows before a priest, because once Cruz married her in a church, he would never let her out of their bargain. “What if Alejandro isn’t dead?”
“He is.”
“What about Three Oaks?”
“What about it? Our agreement never depended on your inheriting Three Oaks. Even if it did, have you had word that Rip has changed his mind?”
Sloan was silent. Over the past four years, she had denied to herself that she was Cruz’s wife. He was forcing her to remove the blinders she had worn and accept the fact she was the wife of a Spanish
hacendado
.
She wasn’t sure which distressed her more, the fear of dealing with Cruz woman to man or the fear that she would be ceding him control of her life. At last she said, “I don’t understand why you want me for your wife.”
“It is enough that I do.”
She met his eyes and saw they blazed hot with desire. But was desire enough on which to base a marriage? She was afraid he would make her feel . . . things . . . she didn’t want to feel ever again.
There was always, lingering at the back of her mind, the thought that he was Tonio’s brother. She had given herself fully, freely to Tonio. She doubted she could ever do so with another man.
Cruz pulled his horse to a stop next to Sloan and reached over with his free hand to gently brush back an errant strand of sable hair from her face. “Do not look so troubled, Cebellina. You have been mine for four years. The words of the priest will only bless our union.”
“Cruz, this marriage was a bad idea. It was conceived in desperation and born in haste. I . . . I’ve changed my mind. I want an annulment.”
“No.”
“No? Just like that? No?”
“Just like that. No.”
“Can’t you see this isn’t going to work? I can’t be what you want in a wife.”
“You are exactly what I want. I admire your courage, your strength of will, your intelligence.” He paused and grinned. “And, of course, your beauty.”
“I’m a terrible mother,” she said.
“No, Cebellina, you are not. You gave up your child because of a great hurt. Your heart is full of love for—”
“I don’t love you!”
His eyes met hers and he said simply, “But I love you.”
Cruz would have said more except Betsy began wriggling in his arms. “Easy,
niña
.”
Betsy reached out for Sloan, speaking with her eyes and her hands rather than her voice.
Sloan angled her horse closer to Cruz’s and opened her arms for the little girl. Betsy launched herself from Cruz’s lap, and Sloan caught her in mid-air, pulling her close. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Rest now.” Betsy quickly settled in Sloan’s lap.
“If she gets too heavy for you, I will take her again,” Cruz said. “A child looks good in your arms, Cebellina. I look forward to seeing you growing round with a child of ours.”
“I don’t know whether I want more children.”
Cruz said nothing, but Sloan watched his hands tighten on the reins until his knuckles were white. She hadn’t even come to terms with the possibility of lying beneath him as his wife, let alone bearing his child.
“Could we discuss this marriage business?” Sloan asked.
“What did you have in mind?”
“We could forget about the priest and—”
“I won’t compromise on that,” Cruz said flatly. “If you want to suggest ways we can be happier married to one another, then I am willing to listen.”
“Very well,” Sloan said. “To start with, I’m used to doing as I please.”
“Your days are yours to fill,” Cruz said. “The nights belong to me.”
Sloan felt her cheeks pinken. She cleared her throat and said, “And exactly how am I to fill my days? All I know is cotton. Dolorosa caters to cattle.”
“That is entirely up to you. There are many things that must be done on a ranch the size of Dolorosa. Of course, you will have the house—”
“Your mother takes care of the house,” Sloan interrupted.
“You can spend time with your son.”
“At Three Oaks I was responsible for managing an entire plantation. While the needs of one small boy must surely be great, they can’t begin to compare with what I’m used to doing.”
“Then you can spend some time with me learning to run Dolorosa.”
Cruz was surprised at the words he had spoken. Yet he was not sorry he had said them. His friends would have found the idea of including their wives in their ranching business repugnant.
Yet because of the way Sloan had been raised, she would be able to understand and share both his worries and his triumphs in a way no ordinary woman could.
Sloan was appalled at how enticing she found Cruz’s suggestion. To spend the days with him, to share his burdens and his successes . . . It almost sounded too good to be true.
Yet even if it were, she had ties to Three Oaks that couldn’t be so easily dismissed. Would she feel the same sense of satisfaction from watching Dolorosa grow and prosper?
“I admit your idea sounds good,” Sloan conceded. “And I’m willing to give it a try. But I have another suggestion.”
“I am listening.”
“I will be your wife.” Sloan licked her lips nervously and continued, “But I want your promise that after, say, six months or so, if it doesn’t look like it’s working out, I can leave.”
Cruz was silent for so long Sloan wondered if he had heard what she’d said. Then she noticed the furrows on his brow and the rigidity of his body. He had heard, all right. He just didn’t like what he’d heard.
Cruz knew that Sloan fully expected to be unhappy at Dolorosa. In essense, she was offering him six months of marriage in exchange for the favor he had done for her four years ago. He could refuse. After all, it was not part of the bargain they had made.
But he was willing to gamble that her feelings for him, and for her son, ran deeper than she thought. He was willing to gamble that in six months she would not want to leave.
“I will agree to your suggestion,” Cruz said, “with one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That you will give yourself to me as openly and honestly as you gave yourself to my brother.”
Sloan gasped. “I can’t! I won’t take the risk—”
“The risk of what? That you might fall in love again?” Cruz challenged. “I want the same chance my brother had. If you will not give it to me, I will have to take what I can get. And that means marriage on my terms.”
Sloan was upset and didn’t try to hide it. “You’re asking me to do something I swore I would never do again. I can’t promise you I’ll be totally open and honest with you because I’m not sure I can be. You can’t wipe the slate clean, Cruz. You can’t be first. I can’t give my innocence twice!”
“Then promise to give me what you can, Cebellina. That will have to be enough.”
Sloan was silent for a long time. At last she said, “All right. I’ll give you what I can.”
He had already gotten more from her than she knew. He pulled his horse to a stop. “In six months, the choice is yours—to go or to stay. You have my word on it.”
He held out his hand to her, and Sloan solemnly shook it. Then he turned her hand palm upward and kissed it. An arrow of pleasure darted up her arm.
“You don’t play fair,” she said.
He smiled roguishly. “I play to win.”
As they rode onward, Sloan realized she no longer felt trapped. Of course, the relief she felt hinged entirely on Cruz’s word that he would only hold her to the new bargain.
The strange thing was, she believed him. She frowned. Despite her protestations that she could trust no man, it seemed she had trusted Cruz. And so far he had not betrayed that trust.
She looked sideways at him from under lowered lashes. That would bear thinking about.
Cruz took her to the primarily Spanish-speaking Texas town of Gonzales, northeast of San Antonio along the Guadalupe River, where one of the few priests to be found in the Republic, Father Vicente Delgado, was known to be.
They found the priest in a one-room adobe house at the far edge of town, giving last rites to an old Mexican woman who had her loved ones gathered round her. When Father Delgado at last made the sign of the cross, someone whispered in his ear, and he looked beyond the crowd to the tall man at the rear. Slowly, he made his way toward Cruz.
“We have come to seek your services,
Padre,
” Cruz said.
“Let us go where we can talk in comfort,” Father Delgado replied.
He led Sloan and Cruz, who was once again carrying Betsy, down the dusty street to a small adobe structure and gestured them inside. The house had two rooms, one in front and one in back, separated by a striped blanket that had been hung between the two. It reminded Sloan of the house where her sister Bay lived.
It was almost dusk, and Father Delgado lit a candle on the table in the front room. He pointed to a narrow cot to one side. “You may lay the child down there if you like,” he said to Cruz.
Cruz started to set Betsy down, but she grasped his neck and wouldn’t let go. “I will hold her,” he said with a rueful smile.
“Then sit here.” Father Delgado gestured Sloan and Cruz to a bench on one side of the simple wooden table, then sat down on the opposite bench.
“How may I help you?” he asked.
“We want you to marry us,” Cruz said.
“Certainly. I will arrange to read the banns—”
“Tonight.”
“But, señor, I cannot—”
Cruz handed a small pouch full of coins to the priest. “Surely, Father, it is possible to get a dispensation in special circumstances.”
Father Delgado looked from Cruz to Sloan to the child in Cruz’s arms and asked, “Are there special circumstances?”
“Only that we wish to be together as man and wife,” Cruz admitted solemnly. “Will you marry us?”
The priest weighed the small rawhide bag in his hand. The people of his church needed money, but that was not the only, or even the most important, reason he decided to grant the
hacendado
’s wishes. He knew from the look in the man’s eyes that he would not wait the weeks until the banns had been read before he sought out the woman. Perhaps he could do them both a service, and serve God as well, if he removed the reason to sin from their paths.
“Yes, I will marry you, my children.”
Father Delgado watched the faces of the two young souls before him and saw that his announcement had brought neither of them great joy. The
hacendado
looked grimly satisfied. The woman looked grimly resigned. They both looked grimly determined.
Father Delgado sighed inwardly. He was tempted to withdraw his offer to marry them, but one look at the
hacendado
convinced him that trouble lay that way. He sighed aloud. He would join them in the eyes of God, and pray to the Good Lord to guide them to earthly happiness.