Sloan’s mouth was bone-dry. She licked her lips to dampen them and continued, “You’ve probably heard that Don Cruz was injured in the storm last night. Until he’s well, I’ll be giving the orders on Dolorosa.”
“Please pardon me for asking, señora, but what do you know of ranching?”
“To tell the truth, cotton’s really what I understand best,” she said with a self-effacing smile. “But I learn fast. For instance, I know that vaqueros will work harder and with better tempers if they have a dry, warm bed to come home to—which means the first thing we must do is repair the
jacals
that were damaged in the storm.”
“What you say makes sense.” Miguel’s lips quirked at the corners, creating deep crevices in his granite face.
“So my first order is to repair the
jacals
.” Sloan’s body tensed in anticipation of his refusal to obey her.
Miguel stole a glance at Paco, who had been the source of several colorful stories around the campfire about the patrón’s
gringa
wife, none of which had been believed.
Miguel assessed the petite woman who stood before him dressed as a man. It appeared Paco’s stories of a beautiful young woman with fire in her eyes and steel in her backbone had not all been the fanciful imaginings of a storyteller.
“It shall be done,” Miguel said at last.
Sloan exhaled a breath of air she didn’t realize she had been holding. “Good. When can we start?”
Miguel cocked a questioning brow at Sloan’s inclusion of herself in the work detail. “The work begins now.”
Sloan threw herself into the effort to chop more mesquite posts to replace those that had been broken, sank her elbows deep in the mud and straw mixture that was packed between the cracks left once the posts had been stood upright to form a wall, and restored thatching on ruined roofs.
She wasn’t the only woman who joined in the effort to repair the
jacals
. But her seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy despite her injury earned her the awe and respect of the vaqueros, their wives, sisters, and mothers.
As the day ended in a gorgeous sunset of pinks and purples striping the horizon, Sloan sought out Miguel once more. “Are there other matters that require immediate attention?”
By now Miguel was ready to do anything Sloan demanded, so it surprised him to hear her asking for his opinion of what should be done next. Her earnest expression convinced him that she was sincere in her desire to do what was best for Dolorosa in her husband’s absence. And what was good for Dolorosa was good for the vaqueros who lived there. Any lingering resentment he might have had about taking orders from a woman were quelled. “
Sí,
señora. Don Cruz wanted a brush corral built to hold the mustangs we will capture in the spring hunt.”
“Then we must begin with that tomorrow.” Sloan rubbed her hand gently along her bruised hip, then arched her back and rubbed her balled fists into the aching muscles just above her buttocks. “I’ll meet you at dawn at the fortress gates.”
She was rolling her head in slow circles when Miguel replied, “As you wish, Doña Sloan.”
Sloan’s head snapped up at the title of respect and met the wily vaquero’s dark brown eyes with gratefulness. Miguel nodded his obeisance before he turned and left her.
For the next week, Sloan worked with the vaqueros during the day and spent the nights sitting beside Cruz, holding his limp hand in hers and recounting everything she had said and done, as though he could really hear her.
The double duty took its toll on her. Shadows formed beneath her eyes, and her face became gaunt with the signs of fatigue. Yet she couldn’t rest. She was determined that when Cruz awoke he would find Dolorosa had not suffered in his absence.
Paco’s stories around the campfire about the devoted and spirited wife of El Patrón were no longer greeted with chuckles of disbelief. In fact, other vaqueros offered their own stories of how Doña Sloan had thrown her lasso over the head of a bawling calf and pulled it from a boghole, how Doña Sloan had ridden her horse like the wind in pursuit of an especially fast mustang, and how Doña Sloan had taken the time to sit with Esteban’s wife as she labored to deliver their first child.
They did not understand how she could do the work of a man and yet have the soft heart of a woman, but she had proved it time and again. They would have walked through fire for her.
But it had been whispered on more than one set of lips that when Don Cruz was well, he would never allow Doña Sloan such freedom to come and go. For, after all, a man’s wife belonged at home.
Sloan was oblivious to their speculation. Anyway, she was too exhausted and sick at heart to care.
She was sitting in a chair beside Cruz’s bed, her cheek lying on Cruz’s hand where it lay on the bed, when she heard the door open. It was a sign of how tired she was that she didn’t even raise her head to see who had entered the room.
She heard voices murmuring behind her and the sound of something heavy being settled on the tile floor. Finally, her curiosity roused her.
She turned to find that Tomasita was directing the servants to set up a bath for her. She sat, unmoving, while the wooden tub was filled with hot water. Finally, Tomasita sent the servants from the room and closed the door.
“I thought a bath might relax you so you can sleep,” Tomasita said.
“Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
Tomasita helped Sloan undress, then wrapped her in a towel.
“You must rest more,” Tomasita chided, “or you will soon be sick yourself.”
“I know you’re right,” Sloan readily agreed. “And I wish I could but—”
“Come, step into the bath.” Tomasita led Sloan over to the steaming water like a helpless child and then held on to the towel as Sloan settled her sore muscles into the hot water.
Sloan sighed in ecstasy. “Ahhhh. This is wonderful. Thank you, Tomasita.”
“It is the least I can do.”
Sloan looked at Tomasita and realized she wasn’t the only one with dark circles under her eyes. “How are you, Tomasita? Have you been feeling well?”
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to do about Don Ambrosio?”
“I am going back to Spain.”
“What?”
“To the sisters at El Convento del Sagrado Corazón in Madrid.”
Sloan watched Tomasita slowly lower herself into a nearby rawhide chair. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”
Tomasita met Sloan’s eyes and said, “What other choice do I have?”
“You can tell Luke about the baby.”
Sloan watched the pain darken Tomasita’s sapphire eyes before the Spanish woman replied, “He would never forgive me for forcing him to marry me. I could not live with him knowing that he did not want me.”
“Perhaps he cares for you a great deal more than you think.”
“Please do not offer me hope where there is none.”
Sloan leaned her head back against the cool metal rim of the wooden tub and closed her eyes. “You can run away if you want. But I thought you had more gumption.”
“I did . . . I do . . .”
“Do you really want your son or daughter to grow up without knowing his father, the way Luke did?”
They were both silent while Sloan soaked in the tub. At last, Sloan stood and Tomasita quickly wrapped the towel around her.
“Promise me you’ll think about it,” Sloan said.
“All right. Now I will leave you to get some rest,” Tomasita said. “It has been a long day.”
“Yes, it has,” Sloan agreed with a wan smile. “A very long day.”
Sloan was too tired even to put on a nightgown. She simply crossed to the opposite side of the bed and slipped under the covers beside Cruz. She only meant to doze, but it had been too long since she had given her body a rest, and as soon as she closed her eyes, she was sound asleep.
Sloan was having a wonderful dream. Cruz was making love to her, his hands gently roaming the naked curve of her hip, spanning her belly, cupping her swollen breasts. She felt his lips follow where his hands had been, until his thumb caressed her jaw. His lips touched hers and it felt so real. It felt—
“
Te adoro,
Cebellina.”
Sloan stiffened. That voice was no dream. Her eyes flew open to the sight of Cruz lying beside her, his eyes open and—seeing her.
“You’re awake!” She embraced him, their bodies warm against each other as tears of relief welled in her eyes. A brilliant smile broke across her face and she leaned back to look up at him.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said.
“Have I been ill long?”
“You’ve been unconscious for eight days.”
“Eight days! I have to—” Cruz tried to sit up, but he got so dizzy Sloan had to help him lie back down again.
“Don’t worry. Everything’s been taken care of while you’ve been ill.”
“How could that be? Miguel only takes orders from me. There must have been damage from the storm and—”
“It has all been taken care of,” Sloan repeated, soothing his troubled brow with her hand. “I handled everything.”
Cruz was very still for a moment, and Sloan looked to make sure he was still all right.
“You handled everything?”
“Someone had to take charge. So I did.”
“My vaqueros followed your orders?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“You do?” Sloan said, surprised at his apparent acquiescence to her activities.
“Yes, and I thank you. Now that I am well, though, I can take over and leave you free to—”
“Not so fast,” Sloan said, sitting up and using the sheet to cover her nakedness. “I don’t want to be free.”
“No?”
“No. Besides, you’re not getting out of this bed until I’m sure you’re completely well. And that means not until María says so. There’s no sense in your vaqueros tramping in here to disturb you, either. If you want to give orders, fine. You can do it through me. I won’t have you getting up too soon and winding up dead. Do you understand me?”
When her tirade was over, Sloan saw that Cruz was trying very hard not to smile.
“This isn’t a laughing matter!” she spat.
At that, Cruz did smile. “No, it is not. When a wife protects her husband from his own stupidity, it is very serious business. All right, Cebellina, I will give my orders through you. But I want to talk with Miguel about what has been done while I have been ill.”
“I guess that wouldn’t hurt,” Sloan said grudgingly. “But not for long. If you have any questions after that, you can ask me.”
“
Sí
, Cebellina. We will work together, you and I, as a husband and wife should.”
Sloan stared at him. “I’m only helping until you get well,” she said. “This isn’t going to be a permanent thing.”
“Of course, Cebellina,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
E
ARLY THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN
C
RUZ MET
with Miguel and heard what Sloan had accomplished on Dolorosa while he was in a coma, he realized how badly he had misunderstood and underestimated the woman he had made his wife.
Cruz had always known that Sloan was overseer for Three Oaks, but he had never seen her acting in a position of authority. When he had first regained consciousness, he had been willing to indulge his wife and allow his orders to be funneled through her to Miguel. He had never expected Miguel to treat her as though she were actually in charge. Seeing them deep in conversation at his bedside, he realized that was exactly what had happened.
“So you see, Miguel,” Sloan was explaining, “if the crops growing in each vaquero’s garden are thinned and then layered with manure, the plants will grow taller and bear larger vegetables.”
“
Sí
, Doña Sloan,” Miguel replied. “I understand. I will tell my vaqueros what you have suggested.”
Sloan turned to Cruz and asked, “Is there anything more you wanted to know from Miguel regarding what was done in your absence?”
“No. I have heard enough.”
Miguel rose from the rawhide chair beside Cruz’s bed and said, “May your good health return quickly, Patrón.”
“
Gracias,
Miguel. I expect to be rejoining you soon. Until then, you will continue as before, taking orders from Doña Sloan.”
A flicker of surprise flashed in Miguel’s dark eyes at Cruz’s command. When he had learned that Don Cruz had recovered, he had thought he had seen the last of Doña Sloan among the vaqueros.
But it would be a foolish man who did not take advantage of such a talented wife. And Don Cruz was no fool. Miguel nodded his obeisance to Cruz, then shifted his stance and did the same to Sloan before he turned and left the room.
“I see you have made a conquest,” Cruz said as Sloan closed the door behind Miguel.
She turned and walked back to stand beside the bed. “What do you mean?”
“The man who just left this room would gladly lay down his life for you.”
“Only because I am your wife.”
“No, it is more than that. How did you garner his approval so quickly? It took weeks after my father died before I had earned his acceptance and respect. You have done it in eight days.”
“I didn’t do anything special that I know of,” Sloan said. “Just dug in and went to work like I would have at Three Oaks.”
Cruz heard in her description of her actions what she hadn’t known how to explain. What other woman would have worked side by side with his vaqueros? None that Cruz knew.
He had never before comprehended how much this woman needed a position
beside
him—in more places than at the dining table and in bed. No wonder she had dreaded leaving Three Oaks and coming to live at Dolorosa. No wonder she had not been as truly happy living with him as he had hoped.
For the past four months, he had—no matter that it had been by necessity—kept her separate from the work on Dolorosa that was so much of his life. He saw now the mistake he had made. He only hoped it was not too late to make amends, and to offer her a life she would willingly share with him.
“You have done very well, Cebellina. There are some things I will need your help to get accomplished in time for the spring roundup.”