Texas Woman

She remained silent, unmoving, overwhelmed.

The matter was resolved for her when the tall stranger pushed the door farther open and stepped inside.

“I’m Luke Summers. Sloan’s brother.”

“Oh.” Tomasita searched for something to say besides how relieved she was that he was related to Don Cruz’s guest and not some bandido who had come to rob the hacienda and ravish her. She chided herself for her vivid imagination, but with the wild stories she had been told since she had arrived in Texas, surely it was understandable.

“May I come in?” Luke asked.

Since he was already inside, Tomasita said, “But of course, come in,” and stepped back quickly as he closed the door behind him.

Fortunately-or perhaps unfortunately, Tomasita thought with a wistful sigh as she sneaked a glance at the handsome man from beneath lowered lashes-Dona Lucia heard her speaking to someone and came to investigate.

“Who is it, Tomasita?”

“Senor Summers has come to see Senorita Stewart.” Tomasita saw the censure in Dona Lucia’s eyes, and hurried to add, “I was going to come find you-”

“Go to your room, Tomasita.”

Tomasita dropped her chin to her chest and lowered her eyes, humiliated at being ordered about like a child in the presence of the handsome young man. But she did not dare disobey. She knew Dona Lucia was only acting to protect her reputation.

She had been wrong to open the door, wrong to speak to the stranger without a chaperon present. The only dowry she had to offer a husband here in this new land was her purity. Don Cruz would not want a wife who had been sullied by the touch of another.

Yet Luke Summers had not threatened her. She had felt only warmth as he had gazed into her eyes. She stole a peek over her shoulder before she left the room and found his golden eyes admiring her. And then-he winked at her!

Tomasita gasped in disbelief. No man had ever presumed to do such a thing! Was this the result of her wanton boldness in answering the door unchaperoned?

Not watching where she was going, she stumbled over a rough woven rug made of jerga. Her blush spread heat from her neck to her cheeks. Her hands flew to her face to hide the rosy marks as she fled the room.

She reached her bedroom and pressed the door closed behind her, feeling safe in the cool sanctuary. Moving quickly, she kneeled on the prie-dieu, the low padded bench at the base of the recessed arch that held a painted wooden statue of the Virgin Mary.

She crossed herself and folded her hands tightly before her to stop their trembling. Holy Mary! What was wrong with her? Had Luke Summers seen something in her eyes, something in her stance, that had given him permission for what he had done? But how thrilling it had been!

She bit her lip in consternation while wrinkles formed on her smooth brow. She was betrothed to Don Cruz. She had no right to be thrilled by another man’s look. She had no business even thinking such thoughts. And, she solemnly vowed, she would not think of the young man… Luke… of the warm, golden hazel eyes… ever again.

Tomasita pressed her hands hard against her thumping heart and began the prayer of forgiveness she had learned from the sisters in the convent she had left behind for a new life in Texas.

Dona Lucia Esmeralda Sandoval de Guerrero raised herself to her full, estimable stature and stared down her aquiline nose at the young Texas Ranger who stood before her in the sala.

“She is not for you.”

Luke didn’t bat an eyelash. The Spanish woman couldn’t have spoken words more sure to provoke him if she had planned them for months. Yet he gave no outward indication that he had taken umbrage. “I didn’t come to see the girl. I came to see my sister. Where’s Sloan?”

Dona Lucia frowned in confusion and for the first time noticed that the man in front of her had a revolver stuck in his belt. “That woman has no brother.”

“We share the same father.”

Dona Lucia’s frown deepened, and she made no effort to hide her scorn. “What business do you have with Senorita Stewart?”

“I want to talk with her.”

“That will not be possible.”

Luke had kept his tone polite, his manner charming, or at least as charming as the situation allowed. That was his way-preferring honey to vinegar. But the woman was trying even his infinite patience. “Get Sloan.”

“She is not here,” Dona Lucia explained, suddenly aware of the threat posed by the deceptively relaxed man who stood before her.

“Not here?”

Dona Lucia’s lips pursed in a moue of contempt. “She left several hours ago-dressed in men’s trousers-with one of my son’s vaqueros. I do not know when she will return.”

Luke suspected it would be as useless to prod Dona Lucia for more information as it would be to fight quicksand. He reined his temper and said, “Tell Sloan I was here looking for her, and that I’ll be back.”

Dona Lucia nodded imperiously.

He turned at the door and said, “And say good-bye to Tomasita for me.”

“I will say nothing to the girl. Stay away from her.”

Luke’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice was almost pleasant when he tipped his hat and said, “I can find my own way out.”

As Dona Lucia watched him leave, a chill of foreboding shot up her spine. She did not like that one. Trouble seethed inside him.

She rolled the golden wedding band around and around on the third finger of her left hand. It was a nervous habit she had developed after Juan Carlos’s death, a tangible reminder of her widowhood and what her destiny might be if her son married a woman whom she could not control.

Cruz must marry Tomasita. She was of noble blood. She was pure. And she was as malleable as butter softened by the sun. Dona Lucia would settle for nothing less in her son’s wife.

Dona Lucia was waiting for Cruz in the sala when he arrived home that evening, dressed like his vaqueros in a wool shirt overlaid by a striped poncho, with rawhide chaparejos to protect his buckskin britches. His only concession to his status as don were the black Cordovan leather boots to which his large rowled Mexican spurs were attached.

He was covered with trail dust and worn from a day spent chasing Spanish longhorns. He had barely stepped through the front door when Dona Lucia rose and confronted him.

“We must talk about Tomasita.”

Cruz slid his flat-brimmed black hat back off his head, letting the tie-string catch it at his throat as it fell. He ran a tired hand through his hair, brushing the damp curls off his brow where they had been flattened by his hat.

His eyes surreptitiously combed the room and the hall beyond, searching for Sloan. When he didn’t see her, he turned back to his mother.

“Good evening, Mama.” A weary smile curved his lips. “Have you a brandy to offer me?”

For a moment it seemed Dona Lucia would demand their discussion come first, but she turned abruptly and sought out the crystal decanter on an ornately carved credenza. She poured out a small measure of brandy into a silver goblet and turned to find that Cruz had removed his hat and settled himself into one of the rawhide chairs situated before the stone fireplace.

“Gracias,” he said, accepting the brandy. Dona Lucia paced the room while he took his time sipping the mellow-tasting golden liquid. “So. What is wrong with Tomasita? Is she unhappy? Does she want for anything?”

“She wants only a husband to make her a wife,” Dona Lucia said, impatient with her son’s attitude toward the young woman. “Your father promised you would wed the girl when she was of age. It is past time you kept that promise.”

Cruz hadn’t changed his mind about marrying Tomasita, and his mother had to know it. “When the roundup is finished, I will find the girl a husband.”

Dona Lucia crossed to Cruz and stared down at him, her black eyes flashing. “You are the husband for her. If you do not lay claim now to what is yours, it may be too late for anyone to take her to wife.”

Cruz sat forward, suddenly all attention. “What are you saying?”

“Today a man, Luke Summers, came to the door asking for Senorita Stewart.”

“Luke is Sloan’s half-brother.” Cruz refrained from adding that Luke was also now heir to Three Oaks.

“So I learned. Tomasita answered the door to this man. She is an impressionable young woman, and Senor Summers was very charming. If I had not arrived when I did…” Dona Lucia let her voice trail off as though Tomasita’s ravishment were a foregone conclusion.

“I know Luke. Tomasita was in no danger. He would touch no woman who was not willing,” Cruz said certainly.

“Ah, but therein lies the problem,” Dona Lucia said. “Tomasita was totally in awe of the young man, no doubt a result of all those years spent among the sisters. Although that is where a young woman of good family should be kept until her husband comes to claim her.”

Dona Lucia carefully adjusted the lace ruffle on one of her elbow-length taffeta sleeves before she continued, “You must declare yourself. You must announce your engagement to Tomasita to protect her good name and yours.”

Cruz set his brandy on the delicate spool-legged table next to the sturdy rawhide chair, then languidly rose and walked to the fireplace. He pressed his palms hard against the stone mantel, arching his back to stretch out the stiffness that came from a day spent in the saddle. “I do not wish to discuss this any further.”

“You must marry Tomasita.”

“I cannot.”

“Why not?” Dona Lucia pressed, her voice sharp with anxiety. She had begun to have her suspicions, since that woman