Texas Woman

against her flesh, spreading her, and then she surrounded him, taking him inside.

The feeling of oneness was exquisite. Sloan smiled. “You feel wonderful.”

Cruz chuckled. “I must return the compliment.” His thumb pressed against her at the point where their bodies met. The slight friction made her groan.

She set her hips in motion and his thumb kept pace, so the pleasure came from both inside and out. She leaned toward him and his mouth captured her breast.

Sloan was bombarded by sensation. She leaned back, but he rose with her until she was sitting straddled across his lap. His hands slipped around to clutch her hips to remain seated deep inside her.

She sought his mouth and thrust her tongue inside, mimicking the dance below. She was hungry, ravenous for him.

They slipped onto their sides, and he rolled with her until she was beneath him. She arched up to meet his thrusts, her senses spiraling higher, reaching for the promise of pleasure, and finally with a hoarse cry, finding it.

With her shuddering climax, Cruz thrust deep, wanting his seed to find fertile ground, wanting to give her a child to fill the emptiness in her heart.

They lay exhausted, clutched to one another, their sweat mingling with the scent of their sex.

“I love you, Cebellina.” Cruz didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one.

Sloan slipped her arms around him, and burrowed her face into his shoulder, a hazy smile on her face. It had never been like this before. Never.

She knew then that she could not ask Cruz whether he had known Alejandro was still alive when he had come for her. It was better not to know the truth.

She did not think she could bear it if she found out Cruz was a liar, just like his brother.

Chapter 15

TWO WEEKS LATER DONA LUCIA WATCHED FROM the veranda as her son arrived back at Dolorosa, his laughing, smiling wife by his side, more in charity with one another now than they had been before they left.

“How was your journey?” she asked as her son climbed the few steps to greet her.

“It went well,” Cruz said, “except Sloan was ill the day we arrived in San Antonio.”

“Oh? That is too bad.”

“A stomach ailment. But it quickly passed, and as you can see, she is fine now.”

“So I see.”

Cruz and Sloan quickly excused themselves and hurried inside to search for Cisco and Betsy.

Her back stiff, her black eyes inscrutable, Dona Lucia turned and walked into the sala to be alone. She seated herself imposingly in one of the heavy Mediterranean chairs, spread her ruffled burgundy satin skirt around her, and carefully straightened the lace at her elbows. This was how she had planned to meet her son when he told her of his grief at the tragic death of his wife.

Dona Lucia tightened her grip on the thick arms of the chair. She was greatly disappointed with the failure of her bold plan. What had gone wrong? Perhaps that woman had not drunk enough of the water in her canteen. Perhaps the tasteless poison had not been as strong as the old gypsy woman had promised.

Or perhaps Cruz’s tender care had saved his wife’s life.

Apparently, it had not occurred to her son that his wife might have been poisoned. Which meant that she would have another chance to accomplish what she had failed on the first try. She would have to wait until the gypsies came again to get more poison from the old woman.

Next time, she would make sure she had enough. Next time, when that woman became ill, she would not recover.

In the six weeks following her return to Dolorosa, Sloan spent a great deal of time with Betsy, knowing that her days with the child were numbered. She waited anxiously for the arrival of Betsy’s Uncle Louis. She knew if she were smart she would be drawing back from her involvement with the little girl. But there was something about Betsy that precluded that possibility.

On the other hand, since her return from San Antonio, Sloan had consciously backed away from Cisco, as though it were only a matter of time before something happened to take him from her, too. It wasn’t rational, but there was nothing reasonable about her deep-seated fear that those she cared for most were destined to be torn from her.

Sloan opened the letter she had just received from Bay. The missive turned out to be softly worded and steel-laced, very like Bay herself.

Dear Sloan,

You know I’m not much good with horses (except for petting their noses) or I would have come sooner to see how you are.

I’m sorry Cruz was away when I came to visit, but at least that gave us more time to talk. I agree with you that Betsy is adorable, but honestly, I don’t know how you can resist Cisco. He looks more like Cruz every day.

Tomasita is absolutely charming. Did you notice she spent the whole afternoon holding Whipp? She said she has always dreamed of having a baby of her own. Do you think her husband should be chosen by Cruz? That doesn’t seem fair. How do you think she and Luke would get along?

Oh my! This is turning into a book, so I had better close. I wish you happiness. Please let me know if Long Quiet and I can ever be of help.

All my love,

Bay

Sloan was gazing out the bedroom window at the many flowers blooming in the courtyard, musing about the hidden messages in Bay’s letter, when she saw Tomasita grab onto a rose trellis to steady herself, close her eyes, and take several deep breaths, all the while holding a hand to her belly.

Sloan picked up Bay’s letter and reread the paragraph about Tomasita. When she looked up again, Tomasita had sunk onto one of the stone benches in the courtyard. When had Tomasita’s waist thickened? Where had she gotten the dark circles that shadowed her eyes?

Sloan could hardly credit what she was thinking, yet the signs were there. It was true Tomasita had seen several young men over the past few weeks, as Cruz had brought a parade of suitors to supper. But how could Tomasita possibly be pregnant when she had been so carefully guarded, so closely watched?

Sloan rose from her desk and walked out into the courtyard.

When Tomasita heard footsteps, she quickly opened her eyes and stood up, nervously smoothing her wool skirt.

“You look tired, Tomasita. Are you all right?”

Tomasita blanched. “I am fine. Why do you ask?”

Sloan noticed the girl’s hands had gone reflexively to her womb before she had clasped them together at her waist. “Is there anything you would like to talk about, Tomasita?”

“Like what?” Tomasita asked, brazening it out.

“If you are in any trouble-”

“What makes you think I am in trouble?” Tomasita interrupted.

Sloan’s heart went out to the other woman. “I can help,” she said softly.

“No one can help me,” Tomasita said, her eyes bleak. “I am lost.”

“I will speak to Cruz-”

“No! Say nothing. Please, if you care for me at all, say nothing.” Tomasita turned and fled the courtyard.

Sloan knew Tomasita couldn’t hide her problem for long, but for so long as she could, Tomasita’s secret was safe with her. Yet Sloan could not help wondering-who was the father of Tomasita’s child?

The day of Tomasita’s reckoning came sooner than either of them had expected, for the moment they sat down to supper, Cruz said, “I have found a husband for you, Tomasita.”

All eyes turned to Tomasita, who kept her gaze riveted on her plate of enchiladas, beans, and rice.

Cruz continued, “Do you remember Don Ambrosio de Arocha, the gentleman who came to dinner the first Sunday after I returned from San Antonio?”

“Si, Don Cruz. I remember him,” Tomasita answered.

Sloan remembered the prospective bridegroom, too. Don Ambrosio was a thin, erect, very stern-looking man. Distinctive, dark-eyed, he had a pointed beard and a thin moustache. But he was gray-haired and, frankly, old.

Cruz continued, “Don Ambrosio has asked me for your hand in marriage. I have arranged for a dowry, and we have signed a betrothal contract. The wedding will take place as soon as the banns are read.”

Sloan wondered if Don Ambrosio could be the one who had gotten Tomasita pregnant and if that was the reason for such haste. That hardly