Texas Woman

“So will I, darling. I’ll miss her very, very much.” Sloan clasped her hands tightly together to keep from lifting Cisco into her lap. Unable to hold back the tears that had begged shedding for the multitude of things that had happened today, she let them fall.

Cisco’s lip quivered when he saw the wetness that scoured her face. “Mama?”

Sloan looked down and saw that her son’s brow was furrowed worriedly, his chin trembling. She swiped at her tears with the heels of her hands, realizing she was upsetting him. “Yes, sweetheart, what is it?”

“Maybe I could play with you. Then you wouldn’t be so lonely when Betsy is gone.”

Sloan felt the tears welling again as she stared down at her son, with his blue eyes and his curly brown hair, his high cheekbones and his cleft chin-the innocent face of a child who had borne the brunt of all her anger at his dead father… and her fears of being hurt again. Yet despite it all, he had offered love where love had been withheld.

“Oh, Cisco…”

She reached out and suddenly scooped him up into her arms, hugging him tightly to her breast. “Oh, Cisco… my baby… my darling son… I do love you so!”

She rocked him in her arms, crooning love words. She told him all the things they would do together while Cruz was getting well and all the things they would do together once Cruz was back on his feet.

“But first,” she said, swiping at her nose and eyes with her sleeve, “we had better get Betsy’s things packed so her Uncle Louis doesn’t miss his ship in Galveston.”

Betsy’s leave-taking was not nearly so bitter for Sloan with Cisco’s warm body snuggled sleepily in her arms. She was able to wave good-bye with a smile on her face before turning back to the adobe house and all that waited there, good and bad, frightening and infuriating.

An hour later, after she had been admonished by Maria that she must keep up her own strength if she was to be any help to Don Cruz, Sloan was sitting at the dinner table with a subdued Dona Lucia and an equally quiet Tomasita when they were approached by Paco, the vaquero who had brought word of the gringo wagons on Dolorosa land.

“What is it, Paco?” Dona Lucia asked irritably.

“The storm damaged many of the jacals in the pueblo. I came to ask Don Cruz’s permission to have his vaqueros help fix them.”

“Don Cruz is ill,” Dona Lucia said.

Paco stood waiting for further instructions.

Dona Lucia frowned in exasperation and said, “The jacals will have to wait.”

“But, senora-”

“Do not dare to question me!”

Paco had started to back away when Sloan interceded. “Go out to the veranda, Paco, and wait for me there.” When Paco had left the room, she turned to Dona Lucia and said, “Perhaps whoever Cruz usually leaves in charge of the vaqueros when he is away from Dolorosa on business could take care of the problem.”

Dona Lucia sat sullen and silent for a moment until it became clear that Sloan was willing to wait her out. “Miguel Padilla is Cruz’s foreman, but he would not presume to act without orders from his patron.”

“Can’t someone else give orders?”

When Dona Lucia once again remained silent, Sloan demanded in exasperation, “Who’s going to manage Dolorosa until Cruz recovers?”

“I… I do not know.”

“Unless you have a better suggestion, I will give the orders that need to be given.”

Dona Lucia rose imperiously from her chair. “How dare you-”

Sloan rose to her feet with equal dignity at the opposite end of the table. “Shut up and sit down.”

Dona Lucia was so shocked at Sloan’s order that she sank back into her chair, mouth agape.

“We don’t know how long it will be before Cruz is back on his feet, but I don’t intend to have him recover only to find that Dolorosa has been neglected in his absence. I’m giving you fair warning that I intend to make sure that doesn’t happen. If you think you can do a better job, you’d better say so now.”

“Why would you do this for us?” Dona Lucia asked, eyes narrowed speculatively.

“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for Cruz.”

“The vaqueros will not listen to you, gringa.”

“I assume, then, that you won’t interfere if I give it a try.” Without further ado, Sloan pivoted on her good heel and limped out to joined Paco on the veranda. “Take me to Miguel Padilla.”

Paco’s face did not hint at what he was thinking, but he had seen how El Patron cared for this woman. He would not dare take a chance of offending her. He simply said, “Follow me, Senora Guerrero.”

Sloan’s nervousness built during the short, uncomfortable ride to the village. She stepped inside Miguel’s jacal with great trepidation. She had to convince Cruz’s foreman to take her seriously. Otherwise her efforts to help Cruz would come to naught.

“Buenos dias, Miguel.”

“Buenos dias, Senora Guerrero.”

“Dona Lucia told me you’re in charge of Don Cruz’s vaqueros.”

The rangy vaquero nodded. His face was as ageless as a mountain peak, eroded by wind and weather. He wore the spurred wing boots and rawhide chaparejos of the vaquero.

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, senora, 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 patron’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. “Si, senora. 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, Dona 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 Patron were no longer greeted with chuckles of disbelief. In fact, other vaqueros offered their own stories of how Dona Sloan had thrown her lasso over the head of a bawling calf and pulled it from a boghole, how Dona Sloan had ridden her horse like the wind in pursuit of an especially fast mustang, and how Dona 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 Dona Sloan such freedom to come and go. For, after all, a man’s wife belonged at home.