“I will see you at supper tonight,” he said. Then he was gone.

Sloan lay still, waiting for the trembling to stop. She tried not to think about what had happened between her and Cruz, but avoiding the truth wouldn’t change it. She had wanted him to kiss her. She had wanted to kiss him back. How traitorous her body was! It refused to acknowledge the danger Cruz represented. She would have to be more careful. She would have to try harder to stay out of his way. And she would have to make it clear he was no longer welcome in her bedroom.

Sloan exhaled as the tension eased from her body and shook her head in disgust. She had actually agreed to do housework! Stephen usually took care of such matters at Three Oaks. Yet housework would be something to do to pass the time until Cruz returned.

Sloan had no wish to approach Doña Lucia, conscious as she was of the woman’s dislike of her, but she knew herself well enough to realize that she would find staying idle all day a worse penance than any chore a vindictive Doña Lucia could find for her.

In deference to where she was, Sloan put on a simple long-sleeved brown calico dress that she had brought with her in her small carpetbag. The dress buttoned all the way to the neck and had a simple white butterfly collar that she adorned with the one piece of jewelry she owned, a cameo brooch that had belonged to her mother.

Sloan so seldom wore a dress that the strangeness of her attire emphasized her predicament. She endured the awkwardness because she had no other choice. She didn’t like being in corners, and she was determined to find a way out of this one.

Sloan had just put on her shoes when she heard a knock on the door. Before she could respond, Doña Lucia stepped inside.

“My son tells me you want something to do to keep you busy today, Señorita Stewart.”

“I would rather be busy than not,” Sloan replied honestly.

“I have servants to do the work in the house.”

It was plain to Sloan that Doña Lucia not only didn’t want her help, she didn’t want her in the house. She bit her tongue on a sharp reply and said, “I’ll be glad to do anything.”

“Very well. I have asked Josefa to take the rugs outside today and beat them clean. If you would like to help her, you are welcome to do so.”

“Thanks.” Sloan thought she saw a smile appear on Doña Lucia’s face, but if it had been there, it was gone too quickly to comment upon.

Doña Lucia started to leave the room but suddenly stopped and angled her head back toward Sloan. “Stay away from Cisco. Seeing you, talking with you, will only confuse him.”

Sloan, who had fostered no intention of seeking out her son, retorted, “I’ll see him if I please.”

Doña Lucia’s face contorted with fury. As suddenly as she had lost control, she regained it and her features resumed their regal mien. The mellifluous voice gave no evidence of anger when the Spanish woman spoke.

“It is respect for my son that makes me hold my tongue when I wish to speak plainly to you. I do not understand why Cruz has invited you to stay in this house. But he has asked me to extend my courtesy to you. As I honored his father’s wishes when he was patrón, so do I honor my son’s.

“But do not mistake me. I will do what I must to protect Cisco and to see that Señorita Hidalgo is not embarrassed by your presence here.”

The woman was gone before Sloan could respond. What could she have said? Doña Lucia’s animosity was something she would have to bear for however long she stayed at Dolorosa-which she hoped wouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks.

She had been thinking a lot about how she could change Rip’s mind, and the solution that seemed simplest was to stay away from Three Oaks and let him try to manage the harvest on his own. Whether Rip realized it or not, for the past few years she had taken a great deal of the responsibility for Three Oaks on her shoulders. Since his stroke, she had carried it all.

Of course, he could hire an overseer to replace her. But Three Oaks had suffered financial losses for two years in a row, and Rip could ill afford the expense. No. If she just stayed away for a couple of weeks, Rip was bound to discover that he needed her far more than he had ever realized.

He wouldn’t like admitting he had been wrong, but she would make it easier by resisting whatever urge she felt to say “I told you so” when he asked her to come home.

The only thing wrong with such a plan was that it meant she would have to find a way to survive the scorpions and rattlers at Dolorosa until Rip became suitably enlightened. As Sloan was discovering, that wasn’t turning out to be as easy as it might sound.

Sloan convinced Josefa that she wanted to work alone and took advantage of the chore Doña Lucia had given her to beat out her frustration. The job was a dirty one, and before long, her hair and clothing were covered with a fine layer of dust.

Even though it was fall, the sun was warm, and she felt rivulets of sweat trickling between her breasts and down the small of her back. It occurred to her that this work would have been better done in trousers and a shirt. So much for maintaining the facade of femininity.

She was nearly finished when Josefa sought her out. “It is time for the noon meal, señorita.”

“Can you bring me something out here?”

“Oh no, señorita. You are a guest. You must eat at the big table.”

Sloan sighed and did her best to repair the damages. She rinsed her hands and face in the cool water of the tile fountain in the courtyard, then brushed off her dress and hair as best she could. There was nothing she could do about the rings of sweat beneath her arms.

“Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered.

She bit back an even stronger epithet when she saw Tomasita sitting quietly at the table, her shiny, blue-black hair in a neat bun, her pastel green dress an immaculate confection of layered silk and almond lace that fitted her like a glove through the bodice and then flared in gathers at the waist.

Tomasita smiled brightly at Sloan when she saw her. “I looked for you this morning after breakfast, but Doña Lucia told me you had decided to work outside.”

“Uh, yes. I did.” Sloan avoided looking at Doña Lucia, knowing she couldn’t keep a straight face if she did. Before Sloan got a chance to sit down, there was an interruption.

One of Cruz’s vaqueros, a short man with a leathery face that matched the chaparejos he wore to protect his legs from brush, stood with his sombrero in hand at the door to the dining room. He spoke in rapid Spanish to Doña Lucia.

Sloan had spent a great deal of time practicing the language after she had caught Cruz forcing Cisco to learn English so he would be able to communicate with his mother, and she understood the vaquero amazingly well.

“There are three covered wagons camped at the northern border of Dolorosa,” he said, “filled with gringos. A wheel is off one of their wagons. I do not think they know how to fix it.”

“Did you speak with them?” Doña Lucia asked.

“Oh no, señora. I came quickly to tell my patrón what I found.” His face filled with disdain for the gringos. “They cannot care much for their children. They have no sentry posted to watch for Comanches or-”

“They have children with them?” Sloan interrupted in Spanish.

The vaquero turned to her and Sloan saw in his wrinkled brow the same disdain that must have been accorded the white men with the wagons. “Sí, señorita. Two young boys and a little girl.”

Sloan turned to Doña Lucia. “We have to help them.”

The vaquero looked to Doña Lucia to see whether she agreed.

Doña Lucia bent her head slightly to the vaquero in dismissal. “You may go now. I will tell my son what you have seen.”

He never looked at Sloan again, only nodded his head in obeisance and left.

“It will be dark before Cruz comes back. We have to send help now,” Sloan said. “Those people are in danger every moment their wagon is disabled.”

“This is not your concern. My son will settle the matter when he returns.”

“But there are children-”

“My son will take care of the matter,” Doña Lucia said, her voice hard.

“If you won’t do something, I will.” Sloan was up and gone from the table before Doña Lucia could say anything to stop her. She ran outside after the vaquero, who had stepped back into his saddle.

“Wait!”

The vaquero paused at Sloan’s command, uncertain whether he should obey, but afraid to disobey.

“Where are the wagons? Can you take me back to them?” she asked in Spanish.