“Where is she?”

“I do not know.”

The young man flashed her a teasing, confident smile that took her breath away, and Tomasita realized she should not have answered the door. Never having greeted a man without her father or her duenna to chaperon, she had no idea what she should say or do next.

She was horribly conscious of the casual way she was dressed. Her short-sleeved embroidered white camisa had a wide yoke that tended to slip off her shoulders and hug the swell of her breasts and her plain black wool skirt didn’t come down far enough to conceal the simple leather sandals on her feet. She looked more like one of the pobres, the peasants who lived in the village, than the future wife of the don.

She couldn’t help staring at the stranger, noting the triangle of bare bronze skin at the opening of his navy blue linsey-woolsey shirt, the size and shape of his hands as they splayed across his belly, and the blunt fingertips that drew her gaze to the display of his masculinity in the form-fitting buckskins.

She followed the movement of his hands as he slipped his worn, flat-brimmed felt hat off his head, releasing a tumble of sun-streaked brown hair over his brow. Then he thrust his fingers through the silky stuff to shove it away from his sun-browned face.

Tomasita knew she should speak, but she found her senses occupied with the curious feelings roiling about inside her. Her abdomen pulled tight, as though someone had yanked a drawstring shut. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath and brought her hand up to her chest as though that might prod her lungs into action.

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-Doña Lucia heard her speaking to someone and came to investigate.

“Who is it, Tomasita?”

“Señor Summers has come to see Señorita Stewart.” Tomasita saw the censure in Doña 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 Doña 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.


Doña 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?”

Doña 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.”

Doña Lucia’s frown deepened, and she made no effort to hide her scorn. “What business do you have with Señorita 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,” Doña Lucia explained, suddenly aware of the threat posed by the deceptively relaxed man who stood before her.

“Not here?”

Doña 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 Doña 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.”

Doña 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 Doña 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. Doña Lucia would settle for nothing less in her son’s wife.

Doña 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 Doña 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, Mamá.” A weary smile curved his lips. “Have you a brandy to offer me?”

For a moment it seemed Doña 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.