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

Sloan was oblivious to their speculation. Anyway, she was too exhausted and sick at heart to care.

She was sitting in a chair beside Cruz’s bed, her cheek lying on Cruz’s hand where it lay on the bed, when she heard the door open. It was a sign of how tired she was that she didn’t even raise her head to see who had entered the room.

She heard voices murmuring behind her and the sound of something heavy being settled on the tile floor. Finally, her curiosity roused her.

She turned to find that Tomasita was directing the servants to set up a bath for her. She sat, unmoving, while the wooden tub was filled with hot water. Finally, Tomasita sent the servants from the room and closed the door.

“I thought a bath might relax you so you can sleep,” Tomasita said.

“Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

Tomasita helped Sloan undress, then wrapped her in a towel.

“You must rest more,” Tomasita chided, “or you will soon be sick yourself.”

“I know you’re right,” Sloan readily agreed. “And I wish I could but-”

“Come, step into the bath.” Tomasita led Sloan over to the steaming water like a helpless child and then held on to the towel as Sloan settled her sore muscles into the hot water.

Sloan sighed in ecstasy. “Ahhhh. This is wonderful. Thank you, Tomasita.”

“It is the least I can do.”

Sloan looked at Tomasita and realized she wasn’t the only one with dark circles under her eyes. “How are you, Tomasita? Have you been feeling well?”

“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

“Have you decided what you’re going to do about Don Ambrosio?”

“I am going back to Spain.”

“What?”

“To the sisters at El Convento del Sagrado Corazón in Madrid.”

Sloan watched Tomasita slowly lower herself into a nearby rawhide chair. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

Tomasita met Sloan’s eyes and said, “What other choice do I have?”

“You can tell Luke about the baby.”

Sloan watched the pain darken Tomasita’s sapphire eyes before the Spanish woman replied, “He would never forgive me for forcing him to marry me. I could not live with him knowing that he did not want me.”

“Perhaps he cares for you a great deal more than you think.”

“Please do not offer me hope where there is none.”

Sloan leaned her head back against the cool metal rim of the wooden tub and closed her eyes. “You can run away if you want. But I thought you had more gumption.”

“I did… I do…”

“Do you really want your son or daughter to grow up without knowing his father, the way Luke did?”

They were both silent while Sloan soaked in the tub. At last, Sloan stood and Tomasita quickly wrapped the towel around her.

“Promise me you’ll think about it,” Sloan said.

“All right. Now I will leave you to get some rest,” Tomasita said. “It has been a long day.”

“Yes, it has,” Sloan agreed with a wan smile. “A very long day.”

Sloan was too tired even to put on a nightgown. She simply crossed to the opposite side of the bed and slipped under the covers beside Cruz. She only meant to doze, but it had been too long since she had given her body a rest, and as soon as she closed her eyes, she was sound asleep.

Sloan was having a wonderful dream. Cruz was making love to her, his hands gently roaming the naked curve of her hip, spanning her belly, cupping her swollen breasts. She felt his lips follow where his hands had been, until his thumb caressed her jaw. His lips touched hers and it felt so real. It felt-

“Te adoro, Cebellina.”

Sloan stiffened. That voice was no dream. Her eyes flew open to the sight of Cruz lying beside her, his eyes open and-seeing her.

“You’re awake!” She embraced him, their bodies warm against each other as tears of relief welled in her eyes. A brilliant smile broke across her face and she leaned back to look up at him.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said.

“Have I been ill long?”