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.

Startled, the vaquero’s eyes skipped over the dress she wore, wondering how a woman such as she could hope to be any help. “Sí, I can take you to them. But how-”

“Wait here while I change into riding clothes, and I’ll come with you. Don’t leave. Ask someone to saddle my horse for me.” She waited a moment to make sure the vaquero understood before she whirled and ran back into the house.

Sloan stripped quickly to her chemise and pantalets, then yanked on her osnaburg trousers, a long-sleeved gingham shirt, vest, socks, and Wellingtons. She stuck her flat-brimmed hat on her head and strapped on a knife with her belt. Grabbing the two Colt Pattersons in the holsters designed to fit across her saddle, she settled them across her shoulder. Finally, she picked up her Kentucky rifle and checked to make sure she had ammunition.

Sloan had seen the gruesome remains of a Comanche attack in the past and had no desire to be a part of such a tragedy. She would make sure the women and children were taken somewhere safe to wait until the wheel was repaired. A broken-down covered wagon in the Texas wilderness was not a safe place to be.

By the time she reached the dining room again, she felt more like herself. It was amazing what a difference it made to be wearing pants and boots. “I’ll be back as quickly as possible. If I’m not here when Cruz returns, tell him where I am.”

Sloan had completely forgotten about Tomasita, but the young woman’s frightened voice stopped her before she could leave. “Why are you doing this?”

“Those people need help.”

“But you do not even know them!”

Sloan smiled at Tomasita’s naïveté. “Neither do the Comanches. That won’t stop them from killing and scalping the men, raping the women, or taking the children captive. All I’m offering is simple Texas hospitality. I’m sure Cruz would do the same if he knew they needed help.”

“Why do you not wait for Don Cruz?”

“If I wait it may be too late.” With that, she turned on her heel and left.

It never occurred to Sloan to wait for Cruz, because she was used to doing things for herself, used to taking action where action was warranted. Nor did she consider what Cruz’s reaction would be to her precipitous journey. It simply didn’t matter. Delay might mean death to those who were stranded.

It took nearly two hours to reach their destination. By then it was late afternoon. But Sloan knew the fate of the immigrants long before they reached the wagons.

There were vultures circling overhead.

“There is nothing we can do, señorita. We must go back now,” the vaquero said when he spied the black cloud of birds.

“Someone may still be alive,” Sloan said.

The vaquero shook his head. “Those who may have survived the Comanches are better left to the vultures. It is not safe here. The Comanches may still be near. We must go back.”

“You go back if you must. I’m going on.”

The vaquero was clearly torn, but he remembered that Doña Lucia had agreed to tell El Patrón what he had found, and surely El Patrón could not blame him if he did not follow this strange, foolish woman to her death. “Adiós, señorita. Vaya con Dios.”

Sloan sat for a moment without moving. The vaquero was probably right. About everything. The danger was real. The possibility of finding someone alive was slim. And yet, what if someone had survived? She spurred her horse and headed for the immigrants’ wagons.