“He is also that woman’s son,” she spat.
Cruz’s eyes narrowed to slits and his lips pressed flat in anger. “You will speak of Sloan Stewart with respect.”
If Cruz had ever lifted a hand to his mother she might have been cowed by his fury, but although her son’s voice was hard, she was willing enough to fight words with words. She dismissed his obdurate stare with an angry wave of her ivory fan.
“Something must be done about that woman.”
“She has a name, Mamá.”
“I will not have it spoken in this house!”
“This house is mine,” he said, his voice harsh with the effort it took to control his temper. “I decide what names will be spoken here.”
“Of course,” she replied, her pride bringing her chin up another notch. “I see I cannot expect any more consideration for my wishes than you have given to the wishes of your father.”
Cruz refused to answer his mother’s challenging words with the taunting response on the tip of his tongue. Since his father’s death, he had found himself in almost constant conflict with his mother. She wasn’t ready to concede the father’s place to the son, any more than she was ready to concede her own place to a daughter-in-law.
He had told himself to be patient, that her abiding grief made her say things she did not mean, and that with time she would accept her new role in the household with grace. She needed his support and his solace in this time of change. He would not allow her to goad him into saying something now that he would regret later.
Instead of answering her accusation, he countered, “Are the plans completed for the fandango celebration to introduce Señorita Hidalgo to our neighbors?”
“All is in readiness, as you requested. I have invited all the noteworthy families in the area-including the Anglo planters from along the Brazos whom you added to the list-to come and welcome Tomasita.”
Cruz noted the disdain with which his mother referred to the wealthy Anglo planters. In the eight years since Texas had won its independence from Mexico in the Battle of San Jacinto, she had not accepted the reality of Anglo dominance in Texas. She had always retained the hope that someday Spain would step in and reclaim Texas. That was never going to happen. Annexation by America was a far more likely fate for the Republic-unless England could somehow manage to forestall it.
For now, Texas was free of oppressive Mexican taxes and military rule. Cruz would do everything in his power to keep it that way for himself and for the children he hoped to have with Sloan Stewart… assuming he could bring her to his home and to his bed.
He had hoped to present Sloan as his wife at the fandango. His mother’s enmity for that woman reminded him that she would not have been above “forgetting” to invite Sloan to the fandango.
“Did you send an invitation to the Stewart family?” he asked.
“If they were on the list-”
“You know they were on the list.” He dug deep for the patience to treat his mother with the respect that was her due and in a calmer voice asked, “Did you send the invitation?”
“I cannot remember,” she replied sullenly.
“Then perhaps you should check and make sure,” he said, his words both a command and a warning.
Cruz swore under his breath as he felt his shoulders knot with tension. Even if Sloan received an invitation, she probably would prove her independence by staying away.
He reached out to touch the smooth blue Talavera jar that stood in one of the recessed arches found at intervals along the interior walls of his adobe hacienda. Sloan’s skin was softer, smoother, than the finish on the delicate jar. He jerked his hand away from the glazed pottery and thrust it through his hair in what had become a habitual gesture of agitation.
His mother’s attitude toward Sloan troubled him, yet nothing he said seemed to change it. As far as Doña Lucia was concerned, Sloan Stewart had given herself to a man beyond the bounds of marriage and borne a bastard child. She would never forgive Sloan that transgression, even though the man Sloan had taken to her bed had been her favorite son and the child born of that union was her own grandchild.
He should have told his mother long ago that he was not free to align himself with Tomasita Hidalgo. But he could not-would not-explain his agreement with Sloan to his mother. At the time Cruz had learned of the betrothal contract, Tomasita had still been a child. Cruz had thought he would settle the matter with Sloan long before Tomasita had reached an age to marry.
But things had not gone as he had planned.
Tomasita’s father had died and his will had instructed the Convent of the Sacred Heart to send for Don Cruz Almicar Guerrero to come and claim his bride.
Cruz regretted the circumstances that had kept his relationship with Sloan Stewart in abeyance, because now Doña Lucia had her heart set on becoming mother-in-law to the aristocratic young Spanish woman he had brought home with him from Madrid.
Fortunately, Tomasita knew nothing of the alliance that had been proposed by their fathers, and Cruz had sternly forbidden his mother to tell the girl about it. It was enough for Tomasita to know he was her guardian until she married. For, indeed, he was.
He had asked his mother to plan the fandango in the hope that a prospective bridegroom for Tomasita would show himself. After all, once word of Tomasita’s beauty spread, he had no doubt the suitors would flock to his door. He planned to watch closely at the fandango to see if Tomasita favored any particular man.
Not that the girl could be allowed to make her own choice of husband, but perhaps she would show a preference for some suitable man. He was happy in his own choice of mate, and he wished Tomasita to be happy as well.
“You would be wise to make your claim on Señorita Hidalgo known at the fandango,” Doña Lucia said, demanding his attention.
“I have no claim to make.”
The sound of running feet on the tile floor suspended their argument.
“Papa! Papa!”
Cruz opened his arms wide as the three-year-old he thought of as his son threw himself forward. He scooped Cisco up and hugged him hard.
“Diablito! What demon is chasing you?” Cruz asked.
“She is coming. Hide me. Pronto!” Cisco hid his face in Cruz’s shoulder as though that could make his sturdy little body disappear as well.
“Who is coming?”
At that moment the beautiful young woman Doña Lucia wanted Cruz to wed skidded to a halt inside the arched doorway to the sala. “Holy Mary… I did not know… I did not expect… we were only… Holy Mary…”
Cruz watched as the seventeen-year-old he had brought from Spain blushed from her neck to her hairline. She had folded the sleeves up on her elegant blue silk day dress, exposing slender arms. Several buttons had slipped free to reveal the soft white-now rosy-skin at her throat. Her hair had escaped from its neat bun, and silken ebony strands curled at the edges of her heart-shaped face.