Read Online Texas Woman by Joan Johnston - Free Book Online Page A

blasphemous thought of sharing her troubles with someone—with Cruz—had tremendous appeal. But could she really expect the arrogant Spaniard to understand her feelings? More important, would he care enough to try?
    The stallion’s breathing gradually slowed, and he snorted once or twice before his head came up a bit from the ground. Sloan’s stiff muscles protested as she stepped into the saddle again. She had indulged in more than enough self-pity, more than enough groaning and gnashing of teeth. Gripping the reins in a white-knuckled fist, she turned her mount back toward the fields, where the slaves were at work.
    She spent the rest of the afternoon concentrating on the cotton harvest as though her life depended on it—her tenuous peace of mind certainly did.
    For the first time in three years, the cotton hadn’t been attacked by either cut worms or army worms, and heavy rain hadn’t driven the surviving cotton bolls into the mud to stain and mold. The harvest was bountiful, a reminder of all she stood to lose.
    Sloan was grateful for the deep, melodic voices of the field hands singing as they snatched cotton. There could be no more soothing balm for her jumbled emotions than the old familiar hymns.
    By suppertime, as the sun set in vivid pinks across an expansive Texas sky, Sloan was exhausted, her face and neck streaked where sweat had turned dust to mud. She had pledged to Rip that the snatching would get done in time to beat the rainy season even if she had to get down off her horse and pick cotton herself. She would leave her father no opening to say she could not handle the responsibility she had been given. But no more could be done today.
    Sloan turned the stallion toward the row of cotton where Uncle Billy worked. “It’s getting dark, Uncle Billy. Pass the word.”
    “Shore ’nuff, Miz Sloan.”
    Sloan waited as men in shades from caramel-brown to coal-black brought their bags of cotton to be emptied in the baskets at the end of each row.
    “You looks tuckered out,” Uncle Billy remarked. “You needs to rest some, Miz Sloan.”
    Sloan gave the burly Negro a wan smile as she lifted her flat-brimmed hat and used a kerchief to wipe the sweat from her brow. “When we get the cotton snatched, we’ll all take a rest.” Sloan turned the stallion and headed for the house.
    “Sun be rising early, Miz Sloan. See you gets those eyes closed ’fore the moon be up, hear?”
    Sloan didn’t answer. Her thoughts had already leaped ahead to the coming confrontation with Luke Summers. If Rip insisted on her sharing Three Oaks with Luke, she would . . . Well, that was putting the harvest before the planting. It remained to be seen what Luke Summers would have to say about Rip’s offer.
    As she approached the main house, Sloan saw Luke’s chestnut gelding tied in the shade of the live oaks. She shrugged her shoulders in an attempt to loosen the sweat-dampened gingham shirt from the places where it stuck to her skin. She wanted a bath. Her lips twisted wryly as the smell of her own sweat rose up to greet her. She also
needed
a bath. Stephen would have already placed the tub in her room and filled it with steaming water. There was no reason why she couldn’t take time to rinse off the grime of the day before she fought any more battles.
    Sloan heard the murmur of voices in the study on the left as she quietly ascended the stairs in the central hallway that divided the house.
    Coward!
    The voice shouting inside her head stopped her halfway up the stairs. She was not avoiding a confrontation, merely delaying it, she reasoned in response. She took another step.
    Coward!
the voice shrieked again.
    If there was one thing Rip had instilled in her from the day she was born, it was courage. She was his brave girl. She was his strong one. She must never be afraid. She must face her fears and conquer them. To show vulnerability was to be weak. To show weakness was to lose everything. She knew what she was. And she was no