Frontier Woman

by Joan Johnston

  It wasn’t hard to imagine the fiery-eyed young man plotting the overthrow of the Texas government. However, it was not his job to jump to conclusions. Creed set his personal antipathy for Antonio Guerrero aside. He needed proof of treason, and his best chance of finding that proof at the fandango was to stay near Sloan Stewart.

  Creed followed Rip as he trailed his daughters to the gathering of elite plantation folk. The circle of men widened naturally to include Rip, but the nearby cluster of women appeared decidedly annoyed by the prospect of entertaining Cricket and Sloan. Creed stood where he could hear the women’s conversation.

  “Hello, Amber. How are you?” Cricket said.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  Cricket looked for something else to say to Amber, but she had nothing in common with the beautiful, perfectly dressed young woman standing across from her. Sometimes she wished . . .

  “What have you been up to lately?” Amber’s mother, Martha, asked Sloan, her voice barely civil. “Has that African witch woman been giving you any trouble?”

  “Not since her back healed from the beating your husband gave her,” Sloan returned coldly.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Sloan Stewart. Sam had to whip that Nigress,” the gray-haired woman replied. “She was practicing magic and inciting the Nigras to talk back!”

  “She’s a human being, not an animal.”

  “I should have expected to hear that sort of heresy from you, being raised like you have in the bosom of those Nigra men, without a mother to shield you from their wickedness. It’s no wonder no decent man will have anything to do with you!”

  “Does that mean you want me to turn down your son’s request for a dance this evening, Mrs. Kuykendall?” Sloan asked with a bitter smile. “Phillip seemed most pleased by the prospect of escorting me when he stopped by Three Oaks yesterday.”

  Martha Kuykendall turned a bright crimson before she sputtered, “Phillip is a man. I can hardly blame him for seeking out what’s offered for free, can I?”

  “Mrs. Kuykendall?”

  Martha Kuykendall looked over her shoulder to find Cricket, who’d stepped up close behind her.

  “Yes, Creighton?”

  “Your skirt is on fire.”

  The elderly woman let out a howl and hopped around in a mindless circle like a beheaded chicken. She tore at the voluminous folds of her layered satin skirt to determine the danger which, as it turned out after she’d made an utter fool of herself in front of her two closest neighbors, was nonexistent.

  “My mistake,” Cricket calmly admitted to the furious woman. “What I saw must have been the smoke from that cigar.” Cricket pointed righteously to the stub of a cigar smoldering in the grass near where Mrs. Kuykendall had been standing.

  Martha Kuykendall’s outraged dignity demanded retribution, but when she turned to insist that her husband, Sam, do something, even if it was only to retire from the scene of her disgrace, she found him deep in conversation with Rip Stewart. Her vengeance thwarted in that direction, she turned back to Cricket.

  “You . . . you . . .” Martha searched for a word she could say in front of her neighbors and finally settled on hissing, “You hussy! You don’t belong in polite company. Your father ought to take a switch to your backside until you can’t sit down.”

  “Shame, shame, Mrs. Kuykendall,” Sloan said, coming to Cricket’s side. “I should think that you, of all people, would have learned by now that violence only leads to greater rebellion. Come on, Cricket. I think I’d like to take a closer look at that silver inlaid saddle we saw on display in the mercantile window.”

  The two women casually took their leave.

  “Thanks, Cricket,” Sloan said when they were out of hearing of the other women.

  Cricket grinned. “It was definitely my pleasure. Do you really want to see that saddle?”

  “No, I . . . I’m meeting Tonio.”

  “Can I come along?” Cricket asked.

  Sloan put her hand on Cricket’s shoulder. “I hope you’ll understand if I say no.”

  Cricket shrugged, hiding a twinge of apprehension and a trace of irritation. “Sure, if you want to be alone—”

  “I need to speak with Tonio. Please try to understand, Cricket.”

  “Sure, I understand,” Cricket said as a lump grew in her throat.

  Sloan reached out to grasp Cricket’s shoulder but dropped her hand when Cricket stiffened. “I’ll see you later.”

  Creed had hastily excused himself and followed the two sisters at a safe distance. Before they left the hacienda walls, they separated. Cricket headed toward the carriage in which she’d come. Sloan, meanwhile, looked around once as though searching for someone and then stepped beyond the adobe fortress and moved hurriedly toward the Mexican village. Creed followed her, making sure to stay back in the crowd, out of her sight.

  A voice stopped him as he reached the fortress gates.

  “Señor Creed. I’d like a word with you.”

  Creed cursed under his breath as he watched Sloan disappear into an alley between the adobe cantina and the frame mercantile store next to it. He hid his irritation in a pleasant smile before he turned, only to have his smile fade when he saw who’d accosted him.

  “What can I do for you, Señor Guerrero?”

  “Please, call me Cruz.”

  “What can I do for you?” Creed repeated, stubbornly refusing to call his unacknowledged rival by name. The Spaniard’s English was only slightly accented, which made him sound as aristocratic as he looked in the tight black pants, black boots, white frilled shirt, and matching waist-length black jacket he wore.

  “I hoped you might answer some questions for me. Would you mind joining me inside?” Cruz gestured toward the impressive hacienda, and with a nod, Creed followed him.

  The interior of the hacienda bespoke the Spanish heritage of the Guerreros and was a mix of the old world and the new. In what would have been the parlor of a Texan home, elaborately inlaid Moorish tables brought from Spain were interspersed among heavy, purely functional Mediterranean chairs with rawhide seats. The delicately spooled legs of the tables which had been crafted by Spanish artisans contrasted greatly with the wooden pegs and wrought-iron hinges made by the Mexicans to survive the rigors of the new world.

  Creed noted the recessed arches decorated with various religious symbols, including a carved wooden statue of San Miguel and a painted crucifix. A touchably smooth blue Talavera jar stood in the arch by the front door. The thick adobe walls kept the room cool and the small, high windows made it seem dark. Even now, sweetly scented candles burned to allay the dimness of the room.

  The Spaniard offered Creed a crystal glass of very old brandy, which he accepted. However, he refused Cruz’s offer to sit, moving instead to stand near the stone fireplace that took up the entire wall at one end of the room. Both men sipped in silence until Creed asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “I understand you’re staying at Señor Stewart’s place.” Cruz paused before adding, “And that you’re a Texas Ranger.”

  “You’re very well informed.”

  “I have friends in San Antonio,” the Spaniard replied.

  “So?”

  “I need a favor from you.”

  Creed hid his surprise well. He looked down at the priceless crystal in his hand, pondering the possibility that his investigation of the Guerreros was not as secret as he’d thought. He took another sip of the fine brandy. “I’m listening.”

  Clear blue eyes met tawny gold as Cruz said, “Because of our stand with the Texans during the war, both my family and the pueblo of our vaqueros have been subjected to continuous reprisals instigated by those unhappy tejanos, Texas-Mexicans, in Texas who would rather the Mexican government had remained supreme. Several attacks have resulted in loss of life and livestock.

  “I want to see these attacks stopped, but so far I haven’t been able to discover who’s behind them. I thought as long as you’re going to help Señor Stewart r
ecover his livestock you might be willing to go a step further and help me find out who’s been arranging for the attacks on my people.”

  Creed fought to keep a frown from his face. Cruz had painted a picture of his family as victims, not traitors. Could it be that Antonio Guerrero wasn’t working with the Mexican government after all? Or did Cruz intend to use this ploy to keep an eye on Creed?

  “I work alone,” Creed said at last.

  “But you’ll help,” Cruz urged.

  It would be better to accede to Cruz’s request, Creed rationalized. That way he could keep an eye on the Spaniard while the Spaniard was keeping an eye on him.

  “Yes, I’ll help.”

  “Thank you. Now, shall we go observe the días de toros? I can point out the vaqueros whose activities I’ve found suspect, and you’ll have a chance to see why the Spanish are known as the best horsemen in Texas.”

  By the time they arrived at the corral together, Creed found himself almost comfortable in Cruz’s company. He was looking forward to a fruitful, pleasant afternoon—until he saw Cricket. She was dressed in her buckskins as she’d promised, but she wasn’t sitting in the stands which had been erected for observers. She was perched on the edge of the corral near the stock pen along with the vaqueros competing in the días de toros.

  “Excuse me,” Creed said, “I see someone I need to talk to.”

  “But of course. Join me when you can.”

  Creed left Cruz and made a beeline for Cricket. He had to look up to where she sat on the top rail of the corral to speak to her. “What’s going on? Where are your father and Sloan?”

  “They should both be here soon,” Cricket reassured him. “I see you’re sitting with Cruz Guerrero. I hope that means he’s not competing today. I’ll have a better chance of winning first prize.”

  “First prize in what?”

  “The bronc riding, of course.”

  Cricket was startled when Creed’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm, yanking her off the top rail of the corral.

  “Let go of me, you lamebrained jackass!”

  She was still struggling for balance when he grabbed her other arm and dragged her up close to his chest, hissing in her face, “Did I hear you right? You’re planning to compete in the bronc riding ?”

  “Of course,” she hissed back, unnerved by how uncanny it was that every time she had one of these encounters with the Ranger her pulse raced as crazily as a rabbit chased by a hawk. “Why do you think I bothered to come today? There are money purses for the three best riders, and I expect to win.”

  “You’re going to break your neck. What does Rip have to say about this idiotic idea?”

  “I expect her to win, too,” Rip said.

  Creed dropped Cricket’s arms as though he’d discovered himself holding a scorpion and whirled to confront Rip. “She’ll be killed! How can you allow her to do this?”

  “It’s better than having her compete in the coleada,” he replied with a shrug.

  Creed turned incredulous eyes toward Cricket. In the coleada the mounted vaquero had to catch up with a running bull, grasp its tail, and by an expert maneuver throw the beast off balance. “You’re crazy!”

  “This is none of your business, Ranger. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Yes, she does,” Rip agreed, putting a reassuring hand on Creed’s shoulder.

  Creed shook it off and pivoted back to Cricket. “I thought we’d settled the matter of your supposed strength, woman.”

  “We settled nothing except that your brains are in the seat of your buckskins.” Cricket turned her back on Creed and climbed back up on top of the corral to join the other contestants.

  Rip chuckled, then tried to cajole the furious Ranger into joining their host and his elder son in the stands. Antonio wasn’t present, Creed noticed abstractedly. Nor could he find Sloan in the crowd.

  “I think I’ll watch from here,” Creed announced to Rip. “Please tell Cruz I’ll meet him later to discuss our business.”

  Rip cocked a questioning brow at Creed’s message, but nodded his agreement to deliver it.

  Creed found a spot at the edge of the corral, near where the mustangs would enter the arena, and leaned against the barrier. “Somebody has to be close enough to pick up the pieces,” he muttered under his breath.

  Cricket glared at the Ranger’s stiff back, while she stewed at his accusations. It wasn’t going to take great strength for her to win this competition. She knew how to let her supple body flow with the action of the bronc, so balance and timing did as much to keep her atop the animal as brute muscle. Jarrett Creed would see for himself how good she was. Not that she cared one whit about what the Ranger thought, of course, but when the contest was over, and she’d won first prize, he’d have to eat his words.

  Cricket’s eyes glowed with excitement as the Spanish cowboys demonstrated their skill on horseback. Each vaquero rode a different horse in the contest, all rawboned Spanish mustangs, wiry and full of fight. As her turn came closer, her heart began to pound. She was nervous in ways she never would have been if Jarrett Creed weren’t watching. Nothing so gentle as butterflies fluttered in her stomach. The stampeding buffalo were back.

  She’d drawn a Roman-nosed dun, its eyes white with fear and hate. It was bound to be a great ride, if she could hang on. When she slid down from the corral fence, her knees almost buckled because she’d been sitting so long. She shook her hands trying to relax and caught Creed’s eye. He shook his head, his lips pressed in a flat line. She searched futilely for Rip in the crowd. His was the only opinion that mattered to her. She didn’t give a tinker’s damn whether this lard-headed Ranger approved. She turned her nose up at him and walked to where the vaqueros struggled to saddle the blindfolded mustang.

  Suddenly they were done, and she stuck her foot into the stirrup and settled herself in the saddle leather. She took a deep breath and moved her tongue out of the way of her teeth before she nodded to the handlers to uncover the animal’s eyes.

  Creed’s heart rose to his throat as the bronc erupted in a bone-jarring leap, raced headlong for the fence, then stopped dead in front of it. Cricket had leaned forward for the horse’s run and only barely managed to avoid coming off in a heap when the mustang stopped. Then the dun’s nose went down and he sprang into the air, alternately landing stiff-legged on his front hooves and throwing his near hooves into the air. He began to twist in a circle, then arched around in the opposite direction. Creed swore out loud when he saw a trickle of blood on Cricket’s lip where she’d bit herself as her head whipped painfully to accommodate the mustang’s violent gyrations.

  Cricket had shut out the rest of the world. She clenched the rope reins with one fist, while the other hand swung wildly in the air to help her maintain her balance. The dust in the arena filled her nostrils and slid down her throat, choking her. She knew the crowd must be shouting comments because she occasionally saw an open mouth as the mustang bucked by an observer, but she heard nothing except a dull roar of background noise in her ears.

  At long last, the mean-eyed mustang, exhausted by its efforts, came to a dead stop. Cricket felt equally exhausted. It had been a harder fight than she’d have wished for. But, oh, how sweet that made the victory! She managed a triumphant smile for Creed, but felt a stab of disappointment deep inside when he scowled back at her in obvious displeasure.

  Cricket wiped the blood from her chin with her sleeve and searched again for Rip in the stands. This time she found him. He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up sign. She returned a forced smile of her own but was disturbed that she didn’t feel more elated by his satisfaction with her performance. She turned back to the arena, feeling vaguely unsettled.

  She only had to wait out the performances of three more vaqueros and a half-breed Comanche to see whether she had won. Two of the vaqueros were quickly dumped by their mustangs. The third stayed aboard, but barely, leaving only the half-breed Comanche as any competition. Cricket tensed as she awaited this last ride.
She was sure that so far she was winning. Creed would soon see she was not a competitor to be sneered at. She chanced a glance at the Ranger, and he smiled sardonically. She quickly looked back at the arena, appalled to be caught looking at him.

  The vaqueros hadn’t welcomed the breed’s company, so he’d stood at the edge of the corral, near Creed. When his turn came, the half-breed glided out to the center of the arena and spoke into the horse’s ear before throwing himself onto the animal’s back in a single fluid move.

  Cricket had never seen a more graceful man. Once on the bronc, the half-breed seemed molded to the animal. His sinewy strength was evident in the easy curve of his body as the animal plunged and pitched in an effort to rid itself of its burden. Cricket watched in horror as the mustang reared over backward, attempting to crush the Indian. But when the mustang clambered to its feet, the half-breed slipped onto its back, and stayed there through sunfish and crowhop. When the beast tried to scrape the Comanche off by skimming the edge of the corral, the Comanche simply lifted his leg over the horse’s withers, then righted his balance for the stiff-legged leap that followed that vicious move.

  When the death-dealing animal tried for the third time to savagely unseat its rider, Cricket realized the vaqueros had put the half-breed on an outlaw, fully expecting the Indian to be maimed or killed. But the half-breed Comanche was not to be denied. He rode the wild-eyed bronc to a standstill. When the brutish animal stood head down, defeated, at the end of the ride, the Comanche slipped off its back and waited patiently for the decision from the three Mexican judges.

  Cricket knew the half-breed had beaten her. It was crushing to think she’d come so close and then lost. She glanced at Creed, who watched the half-breed with the hint of a smile on his face. She hated Creed for gloating. Her ride had been damn good. She couldn’t help it if the half-breed had been better. Cricket turned bitterly toward the judges, waiting for the winners to be announced. They announced the third-prize winner first, and Cricket’s head snapped around in surprise as the half-breed Comanche strolled forward to receive his purse. Second prize went to Juan Carlos’s head vaquero.