by Lyn Cote
He shrugged. “No more inns till well into Texas. Do you speak Spanish?”
“I know a few words.” She’d known Creole ladies in New Orleans, descendants of the Spanish colonial elite who’d controlled New Orleans for a time. How much good would “Buenos días” do her?
“You must stay here tomorrow,” he reiterated. “Or be caught in the storm.”
The starch went out of her. She imagined herself slumping to the ground. “Mr. Kilbride will insist on our leaving in the morning. Unless the hurricane breaks before daylight.” And if it were going to, the wind would have already started to rise.
Quinn stepped back, signaling their talk was over. “You should go back in first. Leave the door open so you can see your way in.” He moved away, his fringe swaying.
For just one bereft moment, she wilted against the rough log wall. She’d been able to talk to Quinn about her concerns. But expressing worries wasn’t the same as finding help. As usual, only God remained her ever-present help in time of trouble. Dear Father, help us.
Lifting herself slowly, she tiptoed back inside. She skirted the snoring men and made it to her blanket in the loft without disturbing anyone. Within a few moments, the door closed, the moonlight vanished with a whisper of movement below. Quinn had returned. She lay then in hot, stuffy darkness. A hurricane. What could a hurricane do to their caravan out in the open? Dorritt feared that she would find out in stark detail on the morrow. While her mother and sister slept on, troubled tears rolled down Dorritt’s cheek onto the floor. Lord, help, help.
On the humid already scorching morning, the breakfast table again was set outside. Dorritt sat near Quinn, who also sat drinking chicory coffee and gazing at the gloomy sky. Trying to hint at the truth, Dorritt said to the woman of the house, “I think I’ve read the signs that a storm is approaching. Have you?”
The woman looked up at the sky overhead. “It does look hazy up there—”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Kilbride snapped. “It’s going to be a fine day. A few days more and we will be near the Sabine crossing.”
“You really going to settle in Texas?” their host asked.
“There are fortunes to be made in Texas,” Kilbride said, his chest expanding as if he were the one who had discovered Texas. “And free land for Americans.”
Dorritt stared at him in disbelief. How could a man as full of himself have survived so long? They were heading into a hurricane. The signs were plain and yet he ignored them. We could die today. And there is nothing I can do to stop it.
Three
Quinn was proved right by afternoon. This was no ordinary storm; it must be the northern reach of a hurricane. Wild wind flapped the deep brim of Dorritt’s poke bonnet back and forth, making it difficult for her to peer toward the head of their caravan. She cradled one of the slave babies, shielding it. The pine and oak forest, thick on each side of the rugged track, swayed and bowed to the riotous wind.
Reva leaned into the gale, walking beside Dorritt. “What’re we going to do? The main storm’s going to hit and soon. It’ll eat us alive.”
Dorritt closed her eyes a moment, drawing in breath as if it could take away the chill panic that rippled up and down her spine.
Dorritt had hoped for a break in the forest where they could drive the cattle in among the trees. But could that be worse than just hunkering down here on the trail? Ahead, her stepfather kept busy grappling with the reins of his high-spirited and expensive young stallion. Wiser than its owner, the horse pranced, agitated and wary. In the animal’s movements, she saw her own tension and foreboding over what was coming. If only she could have persuaded her stepfather to stay at the house where they’d spent last night.
The memory of her secret midnight meeting with Quinn heated her neck and face. Rarely if ever had she been completely alone with any man. And Quinn was a different kind of man than she was accustomed to. Still he’d left before them this morning and was probably far ahead by now. This thought brought an unusual feeling of loss, an opening to an empty place inside her. Somehow she had expected better of him. But he owes me nothing.
Reva began praying aloud, worry in every syllable.
“Perhaps Mr. Kilbride will see we must take cover,” Dorritt said, as if feeling her way in the dark. To get her stepfather to take action to protect them, she would need to get him to think it was his idea. Usually she could think of a way to do this. But her mind had gone blank from fear. In her arms, the little baby stirred. She nestled him closer against her warmth and tucked the blanket around him tighter. I’ll keep you safe, little one. She hoped she was telling the truth.
Overhead, the sky had become a treacherous, murky gray-green, never a good sign. When the brunt of the storm hit, would they all survive without anywhere to shelter?
The cool wet edge of the storm smacked Dorritt’s face like a hand. She gasped for breath and pressed the baby against her. The wind yanked the tightly pulled-down beaver hat from her stepfather’s head.
Then the wind slammed her like a fist. She stumbled to the ground. Her worst fear would no longer be denied. They would face a hurricane. Here. Soon. Desperation fired inside her. There was no sense trying to reason with her stepfather. If any of them were going to survive the coming storm, she would have to do her poor best. Reva helped Dorritt up. “Take this child to its mother. And begin gathering up the children. The worst of the storm is nearly upon us.”
Reva accepted the child and hurried toward the tail of the caravan, where the children straggled along, trying to keep up. Dorritt ran foward to the first ox wagon. Sudden rain poured down as if someone in heaven had overturned a bucket as large as Louisiana. Dorritt fought for breath as if she were drowning. Her sodden skirts hampered her. “Be prepared to halt and take cover!” she shouted to the driver, rain spraying into her mouth. “Be prepared to unyoke the oxen and head them into the woods!”
“Yes, Mistress!” the first and then the second wagon’s driver responded.
She nodded and then raced, holding her skirt out, toward the rear, calling, swallowing more rain, “Keep together! Gather the children!”
The servants and their children cast around wild-eyed glances. Their fright became her own, welling up inside her, threatening to cast her into mindless terror. Still, she tried to reassure them, urging them closer together and hurrying them forward toward the wagons. She scooped up two small children, one after the other, and shoved them into the rear of the nearest wagon.
The rain pounded her relentlessly. But not from above. It was raining sideways now.
A branch flew over her head and she ducked. From ahead, she heard her stepfather bellowing at her sister who was driving the black gig. Dorritt looked skyward, trying to decide what her stepfather would do if she directed the ox drivers to halt and unyoke the oxen and take cover now?
Near her, Amos was dragging at a leash, hauling a quarrelsome and bleating billy goat. She went to help, and between the two of them, though lashed by wind and rain, they managed to keep up with the rest. She glanced around, taking a head count of their people to see if everyone had clustered in and around the wagons. She counted once; she counted twice. Then she called ahead to Reva, “Who’s missing? I’ve come up one short.”
Racing ahead of the oncoming storm, Quinn urged his mount back over the rutted track. His heart beat in time with his horse’s hooves. On either side of him, live oaks branches twisted and swayed in the wind, moaning and groaning. Their gray Spanish moss flung high and then low, then high again. Would he reach Dorritt’s party and lead them to safety before the main force of the hurricane hit?
He rode around a bend, and there was the gig with the two women. Beside it, Kilbride was fighting to restrain his stallion. Quinn shouted to Kilbride, “Shelter’s ahead!” He gestured toward the trail behind him. “Hurry! There is a barn and house! Hurry!” Not waiting for a response, Quinn galloped along the caravan. Where was Dorritt?
Slowing to a canter along the length of the train, he told the ox
drivers that a farm lay ahead. “When you get there, unhitch the oxen and drive them and the cattle into the barn!” He shouted, nearly choking on the flying rain. “Take shelter in the barn!”
Holding tight his reins, he cast around for Dorritt. He couldn’t see her. He raced down the line until he came to its end. He pulled up on his reins. Where was she? A gust nearly lifted him from the saddle. His horse reared, but he held him in check. Then a black girl ran toward him, waving her arm, shouting, “Miss Dorritt. She went after that poky boy! That orphan child!” She pointed back up the road. Without waiting, Quinn galloped full out. The trees around them were losing leaves, branches, creaking as sturdy boughs danced on gusts like twigs. Around the next bend, he saw her, scurrying back to the party, huddled around a dark child.
Just as he met her, the wind flailed like a whip. The tall pines bent double, their tops brushing the ground. Several snapped and were sent flying into the air. His horse screamed, lurched. He forced his mount back down. Then he grabbed up Dorritt with the child and threw her onto the saddle before him. Safe. Bending low to protect her from flying debris, he heeled his mount forward. The lady called out near his ear, “You came back! Thank you! Thank God!”
Within minutes, Quinn caught up with the party, already approaching the farm in the midst of the thick piney wood on the sheltered side of a rise. Earlier, he’d found it just where he remembered it. Now, he drew up at the front door of the cabin and let Dorritt slide down onto the muddy ground. The old woman of the house waved her inside. But he had more to do. In the downpour and gusting wind, Quinn rode to the barn and helped the Negro men unhitch the oxen and drive them under the barn roof. At last, all the slaves and the cattle were in the barn. Quinn set the bar across its door, barricading them in against the storm.
On his way to the cabin, Quinn bent into the gale, slipping in the mud. Dorritt was there at the door to let him in. Fighting wind gusts, he slammed and bolted it behind him. He turned to her.
“Thank heavens, you’re safe,” she murmured, touching his sleeve. Her concern for his safety startled him and prompted a vague and unexpected urge to touch her shoulder, her cheek. It had been a long time since anyone had worried about him. He didn’t know what he should say. Or if he should say anything.
“Is everyone safe under shelter?” she asked, still looking troubled.
“Yes,” he muttered and brushed past her, “all are under cover.”
Outside, the tree branches moaned, grunted, creaked in the storm. But the rolling hills and forest around the cabin were a bulwark, affording protection. He glanced around the dark, windowless cabin. Kilbride, his wife, and other daughter were safe inside. Sweeping off his dripping hat, he bowed in thanks to the older man and woman, who’d already offered warming coffee to the drenched-looking Kilbrides.
Kilbride rose and walked over to him with his hand outstretched. “We are in your debt.” Kilbride’s voice was polite but forced.
Quinn shook the man’s hand with reluctance. He didn’t like false manners. And he didn’t want to shake this man’s hand any more than Kilbride wanted to shake his. The younger daughter came forward and offered him her thanks as well, curtsying with a false smile. Quinn nodded to her and to the mother. The gray-haired woman of the house handed him a cup of coffee. He walked to where Dorritt was praying. He caught some of her words, “Save us…shelter…mother and sister…hollow of your hand. Protect our people…storm…For your glory…for your good favor…”
Taking a sip of the hot bitter brew, Quinn hoped her God was listening, because this storm had blown up faster and fiercer than he’d expected. How bad was it going to get before it passed over them? The log walls groaned and quivered.
And Kilbride was staring at him. Was he finally remembering who Quinn was? Or had he recognized him all along and was only now deciding whether or not to acknowledge their acquaintance?
Quinn gazed into his cup, not letting himself look at Dorritt, though she was what had drawn him back into the storm.
The hurricane raged on. Hours and hours went by as Dorritt paced the small cabin. She could not be still. Like fearsome bats, all her smothered worries about this trip now flapped and darted in her mind. Their party had found shelter only because of Quinn’s help. What disaster or danger would come next?
Only one tallow candle flickered on the roughhewn mantel. Mr. Kilbride, her mother, and half-sister sat on benches at the narrow split-log table, their heads down on their folded arms. How they could sleep through this she didn’t know. But the older couple who owned the cabin had also hours earlier taken to their narrow rope bed in the corner.
Quinn lounged on the halved-log floor beside the door. He sat very still but he wasn’t sleeping. She had thanked him when he rescued her and the orphan child. But she wished she could say or do more. He’d come back for them…for her. That thought gave her a funny scratchy feeling inside. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone but Reva had looked out for her without expecting something in return.
I’m making too much out of this. He’s just a decent man who wouldn’t leave anyone to face a hurricane out in the open. She walked past him again. Wet wind flooded in around the barred door. So far the roof had held secure.
In the dark silent room with the din outside, her eyes repeatedly sought out the glimmer of the gold in Quinn’s hair. She envied his evident calm. But he didn’t have to worry about tomorrow or the days after that. He was a man. He could live alone, defend himself. He couldn’t be forced into a situation like this.
“You should sit down,” he said, his voice coming low underneath the unrelenting lashing winds.
He was right. Her pacing didn’t help anything. Except that each step she took was like a bead on a rosary like the ones she’d seen the nuns fingering at the Cathedral of St. Louis in New Orleans. Each step had become a plea for protection and courage to go on. She blurted out, “Do you think they are all right?” She knew that all their people couldn’t have fit into this one room, but it still upset her that they had been “stabled” with the stock.
“The barn looked well built.”
“Good.” Being alone with Quinn for the third night in succession was tempting her to a false sense of security, familiarity. She shouldn’t, couldn’t, count on him.
“Are you still cold from getting wet?” he asked.
“No.” She shivered, belying her words. “No,” she said, making her subdued voice stronger, “it has been hours since we came here. I’ve had time to dry out. It was fortunate that you found shelter.”
“I have been on this road a few times, and I checked with the man where we stayed last night to inquire if these people still lived here. Even if they’d gone, I hoped the buildings and corral would have remained. You don’t think even this far north, with a hurricane brewing, I would set out without making sure of a place ahead to shelter, do you?”
Dorritt didn’t respond right away, her stomach had been unsettled before she’d drunk the strong chicory coffee. And his final question underscored her deep uneasiness over this trip, making her stomach roll. The fact was Mr. Kilbride had set them off this morning with only bravado as their protection. She began moving again. The pacing helped her hold in the fearful words that threatened to come pouring forth like the sheets of rain outside. Still, she needed to talk. And Quinn was the only one awake that she could talk to. Further, she admitted she wanted another private conversation with this tall, lean Westerner—to gain more information about Texas; that was all. “You say that you been this way before?” she asked.
“I’ve been most places a few times.”
His wry tone caught her up short. She pressed her lips together, half amused. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I didn’t mean to be rude. My father was a scout, and I went along with him on many jobs. He died when we were with Zebulon Pike in ’05, and I became a scout then.”
True or not true? “You seem too young to have done that,” she said with caution.<
br />
“I was young, about thirteen.”
Zebulon Pike’s explorations ranked second only to Lewis and Clark and their expedition west to the Pacific. This man was definitely her opposite, a man of experience while she was a woman of much book learning. But more than ever, she was confident that if this man was their guide, he could keep them alive. She just needed to come up with a way to prompt Mr. Kilbride to hire Quinn. But what might Quinn expect in payment? They didn’t have much cash.
She rubbed the heels of her palms together. The incessant wind was getting on her nerves more and more instead of less and less. With her sense of hearing dulled by the constant wind, she’d become much more aware of Quinn’s presence. She distinguished the odor of the wet fringed-leather jacket that he had shrugged off. It hung on a peg beside the door, dripping into a puddle beside him. She imagined that she could feel warmth emanating from him.
“Why don’t you sit down and go to sleep?” His voice was low but compelling, like a hand at the small of her back, leading her in a dance. “It is still many hours till morning. And there is no guarantee that the storm will end with daylight. There is nothing for you to do.”
His commonsense unruffled voice suddenly grated on her nerves even more than the sound of the wind. How could he stay so composed? “Doesn’t anything bother you?” she snapped.
“Scorpions.”
She halted in her tracks. She hadn’t expected an answer. And now she didn’t know whether to laugh or question him. Did Texas abound with scorpions? No, please, not scorpions.
Quinn watched Dorritt in front of the cold hearth. He lifted his rifle propped against the wall beside him and laid it across his lap. He needed to work. The storm made it impossible to sleep. Kilbride, who should have taken responsibility for his womenfolk, was snoring. No Cherokee woman would marry such a stupid man. How had Kilbride gotten fine horses, slaves, a wife and family?