The Desires of Her Heart

by Lyn Cote

  Dorritt nodded. Why try to deny it? “She hates me.” The words were out before Dorritt knew it. She pressed her hand to her mouth.

  “You did not need to tell me that.” Maria nodded twice, whispering “Sí, sí. Your sister knows you are a better woman, a finer lady than she is, that you have worth she does not. You earn the respect of those who know you. She is pretty and is flattered by those who know her. But no one respects her. And that digs deep into her heart.”

  That all made sense. “I never thought she envied me. She’s always gotten everything she’s wanted.”

  “And those people are always the most unhappy and the most envious of what they can’t get. I have lived nearly ninety years, señorita. I have seen much and pondered what I have seen. Perhaps some would call me wise. But I only watch and think.” Maria tapped her temple with one finger and grinned.

  Dorritt wanted to believe this woman had wisdom, some advice to help her on her way. “Do you have any comfort for me, señora?” Please, Father.

  “I do not know if it will comfort you, but the hand of God is upon you.” Maria nodded several times. “I see your love for the Father because you show His love to others.”

  Tears clogging her throat, Dorritt caught Maria’s gnarled hand. “I’m frightened, señora. Not only of the journey—” She gave a tight smile and cleared her throat to go on. “—though that does concern me. But also I’m very worried about my life in the Austin settlement. We are strangers, so I can speak to you candidly.” Dorritt took a deep breath. “My stepfather is a liar and a cheat.”

  “I have watched him too. A weak man, a boy who was never weaned. He is still throwing rabietas, tantrums. His mother should have taken the switch to him.” Maria grinned again and then sobered. “He will only cause trouble for those around him. The boy Amos has become his whipping boy. Your slaves fear he will suffer a beating, but can do nothing.”

  “Yes, all that is true. I can turn to my stepfather for neither support nor courage.” And I need both.

  “I think God has provided support and courage for you. He has sent you that man they call Quinn. And his friend Ash. They are known not only in Nacogdoches. Both are men of valor.”

  Dorritt looked away. “I think you speak the truth.” Even though these were matters never spoken out loud, she continued in a lowered voice, “But I’m not supposed to seek help from a man who is half Cherokee and one who is part Negro.” Sudden resentment flashed through her, hot then cold. Her heart pounded. “Because my stepfather’s skin is white, society values him more than two men of honor. Why is that? Why do I see what no one else does?”

  Maria rocked a little on the old worn pew. “Some see it, others ignore it. You see, mi hija, you see people with the eyes of God.” The older woman motioned toward Dorritt’s eyes again. “God sees through the clothing and the skin to the heart.”

  These words made Dorritt swallow back more tears. The eyes of God? It sounded too grand for her, almost sacrilegious. “How? Why do I see…through the eyes of God?”

  “It is a gift.” Maria said, beaming as if pronouncing a blessing.

  Dorritt gave a half chuckle, a half sob. A gift? “It does not feel like a gift. I would not want to change it, señora. But I see our slaves’ pain, their terrible burden of being looked down on, of being classed with the animals. It makes me different. I’m always out of step with everyone around me.”

  Maria objected, “You are not out of step with those two men, Quinn and Ash.”

  In her lap, Dorritt creased the edge of her shawl between her fingers, looking down, ready to go on. “Señora, there is a price to pay if one steps out of the bounds of society. The other day when I was trying to shoot the musket, you heard those men calling me names.” Dorritt looked up. “I do not want to pay the price, to face scorn again. Or to make Quinn or Ash pay a price for my straying.”

  The old woman took her hand in both of hers. The woman’s rough calluses rasped Dorritt’s hand. This was a woman who had labored much in her life. “I will pray for you. And ask God to bless your way. There is no church until you reach San Antonio de Bexar and the reports I hear of the priest there…” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “Not everyone in a robe or a collar serves God. Some serve themselves.”

  Dorritt nodded. “I know. I’m afraid that every church has its hypocrites. God is more patient—”

  “Than we are,” Maria finished for her with a smile.

  The old church door creaked behind them. And Reva stepped inside. “Miss Dorritt, the family is stirring.”

  Dorritt rose quickly. “Señora, I must wish you farewell.”

  The woman made the sign of the cross in front of her and, tugging Dorritt closer, kissed both her cheeks. “Vaya con Dios, mi hija.”

  “Thank you, señora. Gracias.” Dorritt hurried out of the church.

  Back to the inn with Reva at her side, they clasped hands and then parted. Before Dorritt was able to reenter the inn, her stepfather burst through the door. “Where have you been? Are you just coming back?” He shook her by both arms. “Did you have a rendezvous with that half-breed?”

  “You’re hurting my arms.” Dorritt pulled against his grip. “And no, I have not had an assignation. I went to pray in the church for our journey.”

  “We’re not Roman Catholic.”

  “Say that a little louder, Mr. Kilbride.” She shook free of him, her breath coming shallow and quick. “This is not America with freedom of religion. You are the one who decided we would move to Spanish Texas. So I merely went to the church available to me where you have taken us.” She lifted her chin. “Now I must go eat breakfast and prepare for our departure.” She walked away, resolute. But his simmering resentment followed her like a bad odor. And then he bellowed for Amos. Father, protect poor Amos.

  A few days later, the Kilbride party had left behind the piney woods and entered the rolling prairie of coarse bluestem and buffalo bunchgrasses. There were fields of purple-berried pokeweed and wild petunias in pink, white, and red, with scattered groves of post oak and pecan trees. Bobwhites scurried through the grass, calling out their own name. Leading one of his mustangs with a rope, Quinn rode at the end of the caravan, where the cattle herd ambled along. The cattle grazing, they were slowing the wagon train down.

  Quinn felt pulled in opposite directions, like a man tied by the wrists to two different horses. The strain dragged at him, tugging him in two.

  On one hand, this slow progress put Quinn on edge. He wanted to be far south, away from this caravan, from Kilbride and his spoiled younger daughter. After he sold most of his cattle and mustangs, Quinn would look to hire on with a boss who would let him raise thoroughbreds on the side. Or perhaps he’d buy a small plot of land, just enough to have a jacale for him and Ash and a barn and corral for the horses. He didn’t kid himself—that was all he was capable of handling. All he wanted from life was a home and raising horses, fine horses. And he was weary of wandering.

  But in another way, he really didn’t want this journey to end. Their slow pace gave him more days near Dorritt. Watching her from a distance was like gazing at the stars in the night sky—so beautiful but so beyond his reach. He still carried her musket in his gear and wondered if she would want him to give it to her or take it with him. He hadn’t forgotten the name-calling from the four vaqueros. Within weeks, they would be near the mouth of the Colorado and he would leave her. When he thought of never seeing her again, an emptiness opened inside him. It threatened to drag him under like the swollen Sabine River had.

  Ash rode up beside him. “Look ahead.”

  Quinn did as he was told and saw a party of Indians in the distance. Great. Handing the end of his mustang’s rope to Ash, Quinn spurred his horse forward, galloping to the head of the party. As he passed Kilbride, he pointed to the Indian party and waved to him. Quinn lifted his long rifle out of its saddle casing. He saw they were outnumbered, but he had to be ready. At the head of the party, he slowed, still trying to id
entify if they were a threat or not. Which tribe was it?

  Kilbride drew up beside him. “Indians? Shouldn’t we take cover?” The man pulled a pistol from his belt.

  “Wait.” Quinn grabbed Kilbride’s hand with the gun in it. The man was foolish enough to try a shot this far out of range. And where could they take cover in this prairie? Quinn narrowed his eyes against the sunlight, peering into the distance. The Indians were ignoring them and even at this range, he thought he glimpsed the paint on their faces. Comanches, he thought, but not wearing war paint. “They see us. But I don’t think they’re going to bother us.”

  “Why?” Kilbride barked, his voice rough with nerves.

  “It’s not a war party. They have their women and children with them. They’re just moving farther south for the winter.” Quinn released Kilbride’s hand.

  “So they won’t bother us?” Kilbride asked, sounding both relieved and uncertain.

  “I don’t think they will, but they still might sneak back in the night and try to steal our horses.”

  “What about the cattle?”

  “Indians don’t like beef. They prefer buffalo,” Quinn said.

  “I can’t afford to lose my horses. We’ll have to post guards, then.”

  Quinn nodded. Then he started back along the caravan to the rear, where the cattle still moseyed. As he passed Dorritt, who as usual was walking with her maid and carrying a small black child, she looked up. “Should we be concerned?”

  He halted, keeping his face stiff. “No, it’s not a war party.” She nodded and walked on.

  Quinn couldn’t stop himself. He watched her walk away.

  Then there was a squawk from Kilbride’s younger daughter. Quinn looked back and tried to hide his smile. The tough yet battered gig had finally broken its last wheel. Miss Kilbride would now be walking too.

  Long after sunset, with only a sliver of a moon and the stars for light, the night draped around them, black and treacherous. Quinn walked his horse from the head of a caravan to its end. This nearly moonless night was a perfect one for a few young Comanche braves, itching to prove their manhood, to slip into camp and steal horses.

  As Quinn walked to the rear, he paused to buck up the Negro men who had been set on watch near the wagons. Since they were unarmed, he couldn’t let them guard the horses. It could cost them their lives. He hadn’t even bothered to point this out to Kilbride, just told him he wouldn’t need the help of his slaves to guard the stock.

  “You think the Indians will really come, sir?” Amos asked, the bruises on his swollen face plain in the faint light. Kilbride had slapped and punched the boy for spilling water yesterday.

  Quinn touched the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Comanche want horses, not prisoners.”

  Amos nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  After squeezing the boy’s shoulder, Quinn walked farther down the wagon train. One of the vaqueros was walking on the other far side of the wagons from Quinn. Why was he there? Quinn paused and thought about stopping him to ask why the Mexican wasn’t with the cattle, where he belonged. But the man was probably just stretching his legs. When Quinn had almost reached the end of the caravan to talk to Ash and the vaqueros, he heard Dorritt’s voice in the dark. He could go no farther.

  Dorritt and her maid must be standing in the midst of the small grove of oak trees nearby. Curiosity drew him within listening distance. He shouldn’t of course, but he had kept himself apart from her for days. And he just wanted to hear her low voice again, feel its richness flow through him, fill him like it always did.

  “Reva, I’ve been trying to come up with a plan for us. I don’t know how much longer I can bear living with my stepfather.”

  “That might not be long,” Reva said, “if he plan to marry you off to the first man who want you in the Austin settlement.”

  Quinn’s neck muscles tightened at this news. One of the cattle lowed in the darkness. A warning? Was someone slipping closer in the night? He slid his long rifle into his hands and cast around, listening, watching.

  “That’s only what Jewell said. I have no doubt my stepfather would like to rid himself of me. But it’s only talk. He won’t force me to marry someone against my will. It would cause a fresh scandal. And after losing everything in New Orleans, he wants to be landed again. Important again.”

  “I see that,” Reva replied. “But you know if you don’t do what he say, he’ll threaten to sell me. Or worse, make me marry somebody I don’t want to marry. And I can’t refuse like you can.”

  “I still think I might be able to buy your freedom or pressure Mr. Kilbride to give you to me.”

  “How can you do that?”

  Intrigued, Quinn stroked his horse’s neck to keep him quiet and listened for Dorritt’s reply. Still, he had the feeling he was not the only one listening to this conversation. The back of his neck prickling, through the blackness he tried to catch a glimpse of who also must be nearby listening. No luck. Maybe it was just because he was alert for a possible raid?

  Dorritt continued, “I still have my education, my place in society. I can teach school and not endanger that reputation. I will be thought of as odd to prefer spinsterhood to marriage. But I can just make it seem as if I left my shattered heart with some forbidden man in New Orleans. People will fall for any kind of tragic romantic story. I don’t even have to lie. The gossips will write and embroider the tale themselves.”

  Reva chuckled.

  Quinn smiled. Dorritt was nobody’s fool.

  “If I teach school, I could take you with me to keep house. We wouldn’t need much. Just a cabin, which could double as a school and our home. We could plant a garden, keep chickens and a cow, and accept food and wood for payment.”

  “It sound like it should work. But I just don’t know how. What worry me most now is how your stepfather’s been treating…Amos…I mean the boy tries to keep his distance, but Mr. Kilbride…”

  Quinn nudged his horse and turned him away. He’d been worried about Dorritt’s future, but now he needed to get down to business, make sure no Comanche would get one of the mustangs. Or more importantly his foal. He soon found Ash, with the other two Mexican vaqueros, Pedro and Juan, waiting for him. “Where are Carlos and Eduardo?”

  “Aquí. Here.” Carlos sauntered out of the darkness, fastening his buttons. And Eduardo at his side stepped into the firelight and nodded.

  Quinn said, “I’m putting each of you to watch Kilbride’s horses.”

  “Sí,” Carlos agreed.

  Quinn still didn’t have a good feeling about this man, but maybe that was because many times he’d seen Carlos watching Dorritt. Still something felt wrong about these four. He’d noted Juan and Pedro took orders from both Carlos and Eduardo. But there was still something off about the entire group. He shook off these thoughts and told each Mexican which horses to protect. Since Quinn would patrol up and down, he asked Ash to watch over his foal. He wanted nothing to happen to his little horse. In private, he had named her Señorita. “Any questions?” Quinn asked.

  “Are we to kill the thieves?” Carlos was loading his musket.

  “No, I don’t want to kill anyone. They’ll just want the horses. I don’t want to turn a few young braves into enemies who might follow us, harass us all the way to the Colorado River.”

  “Then how are we to stop them?” Eduardo asked. “They may want to kill us.”

  “Use your good sense,” Ash said, “if you have any. Move.”

  Eduardo looked annoyed, but the others moved away, disappearing into the blackness. Quinn nodded to Ash and then moved to a position where he could keep an eye on everyone. He remained in the dark shadows beside his horse, ready to mount and ride in any direction at any moment.

  Before long, the people around the wagons settled down for the night; even the crying babies fell asleep. Soon the night sounds filled Quinn’s ears. Coyotes howled and yipped and an owl hooted. In his mind, he could picture where each vaquero and Ash were. Each vaquero was guard
ing his own horse and a couple of mustangs while Ash guarded the Kilbride horses and Quinn’s foal. So Quinn waited, standing beside his horse in the darkness, waiting for anyone to draw near.

  Quinn almost missed their approach. An owl had swooped overhead and masked the first whisper of the sound of their moccasins. Quinn strained, but each footfall was almost soundless. If Quinn hadn’t encountered Comanches before, he might have missed it. They were the best riders, trackers, and horse thieves.

  Quinn heard Ash shout out, “Here!”

  Quinn was on his horse and racing toward Ash. The longhorns woke and bellowed. Almost blind in the black night, he swung down from his horse. He landed and pitched headlong into a Comanche brave. The impact of their two heads meeting nearly knocked them both unconscious. But after a dazed moment, Quinn swung a blow where he thought the man’s face was. His fist connected with the side of the man’s jaw with a satisfying crack. Before he could get in another punch, he heard some shouting, cursing, and gunshots—and it was over. The Comanche melted into the darkness.

  Quinn stood, panting. “Ash?” he whispered.

  “I’m all right.”

  Quinn fell silent, listening. The sound of someone very close in the dark triggered Quinn. He shoved his reins into Ash’s hand and he dashed forward. Ahead, someone struck a match and a lantern flickered to light, revealing Kilbride. In that moment, Quinn observed one of the Mexicans, running from far ahead, where he should not have been. “Douse that light!” Quinn called out.

  “Did the Indians come—” A gunshot silenced Kilbride’s voice. The lantern glass shattered. Kilbride yelped. Quinn halted, barely breathing. Would the Comanche make another attempt? Seconds, minutes passed. Quinn finally let himself breathe in deeply. He loped forward to where the lantern had been lit. “Kilbride,” he hissed, “were you hurt?”