The Desires of Her Heart

by Lyn Cote

I have lived for this moment.

  The truth of this sang through her. She leaned against him, wanting, needing, to be closer to him. But soon all her awareness centered on where their lips touched and became one. Though her feet still touched the earth, an incredible lightness lifted her. She felt herself softening as if bathed in warm lavender water. He was her only anchor, the only real thing that existed in that moment, and she clung to him.

  The long kiss ended at last and she found herself clasped tightly, her cheek against his deerskin shirt. She drew in the scent of him—a mix of deerskin, woodsmoke, and faint honest sweat.

  “You smell so good,” he said, stroking the back of her hair.

  How shameless she was—she’d come to him without bonnet or gloves. And though she’d washed the dust of the day from her face and neck and hands, she still felt as though she’d come to him, to this special moment, unprepared. She wished she had been able to wear her blue silk ball gown and her paternal grandmother’s pearl necklace and earrings for him. Foolish, foolish thoughts.

  “I shouldn’t be holding you like this.” He tried to step back.

  “No.” She clung to him—still bold, unashamed. “Just this once, Quinn,” she implored.

  He pulled her tighter to him again. “Just this once,” he agreed. “I don’t want to ruin your reputation. I know what white men think of a white woman who mixes with an Indian.”

  Though she didn’t reply, she acknowledged what he said was true. But she retorted silently, Yes, but it’s all right for white men to take a squaw. All right for a man to take a slave mistress. But their white wives must be pure in their eyes. In their way. While they do as they please.

  “We can’t change the way things are,” he whispered, so close his lips tickled her ear lobe. “Were the white men in New Orleans all blind? Didn’t they see your worth?”

  She laughed without mirth. They thought me “thrifty and good with children.” “I never wished to marry. I never thought I could trust any man that much.”

  He didn’t respond directly to her; he pulled her closer. “I have not sought a wife. I have wandered too far too long.”

  Dorritt wondered if she could defy the world. But his saying that he’d never sought a wife wasn’t a proposal. Her confusion mounted but she pushed it away. She pressed against him and stroked his back, wishing she could penetrate the shirt to his skin. It was a shocking unprecedented desire. But she didn’t feel horrified at her own brazenness. Being close to him feels so right. She drew in breath and closed her eyes. In her barren and lonely life, she concentrated on this once-in-a-lifetime interlude.

  “The world is the way it is.” He stroked her hair. And then he stopped abruptly.

  “What?”

  He pressed a finger against her lips. Then he whispered into her ear, “I think someone is moving in the darkness. Or it might be an animal rustling the grass.”

  Icy horror sliced through her. The consequences of being caught here with Quinn like this were overwhelming, too shattering to contemplate.

  “You must go back now.” He thrust her from him. “Go now.”

  She staggered away from him, her heart pounding with a dull ache. Had she lost her good name? All for a few moments of perfect bliss? She hurried to the wagon, trying not to make a sound, not to wake anyone. When she stepped into the blackness around the rear of the wagon, she nearly cried out. Jewell was standing there, almost invisible.

  “Taking an innocent evening stroll?” her sister asked with rich sarcasm. “Dear sister, you must be careful here in the wilderness.” Then she turned and walked away.

  Dorritt stood there, willing her rioting heart to calm. Had Jewell actually seen her in Quinn’s embrace? Or had she merely caught Dorritt coming back and was trying to pay Dorritt back for the scene over Amos? Dorritt closed her eyes and all that came to her was Quinn’s exquisite kiss.

  Mr. Kilbride’s angry ranting woke Dorritt the next morning. She lay there, wanting to put her hands over her ears, shut out his voice. How much longer could she stand his tantrums and bad humor? But she still had no idea how to separate herself from her family and him. Perhaps the Andersons would tell about her defying her father and coddling a slave and destroy her chance to establish herself as a schoolmistress. The thought should be a distressing one, but she found it wasn’t. Why? She had felt different yesterday after Quinn’s protecting her and even more different after she’d kissed him. She tried to define what she felt and it was…happiness. I didn’t expect to be happy in Texas. The thought was exciting. She recalled Reva’s idea that they might find men of honor in Texas. She’d rejected it, but deep in her heart she’d always wanted love. But love was such a risk. Marriage was till death and could take the little independence she had as a spinster.

  But it was just another morning from the sound of Mr. Kilbride. Unwillingly, she opened her eyes and saw she was alone in the wagon bed. Then Reva’s face appeared in the opening at the rear of the cloth cover. “Miss Dorritt, you best come. That man all upset again.”

  Dorritt scrambled toward the rear of the wagon, smoothing back her loosened hair, as she climbed out and down. “What is it?” What was upsetting her stepfather this morning?

  Twelve

  “The Andersons left early to get away from us,” Reva said as they hurried toward the gathering ahead near the first wagon.

  There, Dorritt went to her mother, who looked distressed. “Mother, what’s this about the Andersons?”

  Her mother took Dorritt’s hand. Her stepfather put his face directly in front of Dorritt’s. “The Andersons left early this morning to get away from us. I told you that you have ruined our reputation here and we haven’t even reached the Brazos,” Mr. Kilbride accused, spit flying from the side of his mouth.

  Quinn took a step closer to Dorritt and she read in it evidence of his protectiveness toward her. This knowledge poured through her like warm butter. Would she ever be able to erase from memory those stolen moments with him? Did she want to? Pushing back her uncombed hair, Dorritt wondered who had been the one moving in the dark who had interrupted her with Quinn. Certainly for a time she and Quinn had been completely unaware of what was going on around them. Her face warmed.

  “This doesn’t surprise me,” Jewell said, as if relishing this insult. “I don’t know how I’ll face the shame Dorritt brought to our family.”

  Dorritt made herself look directly into her half-sister’s eyes until Jewell looked away.

  Her mother spoke up, “You’d have thought that they would have had the courtesy to say farewell before leaving us. This is just rude. I don’t think you should blame my Dorritt just because these vulgar people have no manners.”

  Dorritt couldn’t form words. Her mother was defending her against her stepfather and Jewell? She couldn’t get over the change in her mother. Was it the child she was bearing or the promise of a new start in life? How could just the hope of bearing a son make such a difference in her mother?

  Quinn cleared his throat. “Maybe the Andersons had a reason for leaving early. They couldn’t have gotten much ahead of us, just a few hours. We might even catch up with them today.”

  Her mother turned to her husband. “After such rude behavior, I don’t really care if we catch up with them or not. And I’m not going to let this upset me.”

  Looking a bit like a man who had just been forced to swallow a fly, Mr. Kilbride cast a nasty look toward Dorritt. But then he leaned over and kissed his wife’s forehead. “Yes, Elspeth, you’re right. You don’t want to mark the baby.” He turned and shouted, “We leave in ten minutes!”

  Dorritt helped her mother up onto the ox wagon seat and sat down beside her. Then she turned to accept a cup of coffee from the cook. Soon the wagons began to move. Dorritt could only hope in the haste nothing had been left behind. But then much of the mental baggage she had been carrying all the way from Louisiana had fallen away. Her mother’s change of heart, Quinn’s protection, and more…Texas was beginning to feel like the p
lace she wanted to be—in spite of people like the Andersons. “Trust in the Lord, and do good; so thou shall dwell in the land….”

  In the afternoon, Dorritt, sitting beside her mother on the bench of first ox wagon, saw Quinn appear on the southern horizon. All morning she had told herself to put their private moments out of her mind. Instead, she found that the memory of their secret interlude, that stolen kiss, only grew stronger. Now, just watching him ride toward her, she experienced that same breathless anticipation she had last night as his lips had lowered to hers. She swallowed, trying to hold herself together against the force of the recollection. How was she supposed to keep from showing his effect on her?

  Ahead, Quinn rode to her stepfather and motioned toward the horizon. She wondered anew at this change in how solicitously her stepfather was treating her mother. She’d never realized how only bearing two daughters had been a cross her mother bore. What had her mother said when she was in danger of miscarrying? Hadn’t she said that if Dorritt had been a son, perhaps her father wouldn’t have fought the duel that cost his life? But why? I have to find out if that’s what my mother really meant.

  Quinn and Mr. Kilbride approached their wagon. “Mrs. Kilbride, Quinn says the Andersons are just a few miles ahead at an Indian village.”

  “An Indian village!” her mother said. “Is that safe?”

  Dorritt lowered her eyes, fearful that her mother or stepfather would read her tender regard for Quinn. A melting sensation flowed through her, just because Quinn was near.

  “The Caddo are peaceful people,” Quinn said. “Most of their tribe has been driven into the missions. The Andersons look like they’ve stopped to trade with the Caddo.”

  “Do these Indians have anything worth our trouble?” her mother asked.

  “They are good at weaving cloth and making pottery,” Quinn said.

  Dorritt hazarded a glance in his direction and felt her face warm. She looked down again.

  “Then let’s proceed. I would love to do a little shopping out here in the wilderness.” Her mother said, and smiled.

  Quinn looked at Dorritt. Even his glance had power over her. Quinn turned and rode near the front of the caravan. She bowed her head. Was there no way for them to be together? She tried to imagine a life with Quinn, the wanderer, and couldn’t see how she could live that life.

  Before long, Dorritt glimpsed the village in the distance. Soon they drew up near the Andersons’ deserted wagon outside the prairie village of thatched huts. As if unsure about this rendezvous, their slaves remained close to the wagons. Mr. Kilbride helped his wife down from the wagon, then led her on his arm into the village. Quinn walked just a few steps behind her mother. And Dorritt trailed after him, her arms folded behind her, distinctly wary about encountering the Andersons again.

  The Caddo houses, shaped like cones made out of poles covered by rushes and hides, ringed an open green. Dorritt was surprised to see that the houses were around three times as tall as Quinn and that cornfields, already harvested, stretched beyond the village. The Andersons were there, trying to communicate with the Indians, who stood around staring at them with clear mistrust. The Andersons did not look happy to see them. Dorritt noticed Jewell predictably drifted closer to the handsome eldest son.

  “Does your scout—” Mr. Anderson cleared his throat and waved his arm toward Quinn. “—speak their language? We can’t seem to get them to understand that we want to see what they’ve got to sell. We’d heard about buying blankets and such from the savages hereabout.”

  Quinn did not move or act as if he had heard what Anderson said. Dorritt didn’t blame him one bit. She felt his presence drawing her toward him and forced herself to stay still.

  Her mother spoke up, “Mr. Quinn, I’d appreciate seeing what these Caddo have to offer. Is it of good quality, do you think?”

  Once again, Dorritt was surprised at her mother speaking up in front of people and also realizing she should do something to calm the turbulent waters around them.

  Quinn looked to her mother, his face softening. “Yes, ma’am.” He stepped forward and made some sweeping hand signs. After just a brief pause, the Caddo nodded and smiled, responding in kind. And soon, all manner of pottery, baskets, and feathered trinkets were brought out and displayed.

  Dorritt hung back, taking in everything, watching how skillful Quinn was as he translated her mother’s questions to the Caddo into the silent language of his hands. He knew so much she thought with unaccountable pride. The thought startled her. But it was true. He could speak English, Spanish, and probably Cherokee, since he’d been raised by a Cherokee mother, and he could speak sign language with his hands. And maybe more languages. He knew about hunting for game, about horses, about cattle, about the Spanish, about the different tribes here, and about this land. And he had been far into the northwest of the barely charted wilderness beyond Texas.

  Dorritt stood up straighter. Why didn’t people see everything he was? Why did they deem him just an illiterate half-breed? In New Orleans, a man was valued for his wealth and his manners and his education. But wealth could be lost and what did manners mean if true courtesy was not behind them? And Quinn was educated, educated in the ways of the West, which were much more useful here.

  Peering inside the Caddo house, she noted its neatness and order. Why did people call the Caddo filthy savages just because of their darker skin? She stood straight again and walked around the conical house. Once again, she was aware how differently she viewed this world from the people around her and recalled Maria back in the church at Nacogdoches.

  She sighed, wondering how this journey was going to end. Moving on, she halted by a small house attached to the rear of a bigger house. She peeked farther inside and saw pumpkins, cured venison, and corn, all stored there for the coming winter. How could a white person see an ordered village like this and dismiss the residents as uncivilized?

  She turned back to watch Quinn where he stood near her mother and Mrs. Anderson, chatting over the pottery. All day she had avoided being anywhere near Quinn. But perhaps that was as noticeable, as incriminating, as staying at his side all day. Dorritt strolled over and acted as if she were interested in the wares for sale.

  Her heart jumping at his nearness, she formed her face into a mildly interested expression and spoke the first words that came to mind, “Mr. Quinn, I was wondering if you would give me some lessons in sign language too. I think it might come in handy, don’t you?”

  Before Quinn could reply, there came an outcry from the distance. The Indian women grabbed up children and began to run. Their men called to them and pulled out guns, bows, and arrows.

  “Quick!” Quinn shouted, dropping his long rifle from his shoulder into his hands. “Get to your wagons! Either Comanches or soldiers are coming!” He pushed Dorritt toward her mother. “Run! Run to the wagons!”

  Her stepfather was bellowing, “What’s happening?” But though the Andersons didn’t like Quinn, they were quick to obey his warning. They were making haste to their wagon and arming themselves.

  It was like being sucked into a tornado. Dorritt helped her mother run to the wagon, praying all the way this wouldn’t trigger her mother to miscarry. Just as Dorritt was helping her mother into the wagon, she saw uniformed soldiers on horseback, riding toward the village. So out of place in their crisp white and blue uniforms. But of which army—the Spanish or the Mexican? Had the revolution been overthrown? Why were they attacking the Caddo?

  Gunfire boomed, sending up plumes of black smoke. Instinctively, Dorritt ducked. Then the soldiers were riding toward the cone-shaped houses, not the wagons. And the Caddo were running for their lives. But how could they outrun horses? Panic welled up inside Dorritt. Was she about to witness a bloody massacre? She wanted to run forward and help, but what could she do? She wanted to cover her eyes with her hands, but she could only stare in horror.

  It was all over in minutes. The Caddo fled and the soldiers lit torches and set fire to their houses. D
orritt shuddered—all the food, blankets, hides—gone! What would the Caddo eat this winter? How would they keep their children warm? Then the soldiers rode toward the wagon train. Would they be next—burned out and left in the wilderness? Why would the soldiers burn the village but not pursue and kill the Caddo? It didn’t make sense. Dorritt watched the soldiers advance on the wagon train. Emotions were rushing through her so fast she couldn’t identify them. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. And tried to keep breathing.

  Quinn, Ash, the vaqueros, her stepfather, and the Anderson men moved forward on horseback in a wide line to meet the commander, bearing down on them. Without words, Dorritt and her mother joined hands. Fear clotted in Dorritt’s throat.

  The soldiers halted and the commanding officer spoke to Quinn. As before, he did the parlaying in Spanish. Dorritt watched the negotiations, she prayed for protection. She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. Would life in Texas be unpredictable like this even after they reached and settled in the Austin settlement? Would they never know peace?

  Finally, Quinn turned toward the wagons. And her. From where he was, he gave her the slightest of nods and then, averting his eyes, followed her stepfather back to their party. Dorritt’s heart leaped. She wanted to jump down and run to Quinn. But of course she waited with her mother. Her back straight, she folded her hands tightly in her lap.

  “Mr. Kilbride!” her mother called out. “What do the soldiers want?”

  “They’re with the new Mexican army. They say we must go with them to San Antonio de Bexar.” Her stepfather sounded disgruntled and goaded. “They’re taking us to their commanding officer there to see if we have the right to be in Mexico.”

  The news hit Dorritt like a flaming arrow. She pressed a hand to her heart.

  “Do we have to go with them?” her mother asked faintly.

  “It seems to be so,” Mr. Kilbride replied, his jaw working.

  Unable to stop herself, Dorritt looked to Quinn. He responded with a set expression—telling her silently they must go with the Mexicans, but he would protect her. But seeing what these men had done to the peaceful Caddo, destroying their stored grain and dried meat, blankets, all their wooden-handled tools left her questioning. “Why did they burn the village?” she asked Quinn. “What was the point?”