The Desires of Her Heart

by Lyn Cote

  “Don’t worry. I’ll do the best I can.” But he didn’t say how big Texas was and how easy it was to make someone disappear in the empty miles.

  Quinn was first aware only of the overwhelming smell of horse. He couldn’t open his eyes. He tried and tried but they wouldn’t open. Thoughts, voices whispered just beyond the reach of his mind. What? What? Someone was speaking or were they singing?

  Then he realized something covered his face. But how could that be? He tried to reach up and take it off and there was only a tug. Something tight bound his wrists together. He tried to pull his wrists apart, break the binding. He couldn’t and then he found that when he jerked his hands, it caused a tug at his ankles.

  Then it all came together. He was trussed up and lying with his belly over a saddle. His wrists were tied together and connected by leather thong to his bound ankles. He had a rough cloth sack over his head. And his nose was bumping into the side of a horse’s belly.

  For a few moments he checked and rechecked to see if this was real. He swallowed and swallowed until he had enough spit to speak. “Where am I?” Why?

  “Ah, Señor Quinn, you have come back to life.”

  Quinn recognized the man’s voice, but could think of no reason why Eduardo would do this to him. They weren’t friends, but what had he done to make this Mexican angry? “Eduardo?”

  “Sí, Señor.”

  “Why am I trussed up like this?” Quinn knew he should be angry, but he still only felt as if it couldn’t be real.

  “Because you must have time alone, time to consider your life.” Eduardo’s tone was mocking.

  It sparked Quinn’s temper. “Untie me. Now.”

  “No, Señor Quinn, I do not think it would be smart for me to untie you. I think you are very angry with me and you are not a man that should be made angry.”

  “Then why did you do this? It’s crazy.”

  “No, not loco. Everything makes sense. Some people have plans. I have plans. It all makes sense. But only to me. For once I know everything and I will make everything work for me.”

  Quinn held himself very still. Anger poured through him like molten lead. But he couldn’t let his rage master him. He must be able to think. Clearly. But the feeling of being helpless, something he hadn’t been since he was a small boy, filled him with rage. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out slowly. He willed himself to be calm. How had this happened? He searched his mind and he saw himself taking a cup from Eduardo. “You put something in my coffee.”

  “Sí, an old mixture of herbs and of the poppy. We had to. Even with Ash away and busy with his new bride, you are not a man to be taken by surprise.”

  We? Who was in on this with Eduardo? The answer was easy. There were four vaqueros. Carlos had left earlier. Had that been part of the plan? Quinn listened hard. But he could only hear the footfalls of two horses, no more. He wanted to ask where they were going. Why. But he didn’t want to give Eduardo the chance to mock him more. What day, what time was it? He couldn’t have been out for more than the night. How far had they come? And in what direction? He had questions, but no answers.

  “Don’t worry. Señorita Dorritt is safe with Carlos.”

  Quinn went still. They had kidnapped Dorritt too? Fury strong enough to make him capable of murder welled inside him. Anger at Eduardo and anger at himself. In a flash, he saw himself and Dorritt together yesterday. He’d been short with her. He’d told her, “They don’t want my kind in their Anglo settlement. I’d rather live with scorpions.” He’d pulled away and left her. Without a kind word.

  “Mi primo, my cousin Carlos, must always have the best of everything. So you must not worry.” Eduardo continued mocking Quinn. “Sí, Carlos has great respect for your beautiful lady. Or now his lady, su bonita doña.” Eduardo chuckled, taunting Quinn. “Don’t worry”

  Quinn clamped his lips together. This man would pay. And Carlos. They would regret the day they were born. I will find you, Dorritt. As soon as I break free. I will.

  Sitting in front of Pedro on his horse, Dorritt stared straight ahead. She was no longer bound or gagged. They were deep in the wide open land of Texas. There was no one to appeal to and nowhere to run. On and off, a stray tear would trickle down her face. Many times in her life, she had felt powerless. But not as hopeless, as vulnerable as she felt now.

  It was still unbelievable. She kept thinking, I will wake up from this nightmare. But the hot sun beating down on her shoulders, the smell of a horse, and the feeling of Pedro sitting so close behind her refused to be discounted. It had happened. The Mexicans had kidnapped her. Why? She was afraid to ask questions now because what sane reason could have made the vaqueros do this? And with her small Spanish vocabulary, she couldn’t question the man behind her.

  They reached a small grove of live oak trees. He swung down from the saddle, offered her his hands, and urged her down from the horse. As she tested her cramped legs. Pedro said, “Siesta. Agua. Un vaso de agua.”

  He led her into the shade of the oak trees and motioned her to be seated. She arranged her skirts around her modestly and folded her hands in her lap, trying to hold in her despair. Soon he brought her a cup of cool spring water. Then he walked away from her and seemed to be troubled about something. He spoke to himself in barely audible snatches—sounding worried and angry. What was he deciding? Whether to kill her or not?

  She drank, still holding back tears and not giving in to the terror that wanted to shake her. Dear heavenly Father, help me. Help Quinn find me. A traitorous tear trickled down her cheek. For the thousandth time, she relived those few precious moments she and Quinn had shared. The strength of his arms as he’d held her and the feel of his firm chest supporting her. She pressed her lips shut and drew in breath, forcing away the tears.

  Then Pedro came to her and spoke more Spanish, but Dorritt only caught “pronto,” which means “soon,” and Carlos’s name. Questions filled her throat. She swallowed them down. Everything was too bizarre. What was this all about? Would she ever see Quinn again? She had no doubt he was looking for her. But her heart froze. Had something happened to him too? Oh no, Father, protect him.

  Fifteen

  Quinn’s head must have been split in two. And he couldn’t get two halves back together. He opened his eyes to total darkness. He was lying on his back on earth, not across his horse’s back. His throat was so dry he had the feeling it might nearly have sealed. “Ed…Ed…Eduardo?” Then he remembered. Some time earlier Eduardo had struck him unconscious. After two days of riding slung over a horse, Eduardo had stopped and given him some water. And then the blow to the back of his head had come.

  Slowly, Quinn moved to sit up, causing his head to threaten to explode, and he felt he might be sick. He sat still until the giddy feeling stopped. Slowly, he lifted both hands and took the sack off his head. He looked around the deep, shadowy interior. He felt for a wall. His hand touched the thin poles that made up a jacal. Slowly, he eased against the wall and leaned his head back. He closed his eyes again and drew in deep breaths, smelling warmed sand, stale air, and his own sweat.

  Where had Eduardo left him? The darkness told him it must be nearly full night and his wrists and ankles were still bound. Degree by degree, his eyes caught a little natural light as it sifted in through the slits between the poles and holes in the thatched roof. A tall round gourd jug became visible, outlined by the bright moonlight. He reached for it, sniffed it and then gulped almost all the warm water. So Eduardo did not mean for him to die of thirst here. What had been the point of kidnapping him, after all?

  They wanted me out of the way. Because I was the only one who could have stopped them from kidnapping Dorritt. Quinn took in another deep breath. Eduardo had brought him two day’s distance from the wagon train. He needed to get outside and look to the stars and try to figure out which direction he had been brought. He wasn’t a man who gave in to despair. But he was mighty close now.

  He began working at the bindings on his wrists. He k
new with time he could wet and stretch the leather and free himself. But first he wanted to look at the stars. In spite of his aching head, he got down on his belly and snaked toward the door. Would it be fastened? He pushed against it and it swung open. Fresh cool air bathed his face. He crawled out. He rolled onto his back, and after the dizziness passed, he gazed up at the stars overhead. It was a clear night, no clouds with a nearly full moon rising.

  Then the head of his horse loomed above him and a big soft tongue licked his face. “Hey there,” he murmured. He reached up with both hands and stroked his horse’s nose. Nearly weak with gratitude, he realized he had been left with water and his horse and with bindings he could work free of. So what did that mean? He rolled a little onto his shoulder and reached out to make sure he was right. Yes, Eduardo had hobbled his horse so his mount could not stray. He stared up at the sky, his horse moving away to graze on the high grass. One by one, Quinn picked out the stars in the sky and found the North Star.

  Without a sextant, not even a compass, it would be difficult to know exactly where he was. But he knew from his father that in central and eastern Texas there were many rivers and all flowed from west to east toward the Mississippi. The wagon train had crossed the Brazos and was heading for the Colorado when the Mexican soldiers had taken it into custody. On the way here, Eduardo had passed a couple of creeks, but perhaps one had been a river they’d crossed at a narrow ford. In two days, Quinn couldn’t have been taken off Texas territory, so if he went north he would reach one of those rivers. And going along those rivers always led to towns or ranchos. Maybe San Antonio. And he knew Ash and Dorritt’s family would be heading there too, under Mexican guard.

  Morning would come. And he would have worked the leather off his wrists and ankles. He would find food and then he would mount his horse.

  Then out of the blue, Dorritt’s words came back to him—I feel like I’m changing. God is here…. All good gifts come from God…you have been a gift.

  He regretted his bitter reply: If God is on this trek with us, I’ll believe it when I see some evidence of that. It was awful being apart from her. Not knowing what Eduardo might have done to her was worse. He gazed up at the spangled sky. God, the God Dorritt trusts, are you here? Protect her. I will find her. And if anyone had harmed her, I’ll make them pay.

  Two long days and two endless nights, Dorritt carried in the pit of her stomach constant sickening fear. She found it hard to keep anything but water down. Added to this was enduring endless hours in the saddle. She was accustomed to walking, not riding on horseback mile after mile. The country she’d been forced to cover was uninhabited and the landscape unfriendly. After the first day, they had left the rolling prairie behind them and for the past day had crossed a more arid, rugged land of washes, high grasses, twisted mesquite, thorny catclaw, and prickly pear cactus. Nearing another nightfall, she swallowed down tears from the pain of the raw skin and aching muscles from the saddle. Then she saw on the horizon a scattering of buildings. They looked to her as if made of some kind of smooth stucco with elegant arches for doorways.

  “Rancho Sandoval,” Pedro said, motioning toward it. He had spoken so rarely that his voice made her jump. Rancho Sandoval? What was that? Her body cried out for freedom from the crowded saddle, from the reek of Pedro’s and her own stale sweat. But what would happen to her here? What would she face next? She banished the tears that were trying to start. Clamping her quivering lips together, she tried to bring up her reserves of courage.

  In the distance, indistinct people had ventured out of the house and other buildings and were gazing at them as if trying to see who they were. From the way they were reacting, it was clear they had not been expecting her.

  And then a man, dressed in dark Spanish clothing, hurried across the yard, mounted a fine horse, and started toward them, picking up speed. As he drew closer, Dorritt recognized him. He was Carlos—Carlos dressed as a gentleman. “Señorita Dorritt, how is it that you are here?” he called to her.

  His question so unexpected, so at odds with the terror of the past few days, unleashed long-suppressed tears. She covered her face with her hands to hide them, choking back her sobs, now wrenching her smarting, weary-to-death body.

  Reaching them, Carlos snapped off several sharp questions in Spanish to Pedro, who answered in brief sullen syllables. Carlos made a hissing sound filled with anger. “¡Eduardo, lo pagarás!” He swung toward her.

  She drew back from him.

  He held out an open palm. “Don’t be afraid,” he said in a kind voice, as if coaxing a stray cat. “I regret this. I…” He fell silent, frowning. “Come. I will make you welcome.” He slid from his horse and with great gentleness helped her down from Pedro’s horse. He dismissed Pedro with a curt wave of his hand. “Más tarde. Later.”

  Carlos was dressed as a gentleman in sleek navy blue trousers and a short jacket with a snowy white neckcloth tied with neatness. He would not have looked out of place in the parlor back at Belle Vista. Nothing made sense. She looked away from Carlos, wiping her face with her hands. “Where am I?”

  Not mentioning her weeping, he asked, “Do you wish to ride or walk?”

  “Walk,” she murmured, and then staggered against him. “Where am I?”

  He offered her his arm and then slapped his horse’s rump. It took off toward the house ahead. “Señorita, this is my home, Rancho Sandoval.”

  She heard the tenderness and pride in his voice. With difficulty, she began to walk, gripping his arm. And as he led her closer to the house, she understood the pride. Backlit by the setting sun, which was trailing magenta, pink, gold, and charcoal ribbons across the sky, the large hacienda looked like a Spanish painting. Involuntarily she said, “How lovely.”

  Carlos looked at her with frank approval. “Gracias, I knew you would love it. You are a woman who was born to be a doña, a dueña.”

  She regretted the spontaneous words that had slipped through her lips, so she tried to show no response to his reply. She knew what the word dueña meant. She’d lived around New Orleans Creoles, who were descendents of Spanish and French colonials. She knew the ladies of Spanish descent were often referred to as doña, and dueña roughly translated to “lady” and “landed lady.”

  As she walked, she worked at not moaning aloud her pain and uncertainty. Even though the term dueña gave her some idea of his intention, she’s still feared to ask Carlos precisely why Pedro had brought her here. Now she understood clearly what she had only guessed before—Pedro as well as Eduardo—took orders from Carlos. So even though Carlos had not physically brought her here himself, he must have had something to do with her being kidnapped. But why?

  However, Carlos did not offer to tell her and she was afraid to ask. If she asked and received an answer, an answer that might terrify her more, it would make this all too real. And she had all the reality she could handle at the moment—just being here in this strange place with this man who was almost a stranger to her. Defenseless. Alone. Exhausted from riding two days with little rest and drained from constant worry.

  Sun-darkened Mexicans came forward, looking confused at her arrival. If somehow Carlos had intended her to be brought here, how could she not be expected? As he helped her walk, Carlos spoke in rapid Spanish to the crowd of vaqueros, peons, and servants. Then he waved his hand, calling their attention to her. “This is Señorita Dorritt, nuestra huésped, our guest.” The Mexican men bowed with their hats pressed to their chests, and the Mexican women bobbed shallow curtsies. Carlos asked, “Dónde está Alandra?”

  “Ya duerme,” a large-hipped Mexican woman replied.

  Who was Alandra? Dorritt lurched against Carlos, her fatigue suddenly weakening her knees. She staggered and it brought a tidal wave of loud, fast Spanish. Carlos swept her up and carried her through the shadowy house into a large bedroom. There, Carlos squeezed her hand, kissed it, and bid her, “Buenos noches, Señorita. Please do not worry. I will unravel this, and please believe that you are safe here.
”

  At Carlos’s command, two Mexican women took charge of her, urging her to sit in a lovely dark chair. It had been so long since she sat in a chair, even saddlesore, she sat down with a feeling of wonder. She clasped the wide plain arms, the wood smooth and cool under her palms. Another woman came in with a silver tray with a silver tankard of creamy hot chocolate and a dish of sweetmeats. Dorritt sipped the warm sweet brew and revived. She smiled and said, “Gracias.” The women bowed and retreated from the room.

  The other two women carried in a large elegant bathtub and filled it with buckets and buckets of water. And before she knew it, they had stripped off her wrinkled, grimy clothing and settled her into the metal tub. Heaven, it was heaven. A bath with rose-scented soap. Behind her, the younger woman washed her hair, rasping her scalp and then rinsing and rinsing. It was pure delight that drew all worry and tension from Dorritt’s scalp and neck.

  When this was done, the older woman gestured toward two buckets of rinse water. She went on to point to a jar of rose-scented cream on a small bedside table and on the bed, already turned down, several white fine linen towels, and a nightgown of the most delicate white cotton lawn. Then the two women bid her, “Buenos noches, Señorita,” bowed themselves out, and shut the dark wood and solid-looking door behind them.

  “Gracias. Gracias,” Dorritt called softly to them and then lay back against the tub and just enjoyed the feeling of water around her. Had it been just over a month that hip baths had been a daily occurrence, not an impossible luxury? She tried to make sense of what this all meant but her mind moved like a rusty hinge. Even though she didn’t know what was happening, seeing Carlos again had moderated her fear. She had formed a good opinion of him previously from his politeness and even gentlemanly ways. He’d even sung songs to the Anderson girl. And here and now, his reactions had been genuine as his surprise at seeing her arrive. Though she did not know what “¡Eduardo, lo pagarás!” meant, the way Carlos had said it sounded as if Eduardo should be afraid.