The Desires of Her Heart

by Lyn Cote

  Once again, Quinn’s memory forced him to see Dorritt’s pale skin and warm eyes. A fine woman, an educated lady, Dorritt had told him she loved him. I can’t believe it. Again he caught the barest sound of a strange horse stepping on rock. Whose horse?

  Now not even the memory of Dorritt’s declaration of love could distract Quinn from the plan developing in his mind. I watched you for weeks and I know you too well, Eduardo. Know men like you too well. Small men who envy larger men. Quinn moved closer to Ash and began speaking out of the side of his mouth. Ash knew the Osage tactic too. The secret was not letting Eduardo suspect that they knew what he was up to.

  The long day had finally ended, and Quinn, Ash, and Don Carlos sat around the fire, sipping hot coffee and chewing dry tortillas and spicy pemmican. Though the October days were just as warm as September’s, the sun did sink below the horizon earlier now. Something Quinn was very glad of tonight. This chase might end tonight—if he was right. It was hard to keep the conversation going when what the three of them wanted to discuss couldn’t be mentioned out loud.

  “So, Don Carlos, what do you think of us Mexicans being a republic now?” Ash asked.

  Ash always amazed Quinn in that he never thought anyone outranked him, yet he was never disrespectful. It was an interesting combination. To be at ease with himself and everyone, high or low.

  “I am uncertain. I am not unhappy to be free of Spain, but I doubt anything will change here in Texas. And I make it a habit to stay away from Mexico City. There is so much deceit and—” Don Carlos waved his hand in a showy way “—play-acting. Everyone wears a mask.” Don Carlos made a face.

  “I know what you mean. I went to Mexico City when I was young. I had to go to the big city and see it for myself.” Ash shrugged. “Once in a lifetime was enough for me.”

  Quinn listened to them but more to the night sounds, the crickets and the wind through the few cottonwood trees. The waiting was the hardest. Because it gave him time to think of Dorritt. He forced himself to think ahead. Ash was married now and would settle down with Reva, probably near his family around San Antonio. What will I do? After we bring Eduardo in for trial, I will leave, find my mother’s clan. Among the Cherokee, I can find peace, breed my horses, and maybe find a woman to marry. The now cold coffee in his cup was bitter, but not as bitter as this thought. He looked up and was glad the moon was shrouded with a veil of clouds.

  The attack came in the darkest, coldest hour of the night. Two shots came from the cover beyond the shadowy cottonwood trees. Quinn was ready. He fired at the exact spot where the musket flash had flared. Then he swung his long rifle back onto his shoulder. He pulled his pistol and tomahawk from his belt and ran toward the place. Another flash, another shot. Someone grunted.

  In the faint moonlight, Quinn saw movement. He fired his pistol and the shadow jerked. Another shot boomed and Quinn felt the shot slice his cheek. He hit the ground and rolled. He quickly reloaded. Then he stilled, listening for any telltale sound. None came. The night sounds came back to normal. Quinn waited. Waited.

  Finally, Don Carlos called out softly, “Have they gone?”

  Quinn eased up, listening. “Yes.”

  “Then come here. Por favor.”

  Something in his voice brought Quinn to his side fast.

  “You were right, mi amigo,” Don Carlos said with an effort to hide his pain, “two of us would have died. He shot our bedrolls, the ones you made us crawl out from on the side away from the fire.”

  “It’s an old Osage trick.” Quinn wished they dared blow some life into the embers of their fire. But what if Eduardo hadn’t gone far and doubled back again?

  “You’re hit. The shoulder?” Ash kept his voice low.

  “Sí.”

  Quinn and Ash knew how to treat gunshot wounds. They worked together packing the wound with cloth and bound it tightly to stop the bleeding.

  Quinn caught Ash’s eye in the scant light. And he didn’t like what he read there. Don Carlos’s wound wasn’t clean-through; the ball was lodged. They’d need a doctor, and the only one was back at the Alamo. If only they could have been sure that they’d hit Eduardo. Whatever they decided, they’d have to wait till morning.

  Twenty-two

  At last morning came, and after searching the area and not finding Eduardo’s body, Quinn knew what had to be done. The three of them sat in the cover of spiny shrubs and cluster of mesquite trees around a very small and clean fire with hardly any smoke. Don Carlos looked gray with pain, his eyes looked feverish, and when he moved, he winced. Ash made coffee and and passed out sea biscuits and dried meat. Quinn sipped the steaming coffee and then told Ash, “Don Carlos has to have that shoulder looked at.”

  Ash said, “Yes, I’m taking him to San Antonio.”

  “I am sitting here and can hear you. I am not a child,” Don Carlos objected.

  Ash shrugged. “That’s right and you know I’m right. That ball has to be dug out and you need to be in bed, getting good care.”

  “But what about Eduardo?” Don Carlos asked, his face twisting as he took cautious breaths. “Are we to let him go free?”

  “I’ll go on alone,” Quinn said. “And let’s not waste time arguing. Ash will take you back to San Antonio. I’ll go on. After Ash delivers you to the army surgeon at the Alamo, he can always pick up my trail and catch up with me—”

  “I don’t like it,” Don Carlos said. “Eduardo is treacherous. He can’t be trusted to fight fair. Look at last night. He sent Juan ahead to leave a trail. Then he doubled back. He followed us just as you thought and would have killed us in cold blood.” Don Carlos grimaced with pain.

  “Eduardo is a snake,” Quinn agreed. “But I’ll track him. You’ll—” He held up a hand to stop Don Carlos. “…help us most by going back with Ash without fuss. I won’t crowd Eduardo and won’t let him take me by surprise. I’m a better tracker than he is. And I won’t make the mistake of thinking he wouldn’t pull any lowdown trick he could think of.” And it will be a relief to be hunting on my own.

  Don Carlos looked as if he were chewing stones, but finally he nodded. “It goes against what I want to do, but sí. I’ll just end up slowing you down.”

  Soon Don Carlos and Ash were mounted and heading north. Quinn sat drinking the last of the now cold coffee. It was not long after dawn. If I were Eduardo, what would I try next? Would I give up and just try to lose the tracker behind me in the rugged country to the west? And then when I’d lost them, head south? Or would I try to ambush the tracker one more time?

  He sucked in the last few drops of coffee and rose. He kicked dust over the fire and made sure no ember remained. Even if Eduardo tried to hide his trail, Quinn was certain he could still track him. He saddled his horse and swung up to start the hunt again.

  The country became more rugged as the miles passed. Dorritt’s tender smile and golden hair kept coming to Quinn. He couldn’t shake off remembering her. Her words came back to him: “In Louisiana, I allowed myself to see myself as less than I am, less than God made me. And you allowed yourself to see yourself as men like my stepfather see you, not as God does.”

  How could her words come back so clear? Why didn’t she realize that the Creator who lived behind the sun had nothing to do with whether they could be together as man and wife? How could she know the God who was so far, far from humans? I am who I am. I know what I can do. I know that I will die and leave this life. God directs the sun and wind, and the times of planting and reaping. He is not close. He is far from us.

  Still Dorritt’s voice, the low rich voice that did things to the back of his neck when she was near, came again in his mind as if he’d just heard her, “You see yourself as men like my stepfather see you, not as God does.” He shook his head. He wanted to believe her, but how could he? He must keep his mind on the trail. Nothing else.

  It happened around noon. When Quinn saw the stream and the sheltering cottonwoods and willows in the distance, he recognized the trap Eduardo might set
for him. He stopped in the cover of the rise and primed his long rifle and made sure of his pistol. There were two of them—Juan as well as Eduardo. He’d need two shots to take them. He nudged his horse around the rise and he dismounted. On his belly, he settled behind some rocks left over from a slide. He had a clear view of the stream, surrounded by the low bushes and cottonwoods that always thrived around creeks.

  He lay still and settled in to wait. A stone was pressing against his breastbone, so he shifted until it didn’t push against a bone. Waiting wasn’t anything Eduardo would be able to stomach. That’s why Eduardo had tried to ambush them last night. Eduardo wanted it over, to be free of looking over his shoulder.

  The bright sunlight sparkled on the water and also picked up the glint off a musket, or was it a spur? Whatever it was exactly, Eduardo would have been sorry to know Quinn had glimpsed it. Barely breathing, Quinn waited. Juan and Eduardo would become more and more nervous the longer the time they remained still hiding in ambush. So Quinn waited, waited—silent and without moving.

  Finally, they gave in. And Eduardo and Juan did what he’d waited for them to do. They slipped out of their hiding places around the stream—where they had been ready to ambush him again.

  “Throw down your guns!” standing, Quinn roared.

  The two turned toward him. Then they dived toward their horses.

  Quinn let his flintlock bark. Eduardo shouted. Their horses were screaming—plunging. Then Quinn reloaded his long rifle. He aimed for Eduardo again, but the man’s horse danced in front of him. Quinn ran down the slope. He fired again. Eduardo staggered and went down. But he raised his long rifle. The shot hit Quinn on the right side. Quinn jerked but then fired his pistol and lost his footing. He tried to catch himself.

  His head struck a rock. He stared up into blue. The thought that he should protect himself floated in his head but he couldn’t move. Then he heard footsteps approaching. No. He looked up into Juan’s darkly suntanned face. Fear like he’d never known shot through him—fiery lightning. He still couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

  Creator of all, he’s going to kill me. Please. No.

  The memory of Dorritt’s face the first time he saw her blazed across his mind. He stared at Juan, refusing to close his eyes to death. Juan stared at him a long time. Quinn remained tense but unable to move. I’m helpless. God, help me. Juan picked up a rock and brought it down. He’s going to smash my skull. No. No. The blow, pain. Blackness.

  Quinn opened his eyes and stared up at the blue-gray sky, the sun low on the horizon. At first, he couldn’t draw his thoughts together. The sun was warm on him. His horse snuffled as he chewed grass nearby. A terrible thirst finally pulled Quinn into conscious thought. Am I dead?

  Then the pain hit him. No, he was alive. And hurting. He sat up slowly and looked down at the site of the pain—his right thigh on the outside, high near the hip joint. Blood had flowed freely and was still oozing out onto the earth. He tried to examine the wound, but he was light-headed. He sat very still until the world stopped swirling around him. But where were Eduardo and Juan?

  He looked down the slope to where they had been. They had gone. Why? Why hadn’t they finished him off? He recalled Juan standing over him with a rock. Why did he just strike me unconscious? Why not kill me? I was helpless.

  Quinn slowly got to his hands and knees, taking time so he wouldn’t lose consciousness again. Finally, he managed to stagger to his feet and grip his saddle horn. He leaned into the horse and he let it walk him down the hill, Quinn favoring his right side.

  Around the creek, he saw where the other two horses had been. There was blood on the ground—a lot of blood. He closed his eyes and recalled the flash of time that the firing had taken. Yes, he had seen Eduardo jerk and stagger. I hit him. He shot me. Juan came to me on the slope. Quinn relived that awful moment when he saw death coming and he couldn’t move.

  Why didn’t he kill me?

  Quinn couldn’t come up with a reason. He gazed around, but the facts could not be denied. He was wounded. Eduardo was wounded or dead. Eduardo and Juan were gone. And Quinn must return to San Antonio. He couldn’t continue the chase alone, wounded. If he did, he’d end up vulture bait.

  He sank down and drank deeply of the cool water. Then he eased into the rapidly running creek and washed the blood off his leg in the cool water. If he didn’t, the scent of blood would draw scavengers to him, revealing his presence for miles. Back on the bank, he tried to pad and then tie his bandana around the wound. He managed, but it was in an awkward place. He filled his water skin. Then using the strength of his arms and the saddle horn, he hoisted himself up and swung his wounded leg up into the saddle. The pain made him screw up his face and break out in a cold sweat. He sat in the saddle, panting with the pain. He hated to give up the hunt, but his dying out in the wilderness wasn’t going to bring Eduardo to justice.

  Quinn turned his horse back toward the northeast and hoped he’d make good time before he became too feverish and perhaps delirious. Why hadn’t they killed him? It didn’t make sense.

  In the Alamo infirmary, Dorritt sat beside Don Carlos and heard him revive, drawing in a shallow breath. Candles glowed in the darkened room. She bathed his forehead with cool water.

  He opened his eyes. “Am I dreaming?” he murmured.

  “No, you’re in the Alamo, safe. You’ve been unconscious for several hours.” She ran the soft worn cloth wet with water and vinegar over his face.

  “What has happened?” he asked, gasping between words.

  “The army surgeon removed the shot from your shoulder. It was very deep. You’re lucky. He said it missed your heart and lungs. But you are feverish and will need careful tending.”

  “Not lucky. I am blessed. I had hoped that the next time I saw you I could tell you that I’d brought my cousin to justice. I’m sorry.” He caught her hand.

  His grip was weak and it grieved her. She blinked away tears and fought to keep her voice even. “You mustn’t say that. I’m glad you are safe and I’ll make sure you get the best of care. Ash left immediately to go back and join Quinn on the hunt. You just close your eyes and rest.”

  He pressed the back of her hand against his cheek. This sign of his love for her wrung her heart. He’s such a good man, Lord. Please bless him. Let him recover fully. And please bring Quinn back safely with Ash whole too.

  She drew her hand from Don Carlos’s and wet the cloth again. She bathed his face and continued praying. She’d fallen in love with a man—something she’d never thought she’d do. And all because this man Don Carlos had declared his love for her. But Quinn, the man she loved had refused to see her as a part of his future.

  She drew in a deep breath, trying to shake off this burden of despair that kept trying to crush her. This is Texas, not Louisiana. I’m a Texas woman now. And I believe that God brought me here for a reason. Yet her heavy heart was dragged down with worry. It was hard to cling to faith when the man she loved was out hunting an evil man and perhaps being hunted in return. I will have faith and not be daunted by these small thoughts. The Lord will give me the desire of my heart. Please.

  Ash had set out immediately after delivering Don Carlos to the surgeon at the Alamo. He’d only had time to kiss his bride and tell her he had to go back. With each mile, Ash had hoped that Quinn had already caught the dog Eduardo and would meet him along the trail they’d made on the first leg of their hunt. He knew that Quinn would come back via the same trail they’d forged on the way from San Antonio. So now at dawn, he was drinking the last cup of coffee by the morning fire when he heard a horse coming. He reached for his rifle, and then eased back into the few low shrubs around his makeshift camp.

  He recognized Quinn’s stallion immediately and sprang forward, still clutching his gun in case this was more skullduggery. But it was only Quinn. When Ash saw the blood caked down the side of the horse, he swallowed an oath. “Quinn!”

  His friend lifted his head. “Ash.” His voice sounded weak.r />
  Ash grabbed the horse’s bridle and asked, “What happened?” And he did a quick survey of the bloody bandage wrapped tightly around the top of Quinn’s thigh. It looked as if it were keeping more blood from flowing. Good.

  Quinn blinked. “I shot Eduardo. And he got me. Passed out. Juan didn’t kill me.”

  Ash didn’t ask any more. “Can you stay in the saddle?”

  “Think so.”

  But Ash didn’t like what he saw. He went back to the fire, lifted the kettle, and poured the strong dregs of the coffee into his cup and put it into Quinn’s hand. “Drink this. And I’ll get on my horse.” Quinn drank while Ash quickly stowed all his gear into his saddlebags and mounted his horse. “I’ll get you back to San Antonio as fast as I can.” And then they were heading northeast again, and Ash was praying that the bandage would hold till they reached the Alamo.

  Quinn awoke in a dark room. He blinked and tried to think how he’d come to be here and where here was. Then he remembered; he’d wounded Eduardo. The fiery pain in his thigh forced the memory of his own wound on him. Then he heard a soft voice. It was Dorritt’s voice and he felt his spirits lift. All he could think of was the feel of her soft mouth on his. That kiss had been the best moment of his life. He almost called to her and then he heard another voice—Don Carlos’s.

  “I’m glad Ash found Quinn so quickly,” his rival said. “Quinn loves you, I know it.”

  Quinn tried to think why Don Carlos would say this.

  “Doesn’t that bother you that I have feelings for Quinn? You’ve proposed marriage to me.”

  Her words plunged like a sword into Quinn’s heart. How could mere words cause more agony than a bullet tearing flesh?

  “I see the attraction between you two. But I think I will win you for myself. In the end. After Eduardo has been dealt with.” Don Carlos’s voice was soft—Quinn could hear the love in each word.