by Lyn Cote
When the tall lady had come toward Quinn and paused, he had searched her face. Her nearness had washed over him in an unusual wave of sensitivity. Something similar to the awareness that he experienced when he sensed someone was tracking him. Within the confines of her bonnet, he found a pretty face but a firm chin, large gray eyes, and a direct gaze. This was the tall lady, the one who had snared his notice in New Orleans. Then she passed him and was inside.
He stayed outside in the dusk, letting this sharp turn at seeing her again flow through him and away. He rarely felt any draw to a stranger. And she had not remembered seeing him in New Orleans. She was barely aware of him here and now. She was, after all, a lady. A lady he would ignore.
Later that evening in the shadows under the loft, Dorritt waited until her stepfather walked outside. Her mother and half-sister were already up in the loft, chattering, preparing to sleep. She should be with them in the loft’s stifling heat. But before Mr. Kilbride returned, she needed to do something. Seeing the Westerner had given her an idea, one that might save all their white skins and scalps.
He was sitting beside the hearth, his long legs stretched out in front of him. She hurried to him and then cleared her nervous throat. “I was wondering if I might have a word with you, sir.” He turned toward her. She waited for his response, searching his suntanned face with high cheekbones and large deep-set eyes, blue eyes. Oh, he was a half-breed.
Once again, he pulled at the brim of his hat, evidently his sign of courtesy. “Miss?”
Her words rushed out, “I was wondering if you have traveled across the Sabine into Texas recently.”
“I have.”
“How many days from here until we reach the Sabine?” She kept her voice low and watched for her stepfather. If he found her talking to this Westerner, he’d be angry. But she had to get the information she needed and Mr. Kilbride wouldn’t “lower” himself to ask this man anything.
“A party your size goes slower than me alone. How many days since you left New Orleans?”
“We’ve been….” She stopped. “How did you know that we’re from New Orleans?” Earlier he had gawked at her. But he couldn’t have followed them. He’d been here when they arrived.
To her mind, he waited just a second too long before he replied, “Just a guess. Most people come up the trace from New Orleans. How many days?”
Still rattled, she went on. “Nine days.”
“You have another three or four before the Sabine.”
“That long?”
He gave a slight nod.
“So far there has been a clear trace to follow. Will that continue until the river?”
“Yes. The illegal trade of cattle and other goods between the Spanish colony of Texas and the U.S. in New Orleans made that trace.”
He was givng her the information she so needed, but too slowly. She wished she could just draw it out in a long unbroken thread. “Is the Sabine easy to ford?”
“Depends.” A mule brayed in the distance.
“On what?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at the doorway.
“Storms.”
“How far is Nacogdoches in Texas from the Sabine crossing?” Warm perspiration trickled steadily down her spine like tear-drops.
“Dorritt, get away from that half-breed!” Her stepfather’s voice boomed in the small one-room inn.
So the tall lady’s name was Dorritt. Quinn watched as she turned to face her father. Had her face gone even whiter?
“Mr. Kilbride, I was just—”
“Get upstairs where you belong! Don’t you know better than to speak to a common stranger in an inn?”
The man’s face turned red. The tall lady bent her head in embarrassment and gave Quinn a slight nod. Then she hurried to the ladder to the loft and mounted it.
Kilbride gave him a haughty look and followed her. Quinn hadn’t liked the man in New Orleans and liked him less now. Bully. Quinn tried to let go of the burning sensation that Kilbride gave him. He couldn’t. Probably nothing would convince him that Kilbride had not cheated him.
Listening to everyone breathing in sleep, Dorritt thought she would die of the heat. How did people survive in these small cabins without windows? The heat of the day had gathered, swelled in the loft. Since the four of them were together, she was sleeping in her sweat-soaked day clothing on a cotton blanket on the hard pine floor. The stench of her own perspiration filled her with distaste, which was growing to revulsion. I have to get some air. Or I’ll smother.
Below on the main floor of the cabin slept the innkeeper and the Westerner. Would she be able to slip outside without anyone being the wiser?
Quinn woke at the sound of movement, the creak of a ladder rung. Who was up? Now the cabin door stood open and full moonlight flowed inside. He didn’t shift but his eyes followed the movement. Then the figure was passing out the doorway. It was the tall lady. Miss Dorritt. Quinn lifted himself soundlessly and followed her. He hung back in the doorway. Where was she going?
She slipped into the thick pine forest around the clearing. Unable to fight against his curiosity and his deep-rooted duty to protect a female, he tracked her as a doe. Soon she reached the creek which flowed into the Sabine River. After thought, he’d figured out why she’d been asking him about crossing the Sabine. She must be the one who was in charge.
But then again, that couldn’t be right, could it? She’d obeyed Kilbride when he’d told her to go to bed. And why would a woman be in charge? White men didn’t let women lead a party.
And why was she outside in the night alone? Decent white women didn’t wander alone at night whether they were in a city or the wilderness. Especially not white American women. He hadn’t known any such women to talk to, but he had been in cities and seen them.
Then again, this lady was not the usual white woman. That much he knew.
Ahead in the moonlight, he watched her slip off her shoes and white stockings and then begin to lower her white pantaloons. He sucked in air. He turned and rested his back against a wide-trunked old oak. So she had come out to bathe. Suddenly the idea of getting wet washed over him—-almost overpowering. Water flowing over his hot grimy skin, washing away the sweat, refreshing, cooling…
He imagined her slipping her dress off her shoulders. They would be ivory in the moonlight…Stop, he ordered himself. He had not been raised to be the kind of man who would hide in the trees and secretly eye a woman while she bathed. And imagining her undressing would be just as rude. Just as disrespectful. But he shouldn’t leave her alone. Besides ’gators, there were many animals that hunted at night. Bear. Wild cat. Wolf.
He tried to ignore the sound of her hushed splashing in the water. A sad trial. He kept erasing images of her that the tantalizing sound brought to mind. At last, the splashing stopped. He heard her loud, long satisfied sigh. It made him more miserable and sticky than ever. And then she was moving through the trees, rustling the feathery pine branches. She passed him without realizing he was there. He whispered, “You shouldn’t be outside alone and unarmed at night.” He hadn’t meant to speak, but she had to be warned. His heart pounded like a war drum.
She stopped, whirled around, and stared. Finally, she whispered, “Who’s there?”
From the cover of fir trees, he replied in a low tone, “I followed you from the inn.”
“You watched me?” Though speaking quietly, she sounded bothered.
“No,” he said. He couldn’t see her expression. I should have stayed silent. His face warmed. Silence.
“Why did you follow me?” Her tone was laced with mistrust.
Then just before he stepped out where she could see him, he remembered he’d taken his shirt off. White men usually remain covered around white women. Would she take this as a slight too? He remained hidden. “No one should swim alone or go out unarmed into the wilderness at night.”
She started walking away. Then she paused. “I believe you. I thank you.”
She believed him? About what?
That she shouldn’t be out alone? Or that he hadn’t watched her? It was important to him to know.
The Westerner led them all the next day—unseen. Dorritt was certain that she was the only one who read the signs, who sensed they weren’t alone on the trail. At a few spots, new trails veered off from the one they were taking. At first, the Westerner had left a few scraps of cloth on branches to alert her and later bent branches on fir trees, showing the way to go. Following the signs, she’d kept the ox drivers on track. Why was he helping her? Or was he keeping track of Jewell? Jewell’s pretty face had turned more than one male head.
Of course, her stepfather wasn’t aware that she, Dorritt, was directing the party. He rode at the head of the party and gave directions to the drivers who nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”
But during the long, sweltering day, the drivers watched her as she walked near the head, showing the way at forks. Did her stepfather realize this? Probably not. He was so puffed up in his own regard that he couldn’t see anything but himself. Sometimes she wondered if anyone in her family ever saw what was really going on under their up-tilted noses.
The end of the dreadful day finally came. Dorritt was suffering prickly heat rash under her arms. And that was exactly how she felt—hot and prickly. Along the narrow heavily wooded trail, they arrived at a lone cabin with a fenced paddock but no barn. Would the Westerner be here waiting? Dorritt tried to hold back the rise of anticipation.
With a baby still in leading strings on one hip, the young woman of the house dressed in a simple homespun dress and dingy apron hailed them eagerly. Eyeing Jewell’s deep violet bonnet, she said, “Oh, but you’re fine folk. Whatever brought you out this way?” Dorritt smiled at the woman but let her mother, who got down from the gig to coo and ahh over the baby, do the pleasantries. Dorritt glanced around but saw no one else. Then a man dressed in homespun came around the cabin. With him was the Westerner. Dorritt ordered her pulse to return to its normal pace. In vain.
Mr. Kilbride scowled, but went forward to ask for shelter for the night at least for his “ladies.” The farmer welcomed them and said that the womenfolk could sleep in the loft. The men would make do on the floor.
While her stepfather was watching, Dorritt made certain that she didn’t look toward the Westerner. An unaccustomed disquiet stirred her. There were plenty of reasons for uneasiness but she couldn’t lie to herself. It was the stranger who had roused her, made her feel different. But why?
The evening meal was eaten outside, where they might catch any stray breeze. A bright red sunset colored the sky above the tall pine tops. While the slaves gathered around the ox wagons and made a meal of roasted grain and raccoon, the whites sat around a long homemade trestle table, eating venison stew and cornbread. Dorritt sensed the Westerner was being as careful as she not to trade glances, not give her stepfather any excuse to insult the Westerner as he had the night before. But she needed to talk to him again. Why hadn’t she asked him his name last night? She’d hoped their host or hostess would address him by his name, but they merely called him sir. And each time the couple used this term with the Westerner, Kilbride’s lip curled. Her stepfather’s ill-concealed contempt for those he deemed his inferiors always grated on her nerves, especially since he classed her with the inferiors.
By sitting between her and the Westerner, Mr. Kilbride isolated Dorritt. Why didn’t he want her to speak to the Westerner? The two men couldn’t have met before. Mr. Kilbride prided himself on making only advantageous social connections. No matter what, Dorritt must have a word with the Westerner to find out what she needed to know. Every day now, their people turned to her with worried eyes and an unspoken plea for her to protect them. They knew well the unreliability of their master and his blind but mistaken belief in his own invincibility. So in spite of her stepfather, she must gain knowledge about the trail to Texas. So many lives depended on her. This thought lay like a paving brick over her heart. What did she know of Spanish Texas? Who was this Stephen Austin?
Had Mr. Kilbride gotten all the facts right? Where was the Brazos River? How much farther west from the Sabine? And would the present trail lead them to Nacogdoches? These questions with their sharp claws scared her. And here sat the Westerner who had the answers she needed for their survival. But how to find a moment alone to ask him? Last night, she had met the Westerner after everyone was asleep. Could she do that again?
At this thought, a strange thrill traced up her spine. Though she hadn’t spoken to the Westerner, she couldn’t ignore his presence. She tried to parse why this was, but failed. He said little and moved with quiet ease, but she’d been as aware of him as she would of a storm gathering.
At long last the night came. The women bedded down in the loft with the wife and the fretful baby while the men settled down on the dirt floor. Dorritt heard Mr. Kilbride grumbling. She fought to stay awake, but worry and fatigue defeated her and she fell asleep.
Later she awoke, shock rushing through her in waves. She sat up. Someone, something nudged the bottom of her foot in the darkness. She couldn’t even see her hand. But then she heard his barest whisper, “Come out.”
It was the Westerner. She slid over the rough planks, feeling them rasp her skin through the thin cotton of her dress and pantaloons. She was more than usually aware of her physical self. Carefully, carefully she let herself down rung by rung. At the bottom, she turned. The door opened silently on the leather hinges and moonlight pooled in the doorway. The Westerner preceded her outside. By the silvery light, she was able to tiptoe around the sleeping men.
Outside, the heat and humidity still hung in the air, heavy and cloying. But at least outside, she could draw a deep free breath. Dorritt wished that there was a creek nearby so that she could again cool herself in its waters. She paused. Last night, this stranger had listened to her bathe. Her face burned at this intimacy. Willing herself to behave naturally, she tiptoed around the side of the cabin and to the back corner, which shielded her from the yard.
The Westerner waited there. “We must whisper,” he warned, leaning close.
She didn’t pull back from his nearness, though it heightened her awkwardness at this situation. “I am Miss Dorritt Mott,” she introduced herself, offering him her hand as she curtsied.
He stared at her for a moment. The moonlight picked up the gold threads in his long dark hair, tied back into a single tail, and his clear blue eyes. He took her hand and squeezed it once. “I’m Quinn. I woke you to tell you a storm is coming.”
His unexpected comment made her dumb for a moment. “A storm? You mean a hurricane?” Even though they were miles north of the Gulf, a hurricane’s wind and rain could still wreak havoc here.
“Yes. Did you see the red sunset?”
She nodded, her cheek accidently brushing his shoulder. They were so near it made her face warm. “But a red sunset doesn’t always mean a hurricane. It could just mean another hot, miserable day tomorrow.”
“You are right. But I saw many high thin clouds all this day.” He raised his hand high in a natural gesture, which caused his hair to flicker soft against her arm. “And it has been wetter in the air.”
“I see.” I feel it. Perspiration had beaded on her upper lip.
“This is the Gulf of Mexico storm season.”
With these simple words, despair sifted through her. How like her stepfather to set them out on a trip in the midst of hurricane season.
“You must stay here,” the Westerner said closer to her ear.
The short baby fine hair on the side of her face and along the rim of her ear quivered at his nearness. She swallowed to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. “I’ll try. But I’m sure my stepfather won’t listen.”
“Kilbride is your stepfather?”
“Yes.” It seemed as if she were in a waking dream—standing here in the dark speaking in barely audible whispers within inches of this stranger. “Thank you for leading us today.” As if there were a sudden shortage of air, his presence pressed in aro
und her. She turned to the question she’d come to ask. “If you please, are you going to Texas too?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated. He was a stranger. But she was in desperate need of help. And perhaps he was the Lord’s provision. She nearly reached out to press her hand to his leather shirt. “Would you…would you continue to lead me, us?”
“I do not understand. You are a woman.”
Her lungs constricted. She should have expected this response. Quinn was after all a man. “Yes, I am a woman.”
“Then why do you ask me, not your stepfather? Why do you lead your party?”
Crickets brought the darkness alive with their endless chant. This man’s insight was acute. But perhaps living outside civilization forced one to observe closely. Still, she couldn’t—even in this private moment—tell the truth. No man accepted a woman as leader. And she needed this man’s help. Desperately. “My stepfather is the leader. I merely take care of many duties for him.”
“Then why do you ask me to guide your party?” he repeated.
She grumbled the true answer to herself, Because my stepfather isn’t wise enough to recognize that we need help. Again, she couldn’t voice that. This man was too perceptive, the complete opposite of her stepfather. “It is difficult for my stepfather to ask for help,” she muttered.
“Then how can I give what he will not ask for?”
Of course, she should have realized that. She’d been so worried that she’d forgotten this very important detail. “You’re right.” She tried to keep the quaver from her voice. “You helped me today, but that won’t work for long.” All she could foresee was disaster. She’d hoped for assistance from this man, but she admitted now she’d actually been wishing more than expecting. She cleared her mind and asked for what help she could. “Is there anything, any hazard, besides the coming storm, that you could give me warning of?”
