The Desires of Her Heart

by Lyn Cote

  The ferryman loosed the rope. At the last moment—Kilbride’s daughter leaped onto the barge. “I’m not your servant. I will go when I wish!” Jewell’s sudden leap caused the ferry to slew slightly on one corner. The ferryman cursed. Quinn clung to the bridle of the startled mare, now stepping high and whinnying. A huge oak branch riding the current came around the bend up-river. It headed right for them.

  “Hold on!” the ferryman roared, leaning hard against the tiller.

  The huge bough broadsided the ferry railing. The barge lurched. Quinn lost his footing. He heard Jewell scream just as she lost her balance and slid into the rushing river. The mare let out a shrill shrieking of panic. The girl screamed again. He had no choice. He heaved the bridle toward the ferryman. Then Quinn plunged into the high water.

  The current was a giant throat sucking him under. He lunged upward. His legs whipped together. His head broke water. Bobbing with each stroke of his legs, he let the relentless current carry him. He blinked, scanning through the watery glaze over his eyes. Another scream.

  He saw her then, ahead, flailing in the water. Her skirts. Her skirts would pull like heavy weights wrapped around her legs. With all his force, he propelled his body forward and then dived under. The churning water prevented him from seeing. But the river was carrying them both in the same direction. He made another lunge forward. He bumped a body.

  He grabbed her and then pushed upward. Her skirts dragged them down. He flexed his legs like a frog and leaped upward. Again he broke the surface, gasping for air. The skirts tangled him in their web too. He spat water and slashed his legs together with all his strength. The shore was only feet away, but how could a man defy the racing current, carrying them away? The girl was fighting to stay above water. Her breath harsh against his ear, she was losing the battle.

  Ahead to the right, a low bush hung over the river. Debris had caught in its lowest branches. Could he boost them into it and gain a hold? There it was—just a few feet to the right. Their chance. He shoved her with all his might toward it. “Catch the branches! Catch hold!” And then the mighty river throat sucked him down.

  After Dorritt lost sight of Quinn and Jewell with the curve of the heavily wooded riverbank, she paced the soggy Texas sand. She tried to block out her stepfather’s ranting about losing his only child and the worthless guide who should have stopped her from boarding the ferry. Why wasn’t he racing down the shore to save Jewell? She almost shouted this at him, but held back. She’d always thought him a coward. And I’m not happy to be proved right.

  What to do…What to do? She halted abruptly. “Amos!” she called. He came, looking concerned. “Amos, get the mule ready for us. You and I are going ahead to find them.”

  “Yes, miss!” He ran off toward the mule.

  She turned and her stepfather was before her. “What do you think you’re doing, girl? Jewell can’t have survived—”

  “Amos and I will ride downriver along the bank and see if we can find them.” She started past him.

  “You’ll only find their bodies. I can’t bear it!” Kilbride moaned.

  Jewell and even Quinn might need help now. She didn’t have time to cater to her stepfather’s dramatics. “I know you want to go,” she lied. “But you must stay to protect mother, our people, and possessions. Amos and I will go and find them. Pray God they live.”

  Hiking up her skirt, she ran toward Amos, who was holding the bridle. She let him toss her up onto the horse blanket and then she motioned for him pull himself up on her arm. She tapped the mule’s sides with her heels. She called over her shoulder, “I’ll be back no later than nightfall!”

  And they were off following a narrow path through the thickly grown brush and pine trees beside the swollen river. Her mother’s horrified hysterical voice, both bemoaning the loss of one child and scolding Dorritt for riding astride, followed them. Dorritt ignored it, her heart hammering. How could anyone stay alive in that rushing current?

  Damage from the hurricane winds and torrential rain complicated their way downriver. They alternately rode and dismounted, walking over and around downed trees and branches, and picked their way through far-flung debris from miles away. Wooden shakes, shattered glass, broken ox yokes, crushed daisies, and small drowned and battered animals littered the footpath worn along the bank. “Let’s just walk,” she said. Amos nodded, took the bridle, and fell in step just behind her.

  “Jewell!” she called as the bank rose higher. “Quinn!” They picked their way over the rough ground. She stopped. Had she heard someone?

  “I hear it too,” Amos whispered as if they were acting in secret. “Let’s ease down by the bank. Maybe we can see more from there.”

  Dorritt nodded. She’d chosen Amos because he was clever and quick. She led him down, gripping branches of bushes and riverside trees as her inadequate shoes slid in the mud. “Jewell!”

  Again it came—sounding like a whisper against the frothing, churning current. They worked their way down, and then the bank fell away just before them. Amos gentled the mule as it tried to pull away from the swollen river.

  “Help!” It was Jewell’s voice, weak and hopeless. Amos made to go to help her sister, but even though he was barely thirteen, he was heavier than she and might lower the branch too much or even snap it. Dorritt motioned him to stay with the mule.

  “No, miss, please, let me,” Amos objected.

  “No, the branch isn’t safe for you. If I need help, I’ll call.” She clung to the branches of the bushes and a downed tree nearest the river. Ahead, she glimpsed Jewell, still buffeted by the current and clinging to its farthest branches. Her heart skipped. Jewell could drive her to distraction. But at this moment, the bond of blood pulled taut. She’s my sister.

  Dorritt hiked her slender skirt and petticoat up to her waist and threw one pantalooned leg over the branch that extended out over the river. “I’m coming, Jewell. Hang on!” Feeling the rough wood bark rasp her thighs, she inched herself out over the river. It sucked at her feet, dragging off one shoe. But the trembling bough held. At last, she reached her half-sister. Gasping from exertion, Dorritt leaned down and tried to pull Jewell farther up. But her sister wouldn’t let go. “Jewell, I can’t pry your hands off without your help.”

  “I’m afraid!”

  “I’m securely on the bough. I’m going to grasp your wrists and pull you up, and you must grab hold of the bough here.”

  “You’ll drop me!”

  Dorritt realized Jewell was beyond reason. But that couldn’t stop her. “Very well. I’ll go back to shore and leave you—”

  “No! Please!”

  “Then do—as—I—say,” Dorritt commanded. “When I grab your wrists, let go and I’ll pull you to me and across the bough. But you must let go! Will you?”

  “Yes…yes!”

  Dorritt made sure she was wedged into a fork of the bough. Then she leaned forward, grabbed Jewell’s wrists. “Now!”

  She yanked and Jewell’s body slued in the current. Her sister screamed. At the last moment, Dorritt jerked again. And Jewell was half on the bough. Dorritt sucked in air and heaved the girl the rest of the way. They clung to each other, gasping.

  She’d saved Jewell. But where was Quinn?

  Five

  Panting, Dorritt half-carried Jewell up the bank to the mule. Amos hurried to help her. Her half-sister was exhausted and drenched, but alive because of Mr. Quinn. “Amos, I want you to put Miss Jewell on the mule and hurry back to our mother. She’ll know what to do to keep Jewell from becoming ill.” People who survived drowning often developed fatal pneumonia.

  “Yes, Miss Dorritt,” Amos agreed. “But what about Mr. Quinn?”

  What about Mr. Quinn? “He can’t be far ahead,” she insisted with paper-thin conviction.

  “That probably be right. But that a fast river.”

  Yes, a fast and treacherous river. “I’ll go ahead—”

  “Miss,” Amos objected, “what Mr. Kilbride say about that?”
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  The question burned like a hot needle. Setting off alone in the wilderness after a man was foolhardy. But if she went back with Jewell, her stepfather was quite capable of forgetting Mr. Quinn’s existence and going on without him. Do I have a choice?

  “Amos, it can’t be helped,” she said, her tone brisk. “Mr. Kilbride will want you to bring Miss Jewell back as soon as possible. Tell them that I’ve gone on ahead to look for Mr. Quinn. We will probably meet up soon and come back together.” Please, Father.

  “Yes, miss,” Amos said with a dubious expression. He lifted Miss Jewell and set her upon the mule.

  “Amos, go ahead and climb up behind her and hold her so she doesn’t fall off,” Dorritt ordered. “Mr. Kilbride might not like you riding behind her with an arm around her waist, but in these circumstances, it can’t be helped.”

  Worry creasing his forehead, Amos nodded and did as she’d told him. Dorritt watched Amos ride away with her half-sister, limply bobbing in front of him. They were out of sight around a wooded river bend soon, too soon. And she was alone. Dorritt took a deep breath and began again picking her way through the storm debris. Jewell had been swept farther downriver than Dorritt had anticipated. Why hadn’t Quinn grabbed the same branch as Jewell? Had he been knocked unconscious or swallowed too much water and sunk…? She stopped her mind.

  Holding up her wet hem, she moved forward, one foot bare. She had already walked a hole in each thin sole of her city shoes. She discarded the remaining shoe, and with each step, wet sand squished between her toes. The image of Mr. Quinn lying white and breathless dogged each gritty step. Father, I need Mr. Quinn. No matter that he’s a gambler and a liar. She called, “Mr. Quinn!” and walked and stumbled and walked.

  The sun began lowering, hovering closer, closer to the tops of the pine trees, which hedged in the riverbank. She paused and gazed at the sky, uncertain and uneasy. That funny jittery sensation that Mr. Quinn aroused in her plagued her. The thought of spending the night alone along the river pricked her, nibbled at her nerves. Go on or not?

  Dorritt couldn’t stop until she found Quinn. If she found him injured but was unable to move him and return to their party, her mother would make Mr. Kilbride send someone for her. That much she could expect from her abstracted mother.

  Tears tried to start. She forced them back by breathing in and blinking rapidly. But the farther she went, the more she doubted she would find Quinn alive or at all. Thinking of losing him in this way—in an unnecessary accident forced on him by her half-sister’s excessive need to always have her way. It was cruel.

  Mr. Quinn had taken advantage of her need of a scout to serve his own ends. Yet, he had a way of capturing her attention and worse, her trust. A very dangerous man.

  Feeling lonelier than usual, she began reciting the Twenty-third Psalm, clinging to David’s words of trusting God and winning through hard times. She halted. Down by the water’s edge, caught in the branches of the shrub was Mr. Quinn’s leather hat. She stepped, tiptoed through debris until she was able to reach the hat and yank it from the shrub. It told her nothing really about his location. But she could not stop a pulse of hope from lifting her spirits. She shouted, “Mr. Quinn!” She picked her way back up the bank to the path and trudged on.

  Hours passed, and then she found him. He lay facedown on the sand. So still. The river turned sharply inward here, forming an eddy, or pool. That must have given him a chance to break away from the quicksand-like current. “Mr. Quinn?” she asked, nearing him, her voice quavering. “Are you all right?” He didn’t move. She sank to her knees and shook his shoulder. “Mr. Quinn?” When she didn’t receive a response, she turned him over. One eye was purpled and swollen shut. His face and neck were scratched and scraped, probably from branches. Diluted blood trickled from his hair down his face. Her breath caught.

  She bent and pressed her ear against his chest. She pressed harder against his wet leather shirt. She heard it finally, his faint, slow heartbeat. Thank you, Father. The tears she’d been holding back leaked down her face. Ignoring them, she sat back on her heels, scanning the area. Only squirrels and birds were watching them. What should she do? She had seen people being slapped awake when they were unconscious, but she wasn’t a slapper. So she again shook one of his shoulders, then both his shoulders. No response. She sat down beside him to wait.

  Before the sun went down, Quinn moaned and moved as though in pain. Never was a moan more welcome. “Mr. Quinn? It’s me. Dorritt Mott.” She got up on her knees beside him, touched his shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

  His eyes fluttered open. He stirred, tried to sit up, but wasn’t able to accomplish it.

  He’s alive. Thank you, Father. She slid her arm over the wet sand underneath his shoulders and helped lift him to sit up. Their faces were so close, her cheek brushed his. Some powerful reaction shuddered through her.

  He panted as if he’d been running. “Where are we?” he muttered, leaning against her.

  She had to stop herself from stroking the head that lay against her shoulder. “Far downriver from the ferry.”

  “The girl?” He gasped, still panting as if each word cost him pain.

  “I found Jewell and sent her back with one of our young men.”

  “Why are you here?” With obvious effort, he looked into her eyes.

  “Because I had to find you. Or at least try to. Where do you hurt?”

  He gave a harsh chuckle. “Let me think a moment.”

  She closed her eyes, waiting, feeling the weight of him on her.

  “There’s something not right about my ankle. Let’s see if I can stand up.” He rolled away from her onto his knees. She got up quickly and offered him her hands, palms up. He hesitated and then took her hands, pushing down and letting her help him stand. She had a time keeping steady under his weight. He wobbled and fell against her, nearly taking them both down. But at the last moment she was able to keep her balance.

  “Don’t move, Mr. Quinn.” She stood holding him close to her, feeling his breath panting against her neck and face and the heaving of his chest against her. Standing pressed against him, she savored the solid feel of him as if she were a feather against rock.

  “I’m as weak as a baby,” he muttered.

  “You were in the water for a long time. I’m hoping you didn’t get any water into your lungs. That could cause a fever. Can you rotate your ankle?”

  “Yes, but it hurts.”

  “Probably just a sprain.” She glanced around in the low light. “Let’s move up the bank away from the water. You might start to get chilly soon.” With his arms around her shoulders and her arms around his chest, they managed to stagger up the bank. His weight nearly overpowered her, nearly took them down several times. Being this intimate with the man, touching him, unnerved her. Finally the two of them fell into a heap where the sandy soil was drier. She rolled away, righting her skirts, breathless. With one easy motion, he pulled off his leather shirt. “Hang this on a branch to dry. Please.” Then he tugged off his high moccasins and cleaned out the sand and pebbles from each.

  Dorritt first wrung out his shirt and then hung it up as instructed. “Thanks.” He shivered. The evening shadows had faded into darkness. How could she keep him warm in the night? True it was still moderate at night, but he’d been chilled to his bones and his lungs needed warmth and protection. But she’d come without a blanket or even a wrap or shawl. Foolish.

  She didn’t know what else to do so she sat down beside him. The situation was so foreign she felt exposed. Rarely in her life had she been permitted to be near a man without a chaperone. Her mind recalled the poor girl in New Orleans who’d been forced to marry because of coming home well into the night from a carriage ride. Thank heavens she was far from where anyone but her family would ever know of this night. And she fought the undertow of emotions being alone with him again was causing. “We should make a fire.” She worried her lower lip. “But I don’t have a flint and everything is so wet.”


  He fiddled with a small pouch at his belt and pulled out a flint box. “Can you reach any of the Spanish moss on the trees? And look around up here for driftwood. There might be some that was too high to be flooded. It has been some time since the rain.”

  Glad for a task, she did as she was bidden. Soon she brought him several handfuls of Spanish moss and driftwood of various sizes and put them in front of him. She sat down beside him again, tucking her skirts around her modestly. Being all alone with the man made her self-conscious. She hoped the fire would catch to keep them both warm from the damp chill of the bank.

  Soon he had a small fire started in the moss, to which he added twigs and then slender branches until finally the larger driftwood caught flame. She sighed with relief at the welcome light and warmth. Sitting with her knees bent, she wiggled her bare toes.

  Quinn pulled another, larger, pouch on his belt and opened it. She watched as he drew out a wet folded piece of deerskin and what looked like a fish-bone needle with a large eye. “Make a footprint in the sand.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to make you moccasins to wear.”

  Dorritt’s mouth opened. Moccasins? Wear Indian shoes?

  Quinn’s jaw firmed. “Do you want to walk barefoot through Texas?”

  She obeyed. Soon he double folded the leather and cut out two soles with ample leather around three sides. Then he cut out two half circles to cover her toes. “Bring me the two longest pieces of fringe from the back of my shirt.” She obeyed him, and soon her moccasins took shape before her eyes. She held them in her hands.

  He grinned. “After you’re done admiring my handiwork, you can try them on.”

  She chuckled, feeling foolish. But it was so rare that someone did something for her without being asked. It was a happy feeling she tried to suppress. This must have shown on her face.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth,” he said.

  His unexpected honesty took her by surprise. Completely. She couldn’t find words.