by Lyn Cote
“What I did tell you was the truth. I just left out the fact that I had gambled with your stepfather in New Orleans.”
“That was a very important omission.” Dorritt wrapped her arms around her knees. What did he hope to gain by this admission?
“Omission?”
“It means you left out something.”
“That’s what I said.” He looked into her face, his blue eyes vivid in the low light. “I recognized your stepfather. And I wondered why he acted as if we hadn’t met. So I didn’t say anything.” He shrugged. “I can’t figure out your stepfather.”
He’s not hard to understand. If you remember that he is the most important person in the world. But of course she didn’t say that. I shouldn’t even think it but, Father, it’s so hard.
He searched her face. “Why didn’t your stepfather come after his daughter and me?”
His bold question was no more welcome now than a similar one the first time they’d spoken. She didn’t know what to say to him. Evidently he was used to straightforward people. She couldn’t lie. “Don’t ask me that. Please.”
“Why?”
She buried her face into her bent knees. “There are some things which women cannot say about men.”
He added another piece of driftwood to the modest fire and poked it with a stick. The wet sand and the nearby river made the night chillier than she’d expected. She looked up. He shivered, tried to hide it, and shivered again more violently. Inevitability forced itself on Dorritt. After all, when dancing the waltz, men had held her in their arms. This wouldn’t be much different, would it?
“The fire is good, but I need to keep your chest warm. It’s the only way we have of warding off a fever.”
He looked into the orange fire, stirring it again. “I’m tough. Don’t worry about me.”
She shook her head. Men were so predictable. She motioned for him to come closer. He stared at her and shivered again. After an inner battle, slowly he approached her. He sat down behind her and stretched his wet buckskin-covered legs along the sides of her skirt. His chest pressed against her back. Inside, a hurricane of sensation roared and rocked her. She closed her eyes, trying to stop his effect on her. He moved against her, settling in. She blushed and was glad that the night had enfolded them. Only the firelight flickered.
Finally he spoke, “My father was an American. My mother was Cherokee. When my mother died, I began traveling with my father with whites. So I have met some Americans, but not many. Your stepfather isn’t like the Americans I have met before.”
“Yes, he is unique or nearly so.” She tried to slow and return to regular breathing, but his nearness made this impossible.
The fire crackled. “Unique?”
“I’m sorry.” She sat very still. “One of a kind is the meaning of unique.”
“You sound as if you have learned much from books.”
She was used to hearing this. But for the first time, this man didn’t say it as a criticism. He sounded…impressed. “Yes, I like to read.” Her voice betrayed her, coming out breathless.
“I have sometimes wished that I learned to read English.”
She glanced sideways at his face. Most men who couldn’t read or write would not admit it to a man much less a woman. It gave her the courage to ask, “Is there anything else that I should know about your gambling with my stepfather?”
“I don’t think so.”
Closing her eyes and trying to think of something else, someone else other than Quinn, she’d never guessed that touching a man like this would act upon her so powerfully. But Quinn was still holding something back. She was almost certain.
Late the next morning, Dorritt and Quinn were making slow progress upstream along the riverbank. Since Quinn could not walk alone on his weakened right ankle, they walked with their arms around each other. Now his buckskin shirt shielded her from the feel of his skin against hers. But the ripple of his muscles and the solid weight of him against her still managed to throw her off-kilter. She thrummed with awareness of him. Dorritt tried not to let the feeling of closeness continue bonding her with this man. Awakening with him lying close behind her hadn’t helped. Yet Mr. Quinn had behaved like a gentleman and nothing had happened—outwardly. Inwardly, she knew she was in danger of becoming drawn to him.
“Sister!”
Dorritt looked up and saw Jewell riding her mare toward them. Amos, looking concerned, brought up the rear on the mule.
“Jewell.” Dorritt was surprised to feel disappointment. Her private time with Quinn, this rare instance away from her family, had ended.
Soon, Amos gently helped Dorritt up onto the saddle behind Jewell and then pushed and hoisted Quinn onto the mule and climbed up behind him. Jewell turned her horse and they headed upstream. “What are those on your feet?” her sister asked.
“Mr. Quinn made them for me. My shoes had worn out.”
“Well, I guess I shouldn’t have worried about you,” Jewell said. “I had imagined you lost and Mr. Quinn dead. Instead, you two…” Her voice trailed away.
Dorritt had no trouble guessing at what her sister was insinuating. The best tactic was no response at all. And the memory of being alone with Quinn all was too tender, too special to be discussed in the light of day.
“You may end up married, after all,” Jewell said with sly derision, “now that you’ve been compromised.”
Dorritt maintained her silence. Still, Jewell was ruining the precious aura lingering from last night.
“Spending the night out in the wild frontier—”
Dorritt interrupted her, “Leave it, Jewell.”
Her sister turned and gave her a nasty look. But with pursed lips she fell silent.
Dorritt knew Jewell always found a way to pay Dorritt back for standing up to her. But in Texas, Jewell might finally pay for her recklessness and unkindness. Something told Dorritt that the consequences of foolishness might be even fatal on the frontier. They could have proved fatal yesterday. But there was too much of her father in Jewell to permit common sense.
“Father is champing at the bit to be off. So we must hurry.” Jewell urged her mount to pick up the pace. Before Dorritt expected, she saw their party ahead, ready to leave. Reva pressed a cup of hot coffee into Dorritt’s and Quinn’s hands. Quinn was helped onto his horse, and Dorritt was settled beside one of the ox drivers. The caravan set out. Reva hurried along beside Dorritt and clambered up onto the wagon. She put her arms around Dorritt. “You all right?”
Dorritt nodded, reading in Reva’s expression all the unasked questions she would answer later when they were alone. Dorritt took a deep breath. “I snapped at Jewell.”
“Uh-oh,” Reva said, “we better watch out.”
East Texas proved to be so much like Louisiana that Dorritt had a hard time believing that they were not still on American soil. But three days after crossing the Sabine, she was sitting beside the lead ox driver as the train was traversing a break in the piney woods, a small stretch of meadow sprinkled with blue salvia, daisies, and black-eyed Susans. Ahead, she glimpsed a large contingent of men approaching them, scattering jackrabbits and making squirrels in the nearby trees screech. Seeing armed men dressed in blue and white uniforms riding in ranks made her blink. Spanish horse soldiers?
Soon their caravan was overtaken and surrounded by them. Grim-faced and well-armed soldiers hedged them in on all sides. Tremors of distrust shuddered through Dorritt. Had her stepfather got his facts straight? Were Americans really welcome here now? Stories of Americans who had returned to New Orleans after spending time in Mexican prisons flooded her mind.
The soldier with the most gold braid on his uniform and an intimidating saber on his belt approached Quinn. He spoke to Quinn rapidly in unfriendly sounding Spanish. Her stepfather rode up to the soldier and declared, “I am in charge of this party.”
Quinn turned to Mr. Kilbride. “Do you speak Spanish?”
“No, but—”
Quinn spoke over Mr. Ki
lbride’s denial, “This is Captain Jose Eduardo Estevan Montoya of the Spanish army in Mexico. He wishes to know by what right you have brought a party of Americans onto Spanish soil.”
“Tell him that we are joining Stephen Austin near the Brazos River,” Mr. Kilbride answered.
“I have told him that. But he did not know that more parties would be joining Stephen Austin.”
Dorritt clenched her hands, praying for safety.
“Tell him that we were delayed,” Kilbride went on, sounding glib. “Tell them we are going to pick up some cattle and horses belonging to me at Nacogdoches and then we will head straight to the Brazos to join the main Austin party.”
Quinn translated this. The Spanish officer asked more questions.
Dorritt’s suspicions danced like sparks inside her. What if they reached Austin’s party only to be turned back—unwanted? What if they were turned back here? She gripped the wooden seat to keep silent.
“The captain says,” Quinn continued, “that he sees that you have Negroes with you. Are they free laborers or indentured servants? No slaves are permitted to be brought into Spanish territory. King Fernando VII outlawed slavery in 1817.”
“They are indentured servants,” Mr. Kilbride said.
Appalled by this bald-faced lie, Dorritt nearly swallowed her tongue. Didn’t her stepfather ever fear the consequences of his lies being uncovered?
Quinn translated this and the Spanish officer parried with another rapid question. To Dorritt’s ear, the Spaniard did not sound convinced. Quinn said, “The captain wishes to see the indenture papers.”
“Of course.” Mr. Kilbride rode to the ox wagon where Dorritt sat, and moving a panel from the side, he took out a small metal box. He carried it to the Spanish officer and unlocked it. He handed the Spaniard a stack of documents.
After glancing to make sure they were actually indenture agreements, Dorritt looked down, afraid that her utter shock, disbelief, and fear would be seen and give them away.
The Spanish captain took his time looking over the papers. Then he handed them back to Mr. Kilbride. He spoke to Quinn again. Quinn turned to Kilbride. “He wants to know if you all have bautismo or confirmación papers from a Roman Catholic priest, proving that you are members of the holy Roman Catholic Church.”
Dorritt’s mouth sagged. They were expected to convert? There was no freedom of religion in Spanish Texas?
“Tell him,” Mr. Kilbride said with a smile, “that we’re planning on converting when we arrive at our destination. I take it that there will be a mission church near there where we can become communicants.”
Dorritt clamped her mouth shut. Only fear kept her silent. Here they were in the wilderness surrounded by armed Spanish soldiers and her stepfather was lying and lying. Anything could happen.
Quinn translated the falsehood about Mr. Kilbride’s imminent conversion. The Spanish captain studied Mr. Kilbride for a few moments. He spoke to Quinn. Then he saluted and wished them “Adiós.” The troop of armed men rode off, heading south.
Quinn turned to Mr. Kilbride and challenged, “You don’t really expect to get away with—”
Ignoring Quinn, Mr. Kilbride rode back to the wagon where Dorritt sat. With Quinn behind him, he leaned over and retuned the box to the hiding place behind a false panel in the side of the wagon.
Dorrit could not recall a time when she had been more incensed with Mr. Kilbride. Her white-hot fury radiated from her in intense, invisible waves. He’d brought them into the wilderness without any real agreement with the Austin party, with false papers, and with lies about their religion. Did the man have no fear—even of God? “What do you mean by this?” she demanded, leaning toward her stepfather. “Did you even make contact with this Stephen Austin?”
“How could I, girl? I don’t know him from Adam. I just heard about his deal from Quinn and a few others and came ahead. Austin won’t turn us away.”
Monstrous deception, foolhardy and callous disregard for their safety goaded her to speak. “What was that about our becoming members of the Roman Catholic Church? Why would you tell him we’re going to convert? Do you intend to?”
“No.”
Liar. “And what was that about indenture papers? When did you decide to make your slaves into indentured servants?” she dared him, her words scorching her throat.
Mr. Kilbride shrugged. “I didn’t. I just had these fake documents drawn up in case my having slaves was questioned.”
Shaking, Dorritt clung to her self-control only so she wouldn’t lose the power of speech. “So you mean that you lied about everything to a Spanish officer?”
Mr. Kilbride waved his hand in dismissal. “I’ll probably never see him again. If I do, I’ll just say the same.”
Blistering words exploded from her throat. “Don’t you realize those indenture papers can be deemed legal and enforceable? If anyone wants to know if our people are free, I’ll say yes. I won’t lie. I’ll tell the truth. And make it so!”
Mr. Kilbride’s hand shot forward.
Quinn caught his wrist. Her stepfather tried to pull from Quinn’s grip and could not. Their mounts moved restlessly. “Let me go,” Mr. Kilbride hissed.
“You will not strike your daughter.”
Six
Quinn’s disgust with this cheat and liar nearly made him start swinging his fists. Instead, he clamped down harder on the man’s hand and on his own temper. I didn’t like you in New Orleans. And if you think, I’ll stand by and let you hurt this lady…
Kilbride tried to wrench himself free. Quinn tightened his grip even more. He knew his grasp must be hurting Kilbride now. And he wanted to hurt this poor excuse for a man. Wanted to make him behave toward Dorritt as he should. She was looking down. Quinn couldn’t see her face, shielded by her bonnet brim. Look at me, Dorritt.
“Let go of me,” Kilbride snarled.
Quinn hung on. “You are a man without sense. And you’re a liar. That may have worked for you in New Orleans. It will not work for you here.” Look at me, Dorritt.
Kilbride paid him no mind, just continued to struggle. In vain.
“Here if you tell lies and people get to know that,” Quinn continued, “no one will trust or have anything to do with you. On the frontier, a man’s word, his honor, is everything.”
Kilbride was so beside himself that he couldn’t form words. He became red with anger. Odd sounds came from his mouth.
“Let go of him!” the younger daughter shouted from her gig.
“I will let go of him when he apologizes to Miss Dorritt. She told him the truth and he raised his hand to strike her. I will not let him.” Quinn set his jaw. Why wouldn’t Dorritt look at him? Was she too shamed by her stepfather’s actions? Or ashamed of him for causing a scene?
Quinn held on. The younger sister got down out of her gig and tried to use her light whip on Quinn. Kilbride continued to strain. Quinn snatched it from her and tossed it away. Mrs. Kilbride began to cry. Quinn stared into Kilbride’s contorted face. “You think that just because you are Americans that you can lie to the Spaniards and they won’t know it. Do you know what happened to Philip Nolan, the mustanger? To Zebulon Pike when they trespassed on Spanish soil?” Quinn paused for effect.
Then he continued, letting all his scorn flow out in his tone. “Nolan ended up dead with his ears cut off. And the rest of his party is in prison at hard labor for life in Chihuahua. Those of us with Pike were escorted out of Spanish territory under armed guard. Do you understand? The Spanish are not stupid and they do not tolerate outlaws or trespassers.”
Kilbride stopped struggling and glared at Quinn. His expression made it plain that he did not believe what Quinn had said. The man was a fool.
Finally, still with downcast eyes, Dorritt spoke up in her low rich voice, “Thank you, Mr. Quinn. But you will not teach my stepfather anything.”
Kilbride cursed her under his breath.
Quinn stared at Dorritt. She had intrigued him from the first moment he had gl
impsed her. There had been something in the way she carried herself. Today he hadn’t been able to make Kilbride show her respect, but Dorritt now showed mercy and good sense. She had the right of it. A fool could not learn. Very well.
With his free hand, Quinn pulled the brim of his hat toward her and then flung away Kilbride’s wrist. He waited to see if the man would try to strike her again. But Kilbride was too busy cradling his red swollen hand.
Dorritt said, “I thank you, Mr. Quinn.”
He nodded and rode on ahead, letting the rhythm of the horse drain away his tight anger.
Dorritt spoke quietly to the driver beside her, telling him to get the ox started forward again. Everyone went on, but all looked away from Mr. Kilbride. She sensed everyone’s tension as if it were her own. To whom would Mr. Kilbride direct his revenge?
After the caravan had traveled about a mile, Dorritt slid down from the wagon and walked back to Reva. She fell into step beside her friend.
“Well,” Reva said in an undertone, “that was sure something.”
“I couldn’t believe it. No one has ever stood up for me.”
“And you say nothing happened between you two the other night?” Reva looked away as she asked this question.
“Nothing—certainly nothing such as you are intimating.” Heat flowed through her, recalling Mr. Quinn pressed close behind her. Then dread washed through her in cold waves, sweeping away any pleasure at the memory. Would everyone jump to this damning conclusion, that something untoward had passed between them? “We just talked.”
“That must’ve been quite the conversation. Can we trust him?” Reva met her eyes now.
“I want to trust him. But…” Dorritt opened her arms in a gesture of helplessness. To be defended had filled her with a joy she’d never known, but how would her stepfather seek revenge for this public slight?
“I know, Miss Dorritt. We never had anybody else to trust but each other. Do you think he want something from you? I mean, besides what every man always want from a woman.” Reva looked abashed.
This was a disturbing thought. Did Mr. Quinn have “feelings” for her, want something from her? Oh, no, please. “I don’t know. When we were alone, he didn’t make any improper advances—” She was grateful that her bonnet hid her face from Reva. “—and he apologized for not telling me that he knew Mr. Kilbride in New Orleans. I don’t know what to think.”
