The Desires of Her Heart

by Lyn Cote

  “No. Did they get any of the horses?”

  “I’ll check.” Quinn went down the line and checked with each of the Mexicans and then again with Ash. They had lost one of Kilbride’s mustangs. That was almost as good as it could be. The Comanche would be happy because they had scored one horse. Quinn could be pleased because they probably wouldn’t try again. They were smart enough to know they had been lucky to get away with one horse. But as Quinn jogged to report to Kilbride, he began to wonder why one of the vaqueros had been away from his post.

  After a sleepless night, Quinn was half dozing as the camp came awake for another morning. Though he didn’t open his eyes, he was aware of the sound of voices and the scrape of spoons and the bubbling of coffee and its sharp fragrance on the cool morning air.

  A woman began shouting.

  He was on his feet with his pistol drawn hurrying toward the commotion. The vaqueros and Ash sprang onto their horses to control the startled cattle. Over the bawling of the cattle, the angry voice came again. It was Miss Jewell. An instant crowd gathered around the woman who was glaring and speaking in spiteful tones.

  “What’s the matter?” Quinn arrrived, still gripping his pistol.

  “My silver brush has been stolen.”

  Quinn stared at her in disbelief. “You’re shouting because your brush is gone? Don’t you know better than to make loud noises around a herd of cattle?”

  Ignoring this, Miss Jewell marched up to him. “It is a sterling silver brush. Someone has taken it.”

  “Are you sure you haven’t just misplaced it, dear?” her mother asked. “You often misplace—”

  The young lady turned on her mother. “I know just where it was put last night. My maid returned it with my hairpins and silver comb and silver mirror to my private chest. Everything was stowed away last night. I watched her do it.”

  “Where was the chest kept?” Quinn asked, wondering who might be responsible. He’d seen all four of the vaqueros in and around the wagons. Perhaps this was tied to the vaquero running away last night. Was one of the vaqueros a thief? Or could a slave be trying to pay Miss Jewell back for some mistreatment?

  Miss Jewell folded her arms. “I’ve kept it in the gig. But when we had to leave that behind, I stowed it in the wagon where I sleep at night.”

  “Show me,” Quinn said, moving forward.

  “I told you. It’s not there.” The lady sounded ready to spit hot coals.

  “I believe you. But from looking where it was, perhaps I can figure out who would have the chance to take it.”

  The girl made a sound of disdain, but gestured toward the wagon. “The chest is there, open, right beside the spot where it was stowed underneath a shelf.”

  Quinn hoisted himself up into the large covered wagon, and there was the chest, sitting just where she said. “It is near the back of the wagon. Someone could have reached in and gotten it while you slept.” And many of the slaves had been up watching for a different kind of thief. Quinn glanced around. Had anyone seen anything?

  Dorritt spoke up, “Who would take it?”

  Quinn got down from the wagon, keeping his distance from Dorritt.

  “I’ll bet Reva did it,” Jewell accused with an outstretched arm and pointed finger.

  “Reva?” Dorritt objected, “Why would Reva steal your silver brush?”

  “You’re jealous of me,” Jewell said. “You probably told your maid to steal my silver brush because you don’t have one.”

  Quinn folded his arms and took a step closer to Dorritt.

  “Girls, girls,” their mother cautioned them, “let’s remember we’re ladies.”

  Kilbride was marching toward them, red-faced as usual. Neither sister paid their mother any attention. Dorritt stepped closer to her sister. “I’m tired of your spiteful behavior, Jewell. You probably did this just to stir up trouble—”

  “Enough!” Mr. Kilbride ordered. “If someone has stolen my daughter’s silver hairbrush, it will be found and they will be punished. Now you people get back to your work! We need to get moving. Jewell, you look for that blasted brush later! Get dressed and ready to move. We need to get on the road.”

  For once, Quinn agreed with Kilbride.

  Then a slave, hat in hand, approached Mr. Kilbride. “Sir?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Kilbride snapped, “what is it?”

  Cringing, the man looked down. “I think Amos gone missin’, sir. It was so dark last night none of us saw him go. Then he didn’t come to breakfast. We can’t find him nowheres.”

  Quinn thought Kilbride might have a stroke. Kilbride turned on Dorritt and cursed her. “This is all your fault—coddling these Negroes. Now we know who stole that brush.”

  Dorritt opened and closed her mouth.

  Quinn fought the itch to grab the man by the collar and make him apologize. He tried to swallow down his anger. I can’t do anything. I’d only do her more harm than good.

  Ash spoke up, “Amos might not have run away. He might have been taken by the Comanche. They didn’t get all the horses they wanted, but they might have got the boy.”

  Quinn frowned. “Could be.”

  Kilbride looked confused like a young boy playing a game he couldn’t get the hang of. “Really?”

  Quinn nodded. A pall fell over them all.

  “Should someone go looking for him?” Dorritt asked.

  “No, miss,” Ash replied. “It’s not wise to venture out alone when Comanches are nearby. Even other tribes try to steer clear of them.”

  After an unhappy pause, Quinn said, “We better get ready to start out.”

  “Wait!” Kilbride said. “I think whoever let my mustang be stolen last night will have to repay me for that loss.”

  Quinn glanced at the man. “No.” Kilbride started to bluster and Quinn cut him off, “No, if we five hadn’t been on guard, you would have lost every one of your horses and maybe more—”

  “Maybe your life,” Carlos added.

  Quinn turned away. And the others followed him back to their fire and breakfast.

  “Fool,” Carlos muttered.

  “You got that right,” Ash muttered in return. “How long will a fool like him last on the frontier?”

  Not long. And that was exactly what Quinn feared most. After they reached the Austin settlement, Dorritt would be under Kilbride’s protection, which meant no protection at all.

  Nine

  After the caravan started for the day, Dorritt walked beside Reva near the second ox wagon. In the distance near a clump of oaks, white tail deer scattered, racing away. “Reva, do you have any idea what happened to Amos?”

  “No, but I hope he just run off. If those Indians got him…Amos never lived out in the wild. I’m scared for him.”

  Dorritt shook her head. Dear Father, protect Amos. She had a pretty good idea why Amos had run off—if he had. Her stepfather had been working himself up to whip someone. And it had been clear to her and the other slaves Mr. Kilbride had chosen Amos as his next victim. So Amos had taken the only action open to him.

  Since the gig was beyond repair, a scowling Jewell was now riding with their mother beside the driver of the second ox wagon. Dorritt wondered if Jewell’s silver brush had really been stolen or just misplaced. Or more worrying, had Jewell hidden her silver brush for some devious reason? How could one morning bring so much to think about?

  “Why you think she pointed her finger at me?” Reva asked.

  To continue her campaign to hurt me through threatening you. Could Jewell be that mean? Was taking Reva from her the only way Jewell could think to hurt Dorritt? “I’m not sure,” Dorritt hedged. “Jewell never makes much sense to my way of thinking.”

  “That because you’re not spiteful. That girl always get everything she want. And she is never happy.”

  Dorritt drew in a deep sigh. “Well, she didn’t get to stay in New Orleans. I think I’m just tired of all my family. I know that’s terrible to say—”

  “This child is tired of
them too.” Reva whispered into Dorritt’s ear, “You being a schoolteacher is starting to sound like a good idea.”

  Dorritt nodded. Then in response to another slave’s summons, Reva hurried to help the woman with her baby. Dorritt walked on alone. Even though she faced forward, Dorritt was ever aware of Quinn nearby, herding his cattle and mustangs. She wanted to turn back, walk beside him and talk with him. Her traitorous gaze defied her and she glanced over her shoulder. Their eyes connected. He is watching me too. Just this thought sent a thrill through her.

  She couldn’t stop herself, she looked back again. She couldn’t see Quinn. One of the vaqueros rode up between them, leaving his companions to work the cattle. He drew closer to her and lifted off his wide-brimmed hat. “Buenos días, señorita, I am Carlos.”

  His speaking to her startled her so, she couldn’t reply at first. Then she remembered this vaquero Carlos hadn’t taunted her. Still, her face grew warm. She nodded and began to walk away.

  He dismounted and fell in beside her. “I apologize for my friends’ words the first time we saw you. They did not understand why you wanted to learn to fire a musket.”

  She frowned up at him, wary, fearing he might intend to insult her. “Do you understand now?”

  “I understand, Señorita Dorritt; you merely wished to be prepared for whatever may come.”

  Was he sincere? “Apology accepted.” She nodded.

  “But, señorita, you have many to protect you. There are Quinn and Ash. And now there is Carlos. And Eduardo, Pedro, and Juan.”

  Why was he saying this? As he walked beside her, she studied the man’s face. He was handsome and with an aquiline nose from his Spanish blood, high cheekbones from his Indian blood and dark brown—almost black—eyes. He looked to be around the same age as Quinn and was just a few inches taller than she. He was watching for her reaction to him, something she never liked in a person. She nodded again and then began walking faster. Spooked, a flock of prairie chickens squawked and dashed away through the tall grass.

  “Adiós, señorita.” Carlos put his hat on, mounted his horse, and rode back toward the cattle. What had that been all about? She forced herself to look forward again. Why had he singled her out? She quickened her pace. Was this vaquero Carlos an enemy or a friend? Maybe I’ve just become suspicious. But there had been something in Carlos’s eyes, more than apology. She had seen his unexpected interest in her as a woman.

  That evening after they had made camp and were eating supper near one of the wagons, Jewell recommenced her campaign against Reva. After walking and worrying all day, Dorritt had little energy left for another battle. She massaged her temples and then took another sip of the hot bitter coffee.

  “I know it was Dorritt’s maid who took my brush. She’s mad at me because I said Reva wasn’t doing enough work.”

  “Let it go, Jewell,” Dorritt said, sighing. “Reva does not steal.”

  “What do you know about it?” her stepfather snapped. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” He stood up and roared, “Reva! Come here this instant!”

  Before she could figure out what was happening chaos exploded around them. The cattle bellowed and began to stampede. As the cattle charged, a few slaves yelled and bolted. The vaqueros leaped to their horses. They headed off the cattle, turning them away from the party. Dorritt grabbed her mother, threw her up against the nearby wagon, and pressed her body over hers to protect her. Dorritt stood there panting, unable to move. Then she realized her mother had fainted. Just in time, Dorritt thrust her arms under her mother’s and lowered her to the ground so she didn’t fall. “Jewell, get mother’s vinaigrette with her smelling salts.”

  Reva hurried up to Dorritt. “Miss Dorritt, what’s wrong with your mama?”

  Dorritt began to ask Reva for her mother’s smelling salts, but her voice was drowned out by the hoofbeats. Quinn galloped up beside them. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Quinn’s expression taut with anger. He leaped down from his saddle and put his face in front of Mr. Kilbride’s. “When will you people learn? There must be no loud sudden noises around a herd of cattle.”

  Mr. Kilbride sputtered.

  Dorritt raised her voice. “Please, someone get mother’s vinaigrette. She’s fainted.”

  Her stepfather shoved past Quinn, ignoring him. “Why aren’t you doing what your mistress says?” he demanded of Reva. And he punctuated the question with a slap across Reva’s face.

  “Don’t strike my maid,” Dorritt said.

  “She’s my property and I’ll do what I wish with her. She is as useless as you are.” Kilbride slapped Reva again.

  Outraged words scalded Dorritt’s throat, but she had to hold them in. For Reva’s sake. If Mr. Kilbride stated out loud he was going to sell Reva, he would never back down. Her heart thumping, she said mildly, “Will someone please get me mother’s vinaigrette?” Reva hurried away, her hand pressed against her cheek.

  “Did you hear what I said, Kilbride?” Quinn demanded, just behind him.

  “You are impertinent.” Mr. Kilbride didn’t look his way.

  “And you are stubborn. No one is to shout, scream, or shoot a firearm when we have cattle to herd. Someone could get hurt. Bad.”

  Reva returned with the cut-glass vinaigrette in her hand. Dorritt took it from her, lifted its stopper, and waved the small vial under her mother’s nose.

  Mr. Kilbride drew close and bent on one knee. “Elspeth, are you all right?”

  Her mother’s eyes fluttered open. “Oh, what happened?”

  Mr. Kilbride took her hand in his. “The cattle began to stampede. You fainted.”

  Her mother clutched Mr. Kilbride’s hand. “The loud noise…I’m afraid you must learn to speak more softly, Harley.” She gazed up at Quinn. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Dorritt stayed on her knees, dumbfounded. Her mother had actually said something that proved she was aware of what was going on around her and had scolded her husband. Dorritt and Reva exchanged shocked looks over her stepfather’s bent back.

  “You mustn’t worry your sweet little head over this,” Mr. Kilbride said, stroking her mother’s hand.

  Her mother looked to Dorritt. “Dear, I feel so weak. Would you brew me some tisane tea?”

  “Of course, mother. Right away.” Dorritt rose and with Reva at her side hurried to where the medicinal herbs were stored inside one of the wagons. She opened the box and lifted out a cloth bag of leaves, aware that the vaquero Eduardo had come and was watching her.

  “What you think’s going on here?” Reva whispered.

  “I have no idea.” Dorritt hurried away. What had caused her mother to faint? And what had caused her stepfather to show such thoughtfulness?

  Watching Dorritt hurry away, Quinn swallowed down his bile and climbed back on his horse. When he reached the end of the caravan, Carlos rode up to him.

  “How is the señora?” Carlos asked.

  Quinn didn’t welcome this question. “Mrs. Kilbride just fainted. Miss Dorritt is tending to her.” It had not escaped Quinn’s notice that Carlos had spoken to Dorritt that morning. Showed his interest in her. “Shouldn’t you get back to herding?” The Mexican had the nerve to give him a knowing grin, showing that Quinn’s interest in Dorritt hadn’t gone unnoticed by Carlos either.

  Quinn gripped his saddle horn and wished it were the man’s neck. What did you say to her? And what business is it of mine, anyway? Quinn was too honest not to recognize his own jealousy. But Carlos had as little chance with Dorritt as he did. So why didn’t that make him feel better?

  The next morning was sunny as usual. Quinn sat beside Ash, holding a cup of coffee and staring at the small fire. The Mexicans were tending to their horses, getting ready for the day. It was just about time for Quinn to give the signal they should start. But he had been looking ahead, watching for Dorritt to signal, as was her custom, everything with the wagons was ready to go.

  “That Reva is a mighty pretty girl,” Ash muttered.

  Startl
ed, Quinn looked to his friend’s eyes. “I hadn’t thought…”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Ash grinned and took another swallow of coffee. “Besides, you only have eyes for Miss Dorritt.”

  Quinn’s ears burned. If it had been anybody but Ash, Quinn would have denied it. “Miss Dorritt is a lady. I’m just a half-breed scout.”

  “That’s stupid talk.” Ash sounded disgruntled. “Your pa wouldn’t like you talking like that. He always had pride in himself.”

  “My pa never mixed with ladies and gentlemen. I don’t think less of myself, but I don’t want others thinking less of her.”

  Ash drained his mug. “There is that. But things are changing. She isn’t going to be living in the U.S. I remember when he was getting up his expedition Zeb Pike said to me, ‘The frontier is the great equalizer.’ He said that when some white gentlemen tried to talk him into firing me. Pike was right. On the frontier, it doesn’t matter who you were born to be. It matters what you know and can do. You can do a lot.”

  “Maybe.” Quinn noted Dorritt was standing beside one of the Conestoga wagons and looking back at him intently, her signal the caravan was ready to move whenever he decided. He liked the way they worked together. He rose. “Time to get moving.”

  Ash got up also, smothered fire with dust and poured out the dregs of coffee from his cup on it too. Then he stowed his mug and climbed into the saddle. Quinn signaled the vaqueros and wagon drivers and then rode to the head of the train. Quinn tried not to think about Dorritt and her plans to become a schoolmarm in the Austin settlement. He tried not to watch her as she walked beside her mother, who was sitting on the second wagon. He tried not to notice Carlos riding close enough to watch her. The caravan bumped along over the coarse grass of the prairie. Mile after mile.

  With a jerk, Quinn realized the wagon with Dorritt’s mother on it had suddenly stopped. And there was a commotion of women around it. He rode toward the wagon. When he arrived, he dismounted a way off.