The Desires of Her Heart

by Lyn Cote

  Finally she rose still unsteady, rinsed herself, patted herself dry, anointed herself with the rose-scented cream, and slipped on the gown. How marvelous. Still her sense of physical well-being warred with her nagging uncertainty. And her sense of loss. Would she ever see her mother again? Reva? Quinn? Why had she been brought here? And why did Carlos work as a vaquero when in fact he was a caballero, a gentleman, and a dueño, a landowner?

  The last golden rays of sunset were about to fade and leave her in darkness. She approached the high imposing bed, also of polished dark wood. A bath, a clean nightgown, a chair, a bed. Luxuries. She smoothed her hand over the fluffy feather pillows, the cotton blanket, and the muslin sheets, starched and pressed just like at home. This place was pure bliss; it was like coming to a home she’d never known.

  She breathed out a long, deep sigh. Then in gratitude, she dropped to her knees beside the bed on the wooden floor. She tried to pull her thoughts together, but her deep fatigue, pain, and bewilderment made all but the simplest prayer impossible. Heavenly Father, I don’t know where I am, but you do. You have brought me to this land, this place. Protect my family, Reva and Ash, and Quinn. Then she slid between the sheets, resting her head on the feather pillow, and she was dreamlessly asleep.

  Quinn awoke in the jacal, thirsty and sore. He passed his dry tongue over his parched lips. Some time in the early hours of morning, he had finally worked off his bounds. His wrists and ankles were chafed, but they were free. He sat up and looked around the inside of the small hut. There was nothing inside it, but the jug and him. Lifting the dried gourd jug, he resisted drinking the last of the water. He needed to find a well or spring or creek near here. There might be, and his horse would need water badly. He stood, still feeling the painful knot the size of an egg at the back of his head. Another matter he would take up with Eduardo with his fists. As soon as he could find him.

  Quinn stepped outside and looked around. They had left the prairie behind. So he knew he’d traveled south. South of the prairie was drier, higher grass and fewer trees. But over the three days since he’d been drugged, how far south or west had he been carried?

  Quinn’s horse came to him, nickering. Quinn poured some of the water from the jug into his cupped hand and the horse licked it up. He repeated this slowly so as not to waste water until he had drained the jug. Then he rubbed his horse’s nose and apologized for not having more. Just before Quinn mounted, he noticed a flash of silver among the low grass. He went over and knelt down and found his knife stabbed into the sand. And then he noticed around the corner of the jacal, his saddle. A coincidence? Not likely. So he’d been left a jug with water, his mount, his saddle, and his knife. Then he heard it—the faint trickle of fresh water over rocks. A spring! No wonder there was a jacal here. It would be a sign to travelers there was water nearby.

  He found the spring in the side of the ridge, trickling between rocks. He drank the cold water until his teeth felt numb. Then he made a shallow rough trough out of scattered rocks and dry grass. He brought his horse and let him drink. Finally, he saddled his horse and turned it toward where the North Star had been the night before. Well, he’d been left all he needed. But either way, he would make Eduardo sorry, make the Mexicans pay. Carlos had not concealed his interest in Dorritt.

  Where had they taken her?

  His empty gut burned. He started north, looking for any creek that would lead him to the nearest river. Images of Carlos touching Dorritt’s hair, holding her in his arms tormented Quinn. Maybe Dorritt was too good for Quinn, but she was also too good for the Mexican vaqueros. I did everything I could to protect her. But, in the end, I couldn’t. Images of her being abused, hurt tormented him. Also now her reputation would be sullied, which would do another kind of damage to her. His outrage gave him strength. I’ll find you, Dorritt. And they’ll pay. All of them.

  The next morning Dorritt awakened and stared into a strange face. It was a pretty little Spanish girl of around five years, with dark hair and eyes, smiling down on her. Dorritt blinked, not trusting her eyes.

  “Buenos días, Señorita Dorritt.”

  Dorritt pushed herself up, her muscles screeching, no. “Buenos días. Who are you?” How stupid. The child wouldn’t speak English.

  “I am Alandra Maria Inez Sandoval, hermana de Carlos Benito Juan Sandoval.” The child curtseyed.

  “Oh, my, you are a clever girl. You’re so little to speak English.”

  Alandra grinned and turned back and forth, making her navy blue ruffled skirt swirl out.

  Then Dorritt remembered the Spanish word hermana. It meant sister. “You are the sister of Carlos?”

  “Sí, sí, he is at el desayuno. Breakfast.” The little girl took her hand and tugged it. “Venga, por favor. Come. Please.”

  Dorritt stayed in the bed. “Please wait. I need to dress.”

  The little girl nodded with enthusiasm. “Sí, sí, vístase.”

  The large-hipped Mexican woman who had helped her the night before bustled into the room, speaking rapidly in Spanish. She waved the little girl out, bobbed a curtsy to Dorritt, and helped her dress. The dress and undergarments Dorritt was given to wear were a bit old-fashioned and a little too large. But it felt so wonderful to be wearing something clean and pressed that Dorritt overlooked these shortcomings. She smoothed her hands over the deep blue cotton as she looked down at it. This was the dress of a lady, not a servant.

  Here in this room she almost felt safe, could almost forget she didn’t belong here. But this was just one part in what must be the large hacienda of Don Carlos Sandoval. She recalled arriving here last night and finding that Carlos was a man of property, not a humble vaquero. Of course, he had never behaved as if he were just a vaquero. She should have recognized that in the way he bowed and spoke in a cultured voice. His disguise as a vaquero had been good, but there had been many hints of his true identity.

  As if thinking of him had somehow summoned him, Don Carlos Sandoval appeared in the doorway, dressed as the landed gentleman he was. “Señorita, Dorritt, you look lovely this morning.”

  Dorritt looked at him, her mouth going dry. When would she get enough courage to ask him exactly why he’d had her brought here? Could she trust what she was seeing now? Could she trust this man’s courtesy as genuine?

  “I hope your night was comfortable. I have a few minutes to sit with you at breakfast before I begin my rounds.” He offered her his arm.

  Though gripped by a feeling of moving in a waking dream and apprehensive of what might happen if she did not take his arm, she complied. He led her through a house, which startled her with its elegance. Paintings of highborn Spanish ladies with mantillas and patrician-looking Spaniards, polished dark wood and leather furniture in a spare but elegant style, brass candelabras and sconces, finely-slatted shutters closed on what must be the east side of the house, deflecting the heat of the morning sun. Again, she could not hold back her honest reaction. “Your home is very lovely,” she murmured.

  “I am very proud of it. My father and mother came here from Mexico City over thirty years ago. It was a complete wilderness, and out of it they made this.” He waved his hand as he led her into the central courtyard of the house.

  “Oh, how beautiful.” The sight of the red petunias and cactus blooming in the partially roofed courtyard forced the words from her.

  Carlos beamed at her. “Please be seated, señorita.” He clapped his hands and a young woman who addressed him as “Don Carlos” came out, bearing a tray with a pewter platter of ripe melon, a kind of flatbread, and scrambled eggs. “The bread is called tortillas,” he said. “It is different from the yeast bread you are accustomed to, but I think you will like it.”

  Dorritt nodded and helped herself to the platter while the young woman filled a cup with fragrant coffee, mixed with chocolate.

  Don Carlos also accepted a cup. “I ate much earlier.” He dismissed the girl with a nod.

  For a few moments, Dorritt sipped her coffee and then took
a bite of ripe melon. Its juice ran down her chin and before she could, Don Carlos caught the juice with his starched white linen napkin. She looked into his dark eyes and then she looked away, shaken. Only Quinn had ever looked at her that way. She only wanted Quinn to look at her that way. Not this man who’d become an enigma.

  “Did you pass a comfortable night?” he asked.

  “Need you ask?” She smiled though her lips trembled. His very ease of manner frightened her. “A bed after weeks of traveling with a wagon train?”

  He nodded.

  She took a deep breath, drawing of all her courage, preparing herself, to ask him exactly why he’d had her brought here.

  Another Mexican entered the courtyard. Hat in hand, he hurried to Don Carlos and spoke in urgent Spanish. Don Carlos looked displeased and rose. “Excuse me, please, I must attend to business.” He bowed over her hand and then hurried off with the Mexican still speaking rapidly beside him.

  As if she had been watching, little Alandra hurried out from the house and scampered over to Dorritt. She sat down in the seat Don Carlos had just vacated. “I sit with you, señorita. You are muy linda, much pretty.”

  “So are you, Alandra.”

  The little girl wrinkled her nose at the compliment. “My brother said you simpática, nice.”

  Dorritt merely smiled at this.

  “You be good esposa for my brother.”

  Dorritt recognized the Spanish word “esposa.” She sat as if petrified, as cold wave after cold wave of fear washed through her.

  Sixteen

  Enduring the hot afternoon of his new freedom, Quinn finally came to a creek. His horse was the one who really found it, sniffing the air and then heading straight for the shallow water. Mesquite, tall grasses, and stunted cottonwood trees twisted around the creek bed. While his horse drank slow and long, Quinn waded out into the calf-high creek and then lay down and let the cooling water flow over him. It was so good to wash away the sweat and dust of days on the trail.

  Finally, Quinn led his horse out of the creek, hobbled him, and then went upstream to a place with a rapid current flowing. Only then did he bend down to drink. It wasn’t icy Colorado mountain spring water, but it slaked his thirst.

  He used his bandanna to scrub the sandy grit from his face and neck. Then he lay back on the grassy bank to let his buckskins dry while he watched his horse drink and graze, drink and graze. The relief of drinking fresh water and the comfort of lying in the shade, clean and cool and no longer thirsty, chafed his raw guilt.

  Each day that had passed had fueled his concern for Dorritt. He tried to close his mind to what might be happening to her. No matter her inner strength, she was a defenseless woman in a strange land in the hands of dishonorable men with no friend at hand. He scrubbed his face with his palms as if he could scrub away the horrible images in his mind. He knew what lawless men were capable of. I can’t think of that now. I have to stay steady. Find her.

  Lying there in the shade of the cottonwoods, he once again went over everything Eduardo had said to him those two painful and humiliating days Quinn had traveled trussed up with a sack over his head. He had Carlos’s family name: Sandoval. He remembered there was a family, a wealthy family of the name Sandoval south of San Antonio. Not much to go on.

  He stood and retrieved the water gourd jug he’d brought with him. Today he’d made it to the first thing he needed to succeed. He had found a creek and a creek would lead him to a river and the river would lead him to people. He hoped he would reach San Antonio on the San Antonio River. If not, the only other settlement was Santa Dorotea farther south and east. He knelt and filled the gourd, his hands cooling in the running water. He doubted these wealthy Sandovals would be closely related to Eduardo or Carlos, but every family had its black sheep. But maybe they would tell them how to find these two.

  He clicked his tongue and his horse ambled over. Quinn hung the filled gourd on his saddle horn. Then he gathered up the bridle, mounted, and headed eastward along the creek. I’ll find you, Dorritt. And if anyone has hurt you… Anger scorched through him. He tightened his control. Emotions clouded a man’s judgment, but brought back sharp memories. For one instant, Dorritt’s silky hair slipping through his fingers. The thought that some other man might be touching her—He stopped right there. Even though they had never exchanged words of love, Dorritt would be depending on him to find her. Because he had protected her, she’d said she honored Quinn as a good gift from God. Whether that was true or not, Quinn wouldn’t fail her.

  From a distance late that afternoon, Ash and Reva, both on horseback, watched as the Anderson and Kilbride parties along with the soldiers arrived in San Antonio and drew up to the imposing adobe walled fort called the Alamo. For the month of October it was still hot, and he’d spent too many years up north. Ash wiped his perspiring face with the red bandana from around his throat. He wondered, with only a speck of interest, what would happen to the Anglos now. After no luck tracking Quinn or Dorritt, Ash had turned back and caught up with the wagon train. “I know you’re worried, honey,” Ash said, his own jaw tight from tension.

  “I know you did your best,” Reva murmured in a defeated voice.

  “We’re not beat yet, Reva.” He touched her soft shoulder. “Just because each trail broke up doesn’t mean anything bad has happened to your lady or my friend.” His own failure felt like a thorn dug in deep, close to his heart. “If Eduardo and Pedro wanted Miss Dorritt and Quinn killed, they didn’t need to take them far away.” And we would have found their bodies.

  “I believe that. But my heart doesn’t feel it. For so long, it’s only been just Miss Dorritt and me. We could never count on her mama or Mr. Kilbride or anyone. We just had each other and God.”

  “That sounds like Quinn and me after his father passed. But Quinn and me always set a place where we’ll meet up if we have to part on the trail. This time it was San Antonio. As soon as Quinn gets free, he’ll head to here.”

  Reva nodded. “I’m worried that Miss Dorritt might have been hurt. But even if nothing bad has happened and we find her, I don’t want anybody here knowing Miss Dorritt has been alone with maybe three men and no chaperone.” Reva’s voice caught and she had to swallow. “If this gets talked about among the white folk and people believe it, there will be nothing left of her good reputation. It won’t matter she didn’t go willing. Something like this always marks the woman not the man. She’ll be branded ‘soiled.’ And she’ll never be free of it, not if she live to be a hundred.”

  Feeling as sad as his bride sounded, Ash nodded and urged her mount forward but kept track of the cattle surrounding them. He knew if anyone dared to speak against Dorritt, Quinn would call that man out and kill him. But would that help Dorritt’s reputation? No, Reva was right. It was the way of the world. A man played and the woman paid.

  Just as Ash was going to move his wife and cattle along, he noticed the Mexican captain. As if he were the King of Spain, the Mexican captain motioned for Mr. Anderson, his two adult sons, and Kilbride to enter the stockade of the fort with him and his troops. Still surrounded by Mexican soldiers, the four Americans walked into the Alamo, stiff and straight. Left with the three wagons, Mrs. Anderson, her daughter, Jewell, and Mrs. Kilbride looked apprehensive, watching their men being marched into the walled fortress.

  “Ash,” Reva murmured, “I don’t really care what happen to Mr. Kilbride. But he married to Miss Dorritt’s mama.” She appealed to him with her worried expression.

  He sighed for effect. “I had to go and marry a softhearted woman.”

  Grinning, Reva smoothed her palm along his cheek. “Maybe the soldiers here will have seen Miss Dorritt.”

  Ash kissed her palm. “You’re right. They might have word of her or Carlos or Eduardo. You follow me and then wait outside the walls.”

  Reva nodded, and the two of them nudged their horses toward the large fortress with many buildings and a stone mission church whose arches were high above the adobe wall. “It
sure a big place,” Reva said, sounding impressed.

  Ash slid from his horse, helped his wife down, and handed her the reins. Then he walked to the sentry post. After he had explained to the soldier who he was and why he wanted to enter, he was allowed to go in as far as the courtyard. The three Andersons and Kilbride had been left standing in the hot afternoon sun in the large courtyard of the fortress, guarded by two soldiers. The captain must have entered a building, probably the commandante’s office. The four Americans glanced sideways at Ash, who’d paused beside them.

  “What are you doing here?” Kilbride growled.

  Ash folded his arms, looking straight ahead. “My bride doesn’t want anything to happen—” he kept his tone even “—to the man who is married to Miss Dorritt’s madre.”

  “We don’t need help from the likes of you,” Anderson said.

  “You already speak Spanish, then? My, my, that only took a couple of days for you to learn. Guess you don’t need me.” Ash made as if to move away.

  The oldest Anderson son, Cole, spoke up, “Wait. Please, will you be our interpreter?”

  Ash glanced at the red-faced man who sounded as if the words had been wrenched from him. “That’s what I came here for.”

  Anderson started to object. But then the second son spoke up too, “We need him, Pa. We could end up in jail here or sent to prison in Mexico City. Pride is well and good, but right now we need somebody who understands these people and their language.”

  Ash grinned. Necessity and fear could make a man admit weakness. “I’m glad to see that one or two of you has some sense. It never occurred to you that if you moved to Texas, you’d have to deal with Spaniards and Mexicans?”

  Cole replied, “We needed cheap land to start over, and how many Mexicans are there in Texas? Pretty sparse. We planned on sticking to ourselves at the Austin settlement. Let Austin handle all the Mexicans and Spaniards.” His opinion of dealing with these “lesser” people came across all too plainly.