The Captive Heart (29 page)

“Sí. You said the name. I heard you. It was the first thing you said the morning you woke up in the mine. I thought she must be someone very special to you, since her name was the first word to cross your lips in three days.”

The frown remained, and now he would not meet her eyes.

She watched him closely, the jealousy creeping back in. “You don't remember?”

He lowered himself with his crutches and sat gingerly on a little stretch of sand. Settling back on his elbows, he said hesitantly, “Sí, I remember. It's just . . . I thought it was a dream.”

She pulled at the sides of the goatskin, drawing water into it, waiting.

“It is from the book,” he said quietly.

“What book?”

“You know, the book you gave me last year at Christmas, when you were teaching me to read.
Don Quijote de la Mancha
. It is a big book, a lot of words. But you were right—I read it twice, and by the time I finished I had learned to read as fast as I can talk.”

Straightening up, she corked the flask. Her brow furrowed as she waded out of the creek. “So Dulcinea is someone from this book?”

“Sí. You have not read it?”

“No, I gave it to you. I doubt the church would approve anyway.”

She set the goatskin on the sand next to Domingo. Perhaps a little too relieved to discover that this Dulcinea was only a character from a book, now she wondered why it bothered him so. A prickly pear stood at the top of the bank, gourd-shaped fruits lined up ripe and purple on the top edge. Carefully she broke a few of them off with her knife, gathered them in her hat and sat down beside Domingo. Now that her hands had something to do, she pressed him for more.

“Tell me about this Dulcinea,” she said as she began carefully shaving the thorns away.

He pulled out his own knife and did the same, fidgeting, reluctant to answer, as if his thoughts embarrassed him. His face turned skyward and he squinted at the wheeling parrots for a minute. When he turned back to her the embarrassment was gone from his eyes, replaced by a steadfast resolve.

Chapter 40

D
omingo split open a cactus fruit, pried it apart and bit the ripe heart from it. In a moment he spit out the seeds and said, “Probably it was the cave that made me think of it. In the book, Don Quijote falls asleep in a cave and has fantastic dreams. In one of his dreams he meets the perfect woman, the most beautiful woman in all the world.”

He put his palms against the ground and shifted his weight from the sore hip, wincing with the pain.

“Like Don Quijote, while I was asleep in the cave I had many dreams, but none compared with the last one. I did not know where I was or how I came to be there, but it seemed I was in a cave, dim light flickering from the rocks, and there was a woman hovering over me . . .”

She waited, hardly daring to breathe. He would not look at her. His voice had become very soft, very quiet.

“She was my dream woman,” he said wistfully. “Dark hair lay in shining waves on her shoulders and hung down around a face lit by golden candlelight. As long as I live, I will never forget that face. It was the face of an angel, a face I would die for. A face I would
live
for.”

His hand rose and his fingertips touched his temple, pensively, his eyes shining as if the memory still surprised him. “There was a
moonflower
in her hair.”

He sat still for a moment, remembering, and then said, “I am not an educated man, so I do not have the words to describe what I saw, what I felt. I can only tell you she was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It was the most beautiful moment of my life.”

Now his eyes met hers.

“I didn't know,” he said. “I really believed it was a dream.”

His hand came up slowly, lifting her hair aside and caressing her cheek with a heartbreaking tenderness, exactly the way he had done before.

“Dulcinea,” he whispered, and then he leaned closer and, ever so gently, kissed her lips.

It was more than she could bear. She forced herself away from him and staggered to her feet. Knife and cactus fruit fell to the ground, forgotten, as she stumbled to the edge of the water and knelt down to drink.

“Cualnezqui,” he said gently.

She didn't answer, didn't turn around, but his voice came to her again, soft and persistent.

“Surely you know that I have loved you from the first moment I saw you.”

Still on her hands and knees, Miriam splashed cold water onto her face and watched the droplets shatter her reflection in the pool. Her voice trembled. “Then why have you waited until now to tell me?”

He was quiet for too long. She hesitated, afraid to turn around for fear the moment would burst like a bubble. Finally he spoke.

“Because until this day I did not know how important it was. I have seen my death, and found life. Everything is changed. Days—
moments
—are precious. The sky is bluer, trees greener, the fruit of the nopal sweeter. To pretend not to care for the only woman I have ever loved, now, seems only foolish.”

His words burned the morning air. She pushed herself to her feet and turned to face him.

“Do not toy with me, Domingo.
Fences
, you said. The fences are still there. What of your honor?”

“There is no dishonor in love.”

She could not stop her feet from carrying her to his side, where she knelt in the sand and took his hand.

Her eyes were downcast, staring at his hand in hers as she whispered, “Domingo, you captured my heart from the beginning. I never really had a choice. But you were right, and the fences remain.”

He studied her face for a moment. “Micah?”

“No. I am free of Micah—he has already said he will not marry me now. But what of my father, my religion?”

“I don't know. I only know I could not hide my feelings from you any longer.”

She gazed deeply into his eyes and saw no answer. “Nor will I. But I cannot court you.”

He shook his head slowly. “I am not asking you to court me, Cualnezqui. I am asking you to be my wife. I promise to make you very happy.”

Stunned speechless, her hands came up to cover her mouth, and tears blurred her sight. Somewhere deep within her a key turned in a secret lock. A door opened and flooded her heart with light.

But a great treasure commands a great price. In the very next instant she counted the cost, and the light dimmed. Despair forced her to ask the question.

“Domingo, how will I be happy if I am banned? I was baptized. If I leave the church now, my family will turn their backs on me. I will
lose
my family.”

He lay back on his elbows, staring into the distance. A high sun shattered itself on the rippling stream and sent shards of light flitting silent across the face of the cliffs.

After a while, without moving, he said softly, “You would have me become Amish?”

The thought had occurred to her, but somehow it was not foremost in her mind.

“I would only have you know my Gott,” she said. “After that, I would be content to let
Him
tell you who to be.” Then it occurred to her that she should at least admit the possibility. “But you
could
be Amish if you chose. My father thinks of you like a son. You would be accepted, and it is a good life. I would not be honest if I said the thought didn't quicken my heart.” It was the perfect solution.

His eyes watched the sky, and a sad smile crept onto his face.

“Look at those buzzards,” he said.

She shaded her eyes and peered into the blue, wondering what buzzards could possibly have to do with what they were talking about.

“Do you see anything strange?” he asked.

The buzzards circled slowly in a loose formation a little to the south, not very high up. They soared on an updraft, never flapping, keeping their wings rigid except for the feathers at the very end that worked the wind like fingers.

“No, I see nothing. They are just buzzards.”

“Look closer. One of them is different.”

Squinting, she finally saw it.

“Sí, you are right. One of them is not exactly like the others, but it's very hard to tell. It looks like his head is black where the others are bald, and there is a band of white across his tail feathers. The others are all black.”

“Watch him.”

The buzzards circled, shifting and drifting in a light breeze, constantly making subtle adjustments to the wind. She kept her eyes on them for a long time, thinking perhaps she had missed something until the one with the band on his tail suddenly broke formation.

Flattening his wings against his sides, the bird darted straight down at a dizzying speed. At the last possible second before crashing into the ground his wings spread to catch him and his body pivoted. Thick legs reached out and sharp talons snared a ground squirrel that had come down to the water to drink, strayed too far from cover, and saw the shadow of death a second too late. The bird bent his neck and put a swift end to the rodent's struggles with a sharp beak, then spread his wings and flew away to the trees with his prize dangling from his claws.

“That was no buzzard,” she said.

“No, he is not. He is a hawk who only
looks
like a buzzard. He flies among them and makes himself look like them because the creatures he preys upon have no fear of buzzards. The ground squirrel thinks he is safe until it is too late.”

Domingo let his words settle for a long moment before he spoke again, from a profound sadness.

“Cualnezqui, I could never be Amish. It would only be a lie. I was born a hawk. I could dress in Amish clothes and learn Amish ways, but in my heart I will always be a hawk.”

Never in her life had she felt so divided, so torn, as in that moment. His words sent part of her spiraling into bleak depths, for a very tall fence remained between them. But another part of her heard only the word
cualnezqui
—beautiful one—and that part of her took flight like the hawk.

She took his hand again, held it softly. “I do love you, Domingo. May Gott help me, for I cannot help myself. The feelings I have for you I have never held for another man, and the hours spent with you in this valley have been like another life. Like heaven on earth. There is nothing I want more than to spend the rest of my life with you, I know that now. But if you cannot be Amish, then the only way we can be together is for me to
leave
the Amish.”

Now she looked into his eyes with profound sadness and said, “Domingo, you are asking me to choose between you and my family.”

He waited, watching her eyes, saying nothing and making no move toward her.

“I cannot choose,” she said. “Either way lies a price I cannot bear to pay. I will need time, to think and to pray. I don't know how long. Will you wait?”

He smiled, peacefully, patiently. “I will wait forever if I must. I have no choice.”

———

The next morning, in the pale gray light of dawn, Kyra and Miriam saddled their horses, hitched up Domingo's travois, and headed for home.

Chapter 41

R
achel missed her sister. It had been nearly two weeks since Miriam left, and she ached to see her again, longed to talk to her. She missed their late night conversations after everyone had gone to bed, a time when she and Miriam shared secrets too deep to pass between anyone but sisters, and then only whispered in the dark.

She
missed
Miriam, but she wasn't worried about her. Deep down, some part of Miriam was also part of her, and she never doubted for a minute that if anything happened to her sister she would know it. She would simply know. Until now, at least, there had been no earthquake in the Miriam part of her heart. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, Miriam was safe. If only she could explain that to Mamm.

Mamm was inconsolable, unreachable. Dat said something cracked in Mamm's foundation the day Aaron died, and fear rushed in like water to fill the void. She tossed and moaned half the night, then sat crying and staring at nothing all day long, unable to work or even think straight. Ada, too, had become almost unmanageable without her mother's constant attention.

These were the things that filled Rachel's mind on a sunlit Friday afternoon while she was out hoeing weeds from the kitchen garden with Leah and Barbara.

“Someone is coming,” Barbara said, leaning on a hoe and gazing off to the west.

Rachel was bent over between tall, staked tomato plants. “Who is it?” she asked tersely, a little put out with her youngest sister, whose attention tended to wander from her work.

“Too far away to tell,” Barbara said. “Looks like two Mexicans on horseback coming down the ridge trail way out beyond Levi's, but they don't look like bandits. One of them is dragging something behind his horse.
That's
odd.”

Rachel stood up straight, but she still couldn't see around the tomato plants. “What's odd?”

Barbara shaded her eyes from the lowering sun, squinting. “Their horses. From here they look like standard bred.”

Two Mexicans on standard-bred horses, coming from the west.

The Miriam part of Rachel's heart sent a shock wave up her spine. Her hoe fell to the ground between the rows as she rushed to Barbara's side, her eyes searching the shimmering distance.

Barbara pointed.

“That's Miriam,” Rachel said, with a calm certainty. “Go get Mamm and Dat. Call everybody.”

Then she started running.

It was a joyous homecoming despite woeful stares at Miriam's clothes. The whole family swarmed around her, and then they swarmed around Domingo and Kyra. Rachel had already untied Domingo from the travois and helped him get up onto his crutches before Caleb got to him.

“You've come back from the dead,” Caleb said, shaking his hand, eyeing his wounds. “Maybe we should call you Lazarus from now on.”

A blank stare. “Lazarus? I don't know this name.”

Caleb laughed. “I'll tell you the story sometime. You must be hungry. Come in, let us get you something to eat.”

Domingo winced. “I would, but our mother waits for us at home. She doesn't know.”

“I have to go, too,” Miriam said. “My clothes are at Kyra's.”

Caleb shook a finger at her, eyeing her Mexican laborer's attire. “You're not going
anywhere
this night,
Señor
Miriam. All my children are staying together, under my roof, for
at least
a year. I'll take Domingo and Kyra home myself, in the hack, and I'll fetch your things back. Right now you're going to go in the house and sit with your mother until she feels better.”

Miriam nodded and started for the back door, but Caleb put a hand on her shoulder.

“Go easy with her,” he said softly. “Mamm's . . . not right. After Aaron, and all those babies, then Rachel got kidnapped and you were gone so long—she's just not right anymore, Miriam.”

She found her mother sitting listlessly at the kitchen table, staring into space, oblivious to the clamor around her. Mamm didn't even notice when Miriam came in until she straddled the bench next to her and turned her head gently with a finger, tossing the sombrero on the table and letting her hair fall free.

“Mamm, it's me. Miriam.”

Mamm's eyes widened slowly, then filled with tears. She reached out to touch Miriam's cheek and her mouth formed a quivering O. The floodgates opened as she threw her arms around her lost daughter and buried her face against an Aztec poncho.

While Miriam sat holding her mother Caleb hitched a fresh horse to the hack and helped Domingo into the back of it, propping him up with a buggy robe in an effort to make it a little more comfortable than a travois. Domingo sat up, adjusting the bandanna around his head.

“Where's your hat?” Caleb asked.

Domingo flipped a casual wave toward the western mountains. “Lost it.”

“I see. Wait here.”

He went into the house and came back with a wide-brimmed black Amish hat. Holding it out to Domingo, he said, “See if this fits.”

Domingo took the edges in his fingertips and pulled the hat down on his head. “Fits perfect,” he said. “But this is your Sunday hat, Señor Bender. What will you wear to church?”

Caleb gave the question a dismissive wave. “I'll wear my work hat, and if anyone asks what became of my good one I'll tell them I traded it to get my Rachel back. A hat is nothing. I will never forget what you did, sacrificing yourself like that. You're a hero, Domingo. I wish there was a way I could repay you. No price would be too great.”

Caleb's words only seemed to embarrass the young man because he shook his head and looked away, refusing to meet Caleb's gaze. Clearly exhausted, he lay back against the bundle, covering his eyes with the hat and mumbling something in Spanish.

It sounded to Caleb like he said, “
No estoy tan seguro
.”
I'm not so sure.
Domingo had a habit of deflecting praise as if it embarrassed him—a character trait Caleb shared and admired. No matter. Caleb gave his young friend's shoulder a reassuring squeeze and went to help Kyra up into the seat.

Miriam saw through the kitchen window when her father tied Star to the back of the hack, preparing to leave. Pulling away from her mother's embrace, she said, “I'll be right back. I must say goodbye to Domingo and Kyra.”

Leaving the back door open, she ran out to the hack and gripped the side rail next to Domingo. Her father climbed up into the driver's seat next to Kyra and hesitated, giving her a minute before he urged the horse into motion.

Domingo's head turned, and his fingers came up to touch Miriam's. He smiled.

She whispered the word
Soon
, and backed away. Her father snapped the reins and clucked at the horse. She waved goodbye to Kyra and watched them pull away before she went back inside the house.

———

The news spread quickly, and within an hour Micah came to join the throng at the Bender house, his face lined with regret. Emma, Levi, Mary and Ezra came with their babies, and Miriam was glad for the crowd because it kept her from having to deal with Micah just yet. There was great jubilation over her return, so even though she was exhausted Miriam still spent the whole evening with her family in the living room, recounting every detail of her adventure in the Valley of the Parrots.

Almost
every detail. She left out the important parts. This was not the time to bring it up, especially with Micah right there in the room and the matter still undecided.

Mamm sat close, clinging to Miriam's arm and hanging on every word, and yet Miriam got the sense that her mother absorbed very little. She just clung, saying nothing, her eyes still full of fear.

“There is news here, too,” Micah said. “Freeman Coblentz came to see me when I was out in the field today. His are leaving, going back home. Hannah is just too shook up about losing little Suzie. Aaron was courting Cora too, and then all this bandit business.”

“Hannah always was a little frail,” Rachel said.

Mamm shook her head, dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Poor Hannah,” Miriam said. “I don't blame her one bit.”

“Freeman said they'll be going back Tuesday morning,” Micah added. “It's a shame. His house is half finished, and he already paid for the land. I don't know what they'll do.”

Micah stayed through the evening and helped with the chores. Catching Miriam in the dark on the way back from the barn, he spoke to her alone.

“I'm mighty glad to see you back safe and sound,” he said, “and I'm real sorry I didn't just go with you that night.” Even in the moonlight, without a lantern, she could see genuine sorrow in his eyes, and shared in it, though for entirely different reasons.

“It's all right,” she said calmly. “Everything worked out just fine. We didn't have any trouble at all. I know everybody was worried, and I never would have stayed away so long if it hadn't been—”

“I know. Domingo,” he said, and he couldn't keep the fine edge of jealousy from creeping into his voice. “You already told us all about him. But, Miriam . . . that other thing—what I said about, you know, not being my wife and all—”