The Captive Heart (27 page)

———

Miriam found a secluded notch in the creek where the bank was high and the water deep enough to bathe. The water ran cold and blue and crystal clear. Kyra's soap worked as advertised. Miriam took her time washing her hair, listening to birds calling as they flew in and out of their holes carrying what looked like pine nuts. They were lovely birds, large and mostly green, their heads and shoulders adorned with a maroon color that caught the sunlight in a surreal way. They looked like some kind of parrot, though she had never seen one in the wild.

When she got back to the cave Kyra was sitting cross-legged on the floor weaving a basket with fibers she had stripped from the leaves of the soap tree.

“The rabbit stew will be ready soon,” Kyra said.

“It smells wonderful.”

Kyra shrugged. “It will do. I used what I could find—the rabbit, some wild onions, roots and herbs, a couple of peppers and diced
nopales
. I'm afraid we will have to share the pot, but at least we have spoons.” She held up two crude wooden spoons she had carved from a length of soft pine. Kyra's hands were never idle.

“How is Domingo?” Miriam asked, kneeling beside him with a candle.

“He has not moved,” Kyra said, and as she paused to gaze at him the grief and worry welled up in her face. “If he does not awaken soon I fear he never will.”

“I have prayed a thousand times,” Miriam said. “I am afraid Gott will grow tired of me.”

“Pray a thousand more,” Kyra answered softly.

Chapter 37

M
icah and Jake left well before dawn, hoping to find Miriam and get her back before midnight. Caleb sat up with his wife well beyond bedtime, keeping a lantern lit in the living room.

It was Mamm who first heard the hoofbeats. She looked, then jumped up and bolted out the front door into the pitch-dark. Caleb grabbed the lantern and ran after her.

He found her standing in the front yard whimpering, bouncing on her toes. Raising the lantern, he put an arm around his wife to calm her, but when Jake and Micah trotted into the light his heart sank. They were alone. Micah climbed down wearily and held onto the reins as he came to Caleb and Martha, removing his hat.

“We could not find them,” he said. “I was hoping we would meet Miriam on the road between, but when we reached the pass we still didn't see nothing.”

“You didn't find
anything
?” Caleb asked, bracing Mamm for fear she would collapse.

Micah shook his head. “No. The buzzards were feasting on two dead horses, but they were not ours. One of them was the Appaloosa we saw at the logging camp.”

Caleb's head tilted. “Liver and white, front and back?”

“Jah, that one.”

El Pantera's horse. Domingo must have shot it.

“But we found nothing else,” Micah said, his face full of despair. “The rain last night must have washed out the tracks.”

Mamm started to cry. “Bandits, bandits, bandits . . .” Her voice trailed off and she wept into her handkerchief.

Caleb held her tight and spoke reassuringly into her ear. “We don't know that, Martha. We don't know anything. All this means is we don't
know
where they are right now. Let's not make too much of it. They are in Gott's hands, and He has proved His kindness to us already. We must trust Gott, Mamm. And don't forget, Kyra is with her.”

He gave her shoulders a confirming squeeze and started to turn her back toward the house. Pausing, he looked back at Micah and said, “Thank you, boys, for trying to find her. You must be very tired. You should go home and sleep. In the morning we will meet for church and we will pray for them.”

When they went into the house and closed the door Micah was still standing out there holding his reins, lost in darkness.

On Sunday morning, just after sunrise, a ghostly pale column of light filtered down into the mine from the square entrance fifty feet away, outlining the beamed ribs of the shaft in shades of blue. Miriam sat cross-legged in the rock chamber beside a small fire, tending a squirrel Kyra had picked off at first light. A drop of grease fell from the browning meat and the embers hissed and flared.

Kyra had gone to the creek to fill the goatskin. When she brought the squirrel that morning she'd also brought back a sprig from a moonflower vine. There were six blooms on it, big and round and eerily white against the darkness, still open, for they had not seen the sun. No part of the moonflower was edible, and Kyra said the seeds were poison, but she hung the vine on the wall of the rock chamber. “To brighten up the place,” she said.

And it did. The ghostly blooms in the pale firelight brought a smile to Miriam's face as she sat combing through her hair with her fingers. Kyra was right about the soap, too. Her hair had never felt so soft and shiny and pretty. Rising, she pinched a flower from the vine and set it in her hair over her ear the way she'd seen Kyra do.
If only Rachel could see me now
, she thought, and it brought a smile to her face.

A groan came from the darkness on the other side of the chamber and Miriam's head turned, squirrel and moonflower instantly forgotten. She grabbed a candle, held its tip in the fire until the wick caught, then shielded the flame with her hand as she rushed to kneel over Domingo.

His lips moved silently and his head rolled from side to side, tilting back a little, trying to see out from under the bandage. Carefully she lifted the rag clear of his eyes, folding it onto his forehead. He clenched his eyes shut at first, but in a moment he adjusted to the candlelight and opened them halfway.

“Domingo,” she whispered.

His head turned slowly and he held her gaze. He blinked, confusion furrowing his brow, staring as if he didn't recognize her. His eyes traced the dark hair cascading over her shoulders, lingered on her face and the blue-white moonflower in the flickering candlelight.

Miriam held perfectly still, anxious, watching.

A hand rose slowly, weakly, from his chest and reached out toward her, probing. His fingertips brushed her cheek as his fingers pulled back the curtain of hair. The confusion never left his eyes, but his hand gently caressed her face before collapsing, spent, to his chest. The tenderness of the gesture made her blush.

Heavy eyelids gave up the fight, and as his eyes closed a single word formed in the faint whisper of his exhalation.

“
Dulcinea
.”

Miriam leaned closer, listening, but Domingo said nothing else. His breathing became deep and regular as he lapsed back into sleep.

There was a noise of sandaled feet coming down the shaft—Kyra returning. When Miriam turned to look, the moonflower fell from her hair and she felt a pang of guilt, suddenly ashamed of her vanity in such a moment. She picked up the flower and tossed it quickly into the fire. Kyra bustled in, and when she saw Miriam with her candle hovering over Domingo she dropped the goatskin and rushed to her brother's side.

“He was awake just now,” Miriam said. “He turned his head and looked at me.”

Kyra squealed, the news filling her face with light. “Did he say anything?”

“Only one word. I think it was someone's name—Dulcinea.” She glanced sideways at Kyra, her face darkening, a touch of something alarmingly close to jealousy pinching her heart. “Is this someone you know, this Dulcinea? A friend, perhaps?”

Kyra shrugged. “No. I know no one by that name. He must be out of his head, but at least he speaks. This is good. He is getting better, no?”

“Sí. He is delirious—that must be it.” Miriam's eyes turned back to Domingo, but her hand drifted up almost unconsciously so that her fingertips touched the place on her cheek.

———

An hour later he awoke again, and this time he was more coherent.

“Water.” It was a hoarse whisper, his tongue searching, clicking against the roof of a dry mouth.

Kyra brought the goatskin and poured a little between his lips while Miriam held the candle.

“More,” he whispered.

“How is your head?” Miriam asked as Kyra gave him another sip.

“Hurts,” he rasped, clutching at the goatskin. “More.”

“Easy on the water.” Kyra spoke gruffly, but her eyes betrayed her true feelings. She could not deny her brother.

“Where else do you hurt?” Miriam asked.

“Arm, chest, hip, leg,” he said, finally pushing away the goatskin. He tried to raise his head to look down at his broken leg, but he winced and gave it up at once. “My leg hurts all the way to my chin.”

“Your leg was badly broken, bruised from hip to knee, and your head is wounded. I set the leg and splinted it, but you should not move. Rest,” Kyra said.

He moaned. “How long have I been out?”

“Three days. We were very worried.”

“I'm hungry.”

Kyra smiled. “That's a good sign. There is a little rabbit stew left from last night. I'll warm it for you.
Lie still!
”

———

Later, after Domingo had eaten the remains of the rabbit stew and drank half of their water, he looked around and said, “This place is a tomb.”

“You need sunlight,” Kyra said. “Miriam, let's get him outside.”

Miriam and Kyra picked up his litter and struggled up the shaft with him, placing him carefully on the shady slope just outside the entrance, up against the timbers.

“Prop my head so I can see,” he said.

Miriam went back in for the blankets, rolling them to make a pillow and raise his head so he could look out over the valley.

Shielding his eyes with a hand, Domingo squinted. Cotton-ball clouds drifted over limestone cliffs, brilliant white in the morning sun, busy with the comings and goings of the birds.

“El Paso de los Pericos,” he muttered. “Gracias, Kyra. You were wise to bring me here.”

Kyra smiled. “It will be a place of healing.”

“Parrot Pass,” Miriam mused. “I
thought
the birds looked like parrots.”

“Sí,” he said. “They are called
cotorras serranas
. They nest in the cliffs in the summer. Beautiful birds. If you can catch one of the young ones, you can make a pet of it and teach it to talk.”

Miriam chuckled. “I don't think my father would allow any sort of pet that didn't earn its keep, but you're right, they are beautiful. I've never seen such birds.”

“Well,” Kyra said, pushing herself to her feet and adjusting the straw sombrero on her head, “we have another mouth to feed. Now that he is awake there are some things he should eat. Miriam, if you need me, just yell. I should be able to hear you from anywhere in the valley.”

She propped the old Henry rifle on her shoulder and sauntered down through the trees into the sunlight.

“She's amazing,” Miriam said quietly, once Kyra had gone.

Domingo nodded. “There is more to my sister than just a pretty woman.”

But even these words came from a darkness, a somberness that seemed to go deeper than his injuries. Kyra was right—he needed light.

“There is more to you as well,” she said. “You saved my sister's life, Domingo. Rachel and Jake made it back home safe and sound, thanks to you.”

“And Aaron?”

Her gaze dropped away from him and she choked back tears. “No . . .” It was all she could manage.

He nodded grimly. “I was afraid of that. But I'm glad to hear about Rachel and Jake. Things are not as bad as they might have been. I am pleased.”

He did not
look
pleased. The darkness hovered around him, a palpable melancholy. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

“What's wrong, Domingo? Is it the pain?”

He shrugged. “Wounds and broken bones will mend, day by day. I can bear pain . . . of the physical kind.”

He said nothing else, but Miriam's mind lingered on his strange words.

“Are you suffering another kind of pain? Something
not
physical?”

He didn't answer, or open his eyes.

After a moment she reached out and placed a hand gently on his arm. “You can talk to me, Domingo. You can trust me. What is it?”

He sighed deeply and exhaled, “You would not understand.”

“I can try.”

His eyes opened, hard and unforgiving. “Have you ever killed a man?”

So that was it. The battle in the pass. She lowered her eyes.

He lay back and draped an arm over his face.

“So, the fight at the Needle's Eye . . . you took a man's life?” She asked it very gently.

“It was not what I expected.”

“This was the first time?”

A nod.

This caught her by surprise. Domingo always seemed so at ease with violence and death that Miriam had never thought to ask him such a question. She just assumed. That day when the bandits tried to kidnap her on Saltillo Road and Domingo pinned one of them to the ground with a knife to his throat, what she saw in his eyes then was not doubt or remorse but murderous rage. She could still hear her father's words as he tried to stay Domingo's hand.

“It is a great sin to kill a man.”

And she could hear Domingo's seething answer.

“Not in
my
religion.”

He lay still, his face hidden, but he breathed through his mouth, too deeply, swimming in troubled waters. He was human after all.

“You are right,” she said softly. “This, I would not understand. I have felt the heft of many sins, but I pray that I may never know the weight of that one.”