by Laura Frantz
“She seems determined to take my king and might well do so in future. Don’t be fooled. Beneath that tangle of red hair is a formidable mind. She even demands her prize before we play.”
Abby held up her treasure, a tiny cone of loaf sugar, as proudly as if it were gold. And gold it nearly was, Roxanna thought, thinking of their depleted stores. Abby was wearing the dress she’d made her, and the green wool was a nice counterpoint to her unusual eyes and ruby hair. But it was her smile that struck Roxanna nearly speechless. She seemed so relaxed, so at ease with her giant guardian, Roxanna was amazed.
A sudden voice from behind made her turn. Micajah Hale stood watching them, bemused as well. As the colonel moved past her onto the parade ground, his second-in-command took her arm. “It’s not quite eight o’clock, Miss Rowan. Perhaps you’d like to join us for a bit of shooting practice. I’m in charge of an elite rifle company, and we put on quite a show.”
Taking Abby’s hand, she stepped away from him. “Thank you, Major Hale, but the noise of the guns . . .” She softened her refusal with a smile and escaped inside, relieved to find the room empty. A fierce fire blazed in the huge hearth, and she moved toward the colonel’s desk, stifling a sigh. He’d posted her orders on a handbill of sorts, only she found his handwriting a puzzle. Like the man himself. Little wonder he needed a scrivener.
Perplexed, she took up a magnifying glass and studied the jumble of bold letters till they made sense, then sat down to do her work. Abby sat beside her, sucking on her sugar lump, in dire need of a bath. Roxanna studied her a few moments later as she looked up from her work, seeing so much potential, even if Olympia didn’t. If the child could manage a game of chess . . .
With sudden resolve, she decided to go ahead with Abby’s schooling. She would deal with Olympia later. Hurrying back across the parade ground, she retrieved her hornbook, a slate, and stylus. Within an hour, Abby was making a painstaking row of As and Bs.
Pleased, Roxanna kissed her cheek. “Oh, Abby, your aunt will be . . .” She paused, nearly wincing at the sudden thunder of guns. Knowing Olympia probably wouldn’t care, she amended, “I’m so proud of you. Colonel McLinn would be proud too, as he likes fine penmanship. Your letters are straight as soldiers.”
Abby’s face lit up and then darkened as she looked warily toward the window.
“All those men make quite a commotion,” Roxanna lamented. “To your tender ears, especially.”
She cracked open the shutter to find the air full of smoke, the acrid smell stinging her senses. It seemed Fort Endeavor was low on everything but powder and lead. Companies of men were now moving beyond fort walls to the broad level leading to the river.
“Colonel McLinn is drilling again. You’d best stay inside, Abby, and keep making your letters. If not here, the kitchen, perhaps. I’m going to see what all the fuss is about.”
Abby nodded dutifully and returned to her letters. Though reluctant to leave her alone, Roxanna went out and shut the door. She met Bella in a warm puddle of sunlight near the front gate.
Shivering in her tattered cape, Bella flashed Roxanna a wide, gap-toothed smile. “Law, but that gate ain’t been open in months. The scoutin’ parties must have brought back a good report.”
“No Indian sign, you mean?”
She nodded. “No Redcoats neither.” Looking down, she dug in her pocket and handed Roxanna some tow linen. “Best put it in your ears, same as me.”
They moved beyond the shadow of the long front wall, ears plugged, enjoying the expansive view. The river wound in a serpentine shimmer of ice beyond far banks. On their side of the Ohio, all was clear and level, the trees trimmed back to allow for orchards and fields of corn. Crowning the rise at their backs was the stone house, a golden nugget on the sun-drenched hill.
Giving in to a wild reverie, Roxanna saw not the fetid fort, but the grand house with a long porch . . . a summer kitchen . . . a smokehouse . . . full-grown fruit trees . . . a scattering of giant oaks and elms for shade. Just as it had been in her dream. But the sudden storm of a hundred guns stole away her musings, and she turned back in time to see the two Indian prisoners being led through the gates, unchained but under heavy guard.
How proud they looked—and how wary.
The feathers in their dark hair fluttered in the wind, as did the long fringe of their buckskin tunics and leggings. Each wore calf-high, fur-lined shoepacks, and a blue trade blanket was draped around their shoulders. The younger of the two was looking everywhere at once and then, hawk-like, directly at Roxanna. Feeling a twist of pity and then fear, she shivered and moved into Bella’s shadow.
Bella murmured, “They’ve been brought out here to be impressed with all the noise and fuss. And if there’s any more like ’em over on that side o’ the river, they’re welcome to watch as well.”
Fortunately, the far bank was well out of musket range a mile or more away. This morning, at least, the surrounding brush and trees simply held an icy sheen, harboring no enemies. Or so they hoped.
“My, ain’t the colonel in fine form today.” For once Bella’s voice wasn’t sharp with sarcasm but touched with respect. Reluctantly, Roxanna turned in his direction, the music of fife and drums in her ears.
For a few disorienting seconds she felt she’d been cast back to that twilight eve when she first caught sight of him on his white horse, the wind whipping the edges of his Continental cape so that the scarlet lining was visible, his tricorn shading his handsome features.
From the river’s edge his voice boomed loud as a cannon. “I want a feu de joie from east to west.”
A running fire of musketry? Roxanna wondered what he meant.
The men scrambled to do his bidding, forming a tremendous line of sunlit silhouettes, muskets raised. Roxanna watched as the colonel rode to the far right of the long column, shouting another order before taking off at full gallop, just abreast of each exploding gun. Startled, she stepped back and stuffed the linen further into her ears, heart pounding louder than the accompanying drums.
Surely this was no show to impress the two Indian chiefs. Nay, this was . . . suicide . . . assassination. A spy—the spy—might still be among them. The paralyzing realization made her take a step back as she realized her part in it all. She hadn’t told the colonel about the journal, and one of these men might mean him harm. Unwittingly, he’d placed himself in the line of fire. If only she’d gone straight to him with her suspicions—
Oh please, God, no!
At the end of the long line, he whirled about on his winded, excited stallion to the roar of his cheering men. Even Bella clapped her hands as Hank moved to stand beside her. Whirling, Roxanna grabbed up her skirts and ran for the gates.
The icy mud churned and seethed beneath her boots, flinging ugly spatters across her clean dress. By the time she reached her cabin, she was shaking, haunted by the explosive crack and smoke of muskets, feeling she was as small as Abby and fleeing a fire-breathing dragon instead. Shaking, she stood before the warm hearth, acutely aware of the lap desk behind her. How easily the enemy might have shot him. With so many guns, who would ever know who’d fired the fatal shot?
The night before, she’d stayed awake reading every single entry written in her father’s flowing hand, dismayed to discover each as cryptic as the last. There was an enemy, he’d said, but never had he alluded in name or physical description as to who that might be. He’d come close, but then, as if he sensed someone might discover his suspicions, had actually torn out the last few pages, leaving a puzzle she couldn’t possibly piece together.
A savage hurt took hold of her, and she fumbled for her handkerchief, dampening it thoroughly by the time a knock sounded on the door. Bella? There was no use pretending with Bella. Balling her hankie into a fist, she took a deep breath.
The door swung open to reveal Colonel McLinn. He had to duck his head to clear the lintel of the door frame and didn’t wait for an invitation to enter in. Stunned, she took a step back on the dusty hearth stones
, singeing her skirt hem in the hungry flames. The smell of scorched wool filled the closed space between them. Taking her firmly by the shoulders, he maneuvered her away from the fire.
She was acutely aware of her childish tears—and the stern, undeniably irritated way he was regarding her—and felt like crawling underneath the trestle table. Oh, Bella, where are you? She’d never been completely alone with him save his escorting her back to her cabin and was suddenly struck by how intimidating he truly was. He towered over her, seeming to shrink the cabin to the size of a snuffbox. Worst of all was his silence.
Her mouth felt full of cotton when she mumbled, “You might have been killed.”
“’Twas a simple military maneuver, Miss Rowan.”
Her chin came up. Was he making light of her fears? “Nay, not simple, Colonel.”
Not with an enemy on the loose.
His eyes, hard and blue as stained glass, softened ever so slightly. “I’ve been a soldier a long time, and it’s hardened me. I apologize for frightening you. I didn’t . . .”
He hesitated and she filled the silence. “You didn’t see me.”
“Aye, I did. But I kept on. And I’m truly sorry.” With that, he sat down on the bench in front of her, a humble footnote to his apology.
Still shaky, she sank down at the opposite end, hands knotted in her lap, sensing he had more to say. It was sheer work not to look at him. He was no longer the commander here in her tiny cabin but just a man with a mercurial charm, contrite and brusque by turns . . . and terribly appealing.
Eyes down, she waited for him to leave but instead felt the sudden warmth of his hand as he reached over and brushed her damp cheek. The gentle gesture only made her eyes fill again.
He said apologetically, “I have no handkerchief.”
Startled, she revealed the one she held, its lace edges damp and wrinkled. His hand fell away and his gaze skimmed the dark walls as if seeing them for the first time. “Miss Rowan, you don’t belong here. Not in this cabin, not in this fort.”
“Nor do you,” she replied softly. “You belong on a battlefield somewhere in the east, helping win the war.”
“I’ve been on a few battlefields. And we were winning for a season. But now . . .”
She said nothing, waiting for him to finish, wondering if he’d tell her about the trouble that brought him west. Wanting him to.
Instead his eyes turned wintry again. “You might as well know I’m considering resigning my commission in the near future.” He shifted on the bench and his knee brushed hers. “But not until I see you safely settled.”
Somehow this didn’t bring the solace she craved. Thinking how she’d just turned tail and run from the guns still shamed her. “I don’t want you to make your plans around me. Nor do I mean to keep you from military maneuvers or anything else. If there’s an opportunity for you to leave this place, I urge you to take it.”
“And where would that leave you?”
She balled up her hankie again and avoided his eyes. “Colonel McLinn, I’m nearly nine and twenty, more spinster than schoolgirl. My father was wrong to bind you to that promise.” She paused, resurrecting something Olympia once said. “And given all the solitary men on the frontier, I’m sure making a match here would be as easy as falling off a log.”
“Aye, I’m sure any of my men would gladly wed you, Miss Rowan. Not that any of them would pass muster. As for the locals—frontiersmen, trappers, and convicts—you can put that out of your head. Your prospects here are bloody few.”
Her shoulders straightened, and she locked eyes with him again. “I’d much rather talk about your prospects, Colonel. My father once told me he considered you the finest commanding officer he’s served under since the French and Indian War. He followed you to the frontier because of it. If you can leave this place for a better one, I suggest you do so and not give my situation another thought.”
“You underestimate me, then.” Leaning back slightly, he crossed his ankles and folded his arms. He was the commander again, challenging her, staring her down, forcing her to retreat. “What kind of an officer—and a gentleman—would deny a man’s final request to see to his only daughter?”
Oh, they were back to her father again. There was no undoing that final promise.
Stifling a sigh, she made the last appeal she could. “You aren’t ultimately responsible for me, Colonel. God is. Even if you were to renege on your promise, He would not.” She got up and crossed to the corner where the lap desk rested. Opening the top, she touched the spring that released the secret drawer. She took out the leather-bound book and sat down beside him.
“There’s another reason you should leave this place. You may have an enemy within these very walls. My father felt your life was—perhaps still is—in danger.” She leafed through the worn pages with nervous hands, head bent in concentration. “When I saw you riding in front of all your men and all those muskets, knowing at least one of them might mean you harm, I couldn’t stand there and watch . . . so I ran.”
Passing him the journal, she took a long, unhindered look at him as he contemplated the offering. Hands in her lap, she stifled the urge to reach out and ease the tense lines of his brow, smooth away his every worry. The heady scent of bergamot mingled with the sharp but subtle tang of lye and sent her senses swimming. She could no longer remember what Ambrose looked like, or smelled like, or was like. All she knew was Cassius Clayton McLinn.
All she wanted began and ended with him.
Hank had laid a fine fire, full of snap and fury, and its bold light flickered over the blue paneled walls in such a merry dance it nearly shifted Cass’s pensive mood. Of all the rooms in the stone house, the study was his favorite. Here some of the finest craftsmen in Kentucke had left their mark. He took in the deeply recessed bookshelves, the elegant moldings and cornices, and the polished walnut floors, feeling the filth of Fort Endeavor recede with every step.
Removing his linen stock, he made for the wing chair nearest the hearth and eyed the tilt-top table bearing a crystal decanter. Hank hadn’t forgotten his brandy, but he’d forgotten to have Hank help him with his boots. Scowling, he looked down to find he’d left a muddy trail across the needlepoint rug, and ground his back teeth in frustration. Bella would have an unholy fit.
But Roxanna wouldn’t.
He pictured her standing beside him, hands pressed together in quiet delight. Somehow he knew she’d simply shake her head and smile at the mess he’d just made. Or scold him just a bit. Thinking it, he roamed the cozy room with new eyes—her eyes—and felt a deep appreciation. The colorful gros point rugs, the walnut spice cabinet with its little silver key, the blue brocade chair that was twin to his own, the multitude of leather-bound books lining the walls—they would all work to woo her, given he wanted to.
He’d had the house built for many reasons, mainly as a statement of permanence and to put up river travelers. In fair weather, when the Indian threat wasn’t too high, an interesting assortment of courageous guests spilled onto the Kentucke shore. Most sought refuge in the fort, but military men like Generals Hand and Lafayette, and visiting dignitaries like the Spanish governor in Missouri territory, preferred this. And they all said the same thing—the house badly needed a mistress. But he was too preoccupied to play host . . . or wed.
He’d come close on one occasion. But Cecily O’Day wouldn’t have lasted in the wilderness. Nor the colonies. Though the daughter of a British general, she hadn’t the stamina or spirit of her colonial cousins. Women like Kitty Greene, who’d been at her husband’s side at Valley Forge. Or Martha Washington, with her long-suffering cheerfulness. Or Lucy Knox, with her ebullient humor.
Unlike Roxanna Rowan, Cecily would never have entertained the notion of coming downriver four hundred miles into the very heart of danger. Nay, Cecily seemed a hothouse flower in comparison. ’Twas well their foolish passion ended when it did. A few kisses. A few letters. And then she’d wed another. Lately he’d given it little thought.
>
Aye, he had other things to think about. Like the enemy. And who Richard Rowan thought posed a threat. Ignoring his boots, he took a chair and withdrew the small journal from his waistcoat pocket. Since leaving Roxanna’s cabin this morning, he’d carried the book about with him as he drilled his men, ever conscious of its subtle weight, his curiosity at fever’s pitch.
Shelving all correspondence for the time being, he’d given her the rest of the day off, wagering she’d disappear into the blockhouse kitchen soon after. At supper he’d been rewarded with roast turkey so succulent it fell off the bone, buttery spoon bread, and apple tansy, followed by coffin pie and strong coffee.
“Maybe you should let yer scrivener work nights, Colonel, and keep ’er in the kitchen days,” one of the regulars joked.
“And I’ll remind you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Private, or you’ll find yourself on double duty,” he shot back with a scowl.
He’d lingered longest at table and then, when the room was empty, he’d gone into the kitchen to thank Roxanna, only to find Bella and the Redstone women up to their elbows in dirty dishes—and no sign of Roxanna Rowan.
With a sage look, Bella said, “If you’ve come to thank Miz Roxanna for the fine meal, she’s done gone to her cabin.”
Disappointed, he’d left out the sally port, acutely aware of the guard flanking him. Hank threw open the door just as he’d done nearly every night for the past two years or better, bridging the darkness in welcome. As he did, a recurring thought struck Cass hard as a fist. What if the enemy opened the door instead? What if he came face-to-face with a British bayonet? Or an Indian arrow?
Now Richard Rowan’s journal seemed heavy in his calloused hand. He thumped it absently across one knee of his breeches while he reached for the decanter of brandy with his other hand, pouring half a glass. The liquid disappeared in two swallows.