by Laura Frantz
Roxanna listened as through a foggy curtain. Across the room, Bella was regarding Cass with a look akin to horror as the implications dawned. “We’d best keep locks on every tub and barrel we got,” she moaned, moving toward the door. “And the kitchen is wide open right now, just ripe for more mischief.”
She shut the door with a thud that was hardly heard above the pounding rain. Dr. Clary tried to leave, but his horse couldn’t manage the muck of the common, so he sought refuge in the kitchen, saying he’d drink coffee till the weather cleared.
When Roxanna awoke, she found everything altered. Cass had hold of Abby, dwarfing the rocking chair alongside her bed. Pushing up on one elbow, she surveyed them in the firelit shadows. Abby was, in repose, so sweetly innocent with her coppery head upon his chest. His eyes remained closed, long lashes dark against his tanned skin. Roxanna traced the strong planes of his face with her loving gaze as her fingers could never do, and bit her lip to stem the desire.
He was asleep, she guessed, having worn himself out being so sick, the lapel of his uniform coat bearing a slight wrinkle from the weight of Abby’s head. The buttons marching up and down his chest glinted in the flickering light. Abby stirred and settled against him again, and then, when she’d drifted off, he opened his eyes and looked over at Roxanna.
“You’ve come round,” he said quietly, “at last.”
The gravelly warmth of his voice made her stomach pitch, but in an entirely pleasurable fashion. “So have you,” she murmured.
“’Tis the sweetest day I’ve spent since taking command of this post.”
Because she was better, she wondered? As was he?
“’Tis the wettest, surely,” she whispered back at him, her head beginning to clear.
The crack and snap of the fire was the only sound other than the rain pelting the roof. Absently, she wondered where Olympia was, if she’d been searching for Abby. The thought of anyone finding them like this roused her. Roxanna looked down in dismay at her disarray and then at Cass.
Oh, to be like Abby, so at home in his arms, unkempt and uncaring.
Tying the strings of her chemise, she turned her back to him, putting on a dress. He averted his eyes, profile grave as he looked toward the shuttered window.
“I appreciate your concern—my father would appreciate your concern.” She swallowed hard and tried to steady her voice. She felt an overwhelming need to excuse him from her care—it was making him beholden to her in ways she’d not anticipated. Cecily O’Day was here in this room, or so it seemed, shadowing her every thought. Surely she lingered in his.
Unable to bear it a second longer, she blurted, “I—I know . . . rather, I’ve heard . . . there’s someone else.” He looked back at her then, and she nearly lost all her nerve. “In Ireland . . .”
Silence. She could hear the easy rhythm of Abby’s breathing as she slept . . . the fire’s sputtering as raindrops snuck down the chimney . . . her own frantic heartbeat.
He studied her thoughtfully. “There’s no one else, Roxie. Once there was. But no longer.”
She sank down on the edge of the bed, momentarily forgetting her sore stomach, her heart was so full.
“Cecily couldn’t conscience being wed to an American officer, so she married a British one. I came face-to-face with him at Brandywine Creek. But she wasn’t the woman for me. I know the truth of that now.”
Surprise—elation—washed through her. His tone, in the telling, was flat—uncomplaining. Cecily was a part of his past. ’Twas long over. But the way he was looking at her, his eyes misty and warm, seemed to suggest that she—Roxie Rowan—was his future.
Oh, Lord, could it be?
When the door opened abruptly, she nearly jumped an inch. Bella brought in a tray of steaming soup and bread, her voice a rasp on the rain-laden air.
“You three best rouse yo’selves and eat. No one tampered with this here soup, I can tell you. The good doctor and I stood watch over it ourselves.”
With that, she went out and left them to their simple supper. No one said another word. ’Twas a sweet day indeed. Cass was well. Her prayers for his protection had been answered. For just a few fleeting moments she’d given in to the notion that he cared for her, that she was more than just a burden brought about by her father. And that he, during his own angst-riddled prayer for her healing, might have opened his soul to heavenly matters when it had been battened down before.
The rain eased the next morning, but Cass sent a message by Bella telling Roxanna he’d be meeting with his officers and she could stay abed. Despite Roxanna’s protests, Bella insisted she bring her meals to the cabin till she’d fully recovered, so she simply slept, wondering who had tainted the cinchona and how they’d ever find out.
The lull gave her time to ponder her predicament anew. Spring was no longer just a distant thought. Spring had come, and with it was the reminder that she must be making plans, like it or not.
And yet what of Abby? Cass? Even Bella? What would become of them once she left? Her heart was now tied to this impossible post in inexplicable ways. In a strange twist of fate, she realized the people within these inhospitable walls had become her family. A speechless wisp of a girl. An embittered colonel. A caustic ex-slave. And a motley assortment of soldiers.
“Woolgatherin’ again?” Bella had a knowing light in her eye when she returned to the kitchen, Abby in hand.
“Aye, about leaving.” Not about him. Certainly not about the sweet memory they’d made in the sickness and stillness of the cabin. Nor his amazing revelation about Cecily. She felt the heat bloom in her cheeks even as she set the memory aside, knowing Bella missed nothing. Had the women been talking about her—and Cass—before she’d come in?
“You’d best get that notion ’bout leavin’ out o’ your head,” Bella cautioned, handing her a rolling pin before turning to crank the spit of roasting meat at the flickering hearth. “Ain’t you heard the news?”
Looking up from the dough tray, she found all eyes on her. News? She’d heard no news, as she’d been confined to her cabin and Bella had shooed everyone away. Now, within the too-warm kitchen, she realized everyone was unusually quiet. Their strained silence boded trouble, and Roxanna braced herself. Across from her, Olympia was glowering and Dovie’s lip was quivering and Mariah, armed with a knife, was poking ham in a pan like she was at bayonet practice. Roxanna cast a look to the far corners. Where was Nancy?
Leaning into the trestle table, palms down, she fastened anxious eyes on Bella. “What has happened?”
Bella wiped greasy hands on her apron. “Six regulars run off last night, and Nancy’s beau, Billy, was one o’ ’em. When the colonel got wind o’ it, he sent a party out after ’em. Found ’em at daylight near Drownin’ Creek, the whole lot o’ ’em tomahawked and scalped—”
Roxanna clamped her hands over Abby’s ears as Dovie ran sobbing from the kitchen. “Where’s Nancy?”
“Right now she’s in her cabin and won’t come out for nothin’, not even the necessary. She was wi’ Billy when the Indians struck, but she run and hid in some cane and got away.”
At the end of the table, Olympia sat down hard on a stool, eyes full of fire. “And do you know what the colonel said when the search party come back?”
Nothing soothing, Roxanna guessed.
Olympia rushed on, voice warbling with rage. “He said the Indians saved him the time and trouble of a court-martial and he didn’t have to waste any lead or rope enforcin’ it.”
Roxanna nearly flinched. Desertion was a serious offense . . . but so was a callous comment. Her flush of moments before gave way to a cold numbness, though Bella’s dander seemed to rise.
Taking up the rolling pin, she shook it at Olympia. “Don’t you go blamin’ Billy’s sorry ways on McLinn. He and his ilk got what was comin’ to ’em. Looks like even them Injuns knew they weren’t worth marchin’ to Detroit. I hope they divide them scalps in half and collect a double bounty.”
“Bella!”
Under any other circumstances, Roxanna might have chuckled. Knowing Nancy, she’d grieve Billy’s loss keenly for a short time, then take up with another regular as Bella suspected. Roxanna admired her resiliency, if nothing else. “I’ll take her some supper later . . . see how she is.”
Bella skewered the meat with a long fork till the juices ran. “She’s lucky the colonel let her back inside this fort. Word is she aggravated Billy t’ leave, said she wanted to go back to Redstone and get shed o’ all this danger.”
“I can’t blame her for that.” Roxanna began to knead the dough, giving Abby a lump to play with. “I’ve often wished the same myself.”
“Ain’t nobody goin’ nowhere. Guess you ain’t heard about them river travelers either.”
“Nay.”
“Well, a couple o’ flatboats were just ambushed upriver. Seems like the Injuns dress up like white folk and call for help along the bank, then kill any settlers who come ashore. That and this spy bidness is ’bout to kill me. Enough’s enough, I tell you.”
Roxanna feigned a calm she didn’t feel. Turning the tray over, she began rolling out dough to make biscuits, glad to occupy her hands with a simple, steadying task, thoughts atumble.
Oh, Lord, You seem to be hemming me in instead of setting me free.
For an hour or more, not a word was uttered. Bella resumed preparing the meat, and eventually Dovie and Mariah returned to help before the officers came in. Probably to stem Cass’s ire should he find them missing, Roxanna mused. She watched the kitchen door swing open to reveal a long trestle table topped with glittering candles, Cass at the head. Seeing him again after being so sick sent little shimmies of pleasure sifting through her, so at odds with their dire circumstances.
As in the kitchen, there was a somber mood in the dining room tonight. The officers, usually keeping up a steady run of table talk and laughter, spoke in low tones, if they spoke at all. But at least supplies were adequate and they had a good meal to cheer them. Besides all the biscuits for the regulars, Roxanna had made spoon bread for the officers, its golden top rising like a sun-kissed cloud in its iron kettle.
“Law, but you spoil that man,” Bella whispered as Dovie took the creation into the dining room. “He’ll soon be movin’ you to the kitchen o’ the stone house if you ain’t careful.”
Roxanna kept her eyes down, though her insides turned to wax at the thought. “Now you’re woolgathering. I merely meant to make them all a little something to take their minds off the trouble. Besides, it was Papa’s favorite dish—and a favorite of General Washington’s as well.”
Bella sniffed. “It’ll likely just remind McLinn of where he should be instead of where he’s at.”
Would it? Roxanna watched the door swing open once more as Mariah hefted a pitcher of cider to the table. Though he’d never spoken of it, she knew Cass wanted to be serving under Washington again. Bella had told her he was waiting to be called off the frontier and returned to duty in the colonies. Micajah had mentioned there’d been some sort of trouble with his British-allied brother that brought him here, perhaps kept him here. Having escaped charges of treason, Cass was sent west by Washington. In her opinion, being made commander of the entire western frontier seemed a high compliment. To him it was a curse.
Forehead furrowing, she plunged her hands into the dishwater and scrubbed a skillet clean, eyeing the mantel where the cinchona tin used to be. She scarcely noticed the muted voices of the women serving behind the dining room door or that Bella had slipped out to the springhouse. But she sensed she wasn’t alone. Slowly she turned and her heart gave a little lurch.
In the quiet kitchen smelling of baked bread and roasting meat and melting candles, ’twas just the two of them—and Abby. Cass was regarding her solemnly, feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back, as if he was about to issue an order.
“I’m sorry . . . about the trouble,” she said, thinking of the deserters.
“There’s no trouble. Not with you here safe and sound.”
She felt the warmth of his words reaching out to her, as if the present formality between them was nothing but a sham. “I’m much better,” she said, moved by the emotion in his face. “Thank you for praying for me . . . for comforting me.”
“’Twas all too easy.” He moved to stand nearer but didn’t touch her. “I’d rather be with you here, such as it is, than anywhere else on earth.”
His voice was but a whisper, yet it resounded to the far reaches of her mind and heart. As I would, she nearly said, but tears—and a sense of caution—kept her from it.
He swallowed hard, the cords in his neck taut as rope. “I keep wondering why . . . why you . . .”
Her nerves were on tiptoe now, waiting for him to finish.
“Why did you drink the tainted tea?” He looked down at her, his face weary and grieved. “Are you so bereaved about your father—”
She shook her head and recalled reaching for the cinchona tin, confusion filling her.
“Do you hate it here so much—”
Reaching up, she stemmed his words with her fingers. “I—I couldn’t stand the thought of you hurt—of someone doing you harm.” But that was only the partial truth.
I couldn’t bear the thought of being without you.
The thought wrenched her with alarm, and she pulled her hand away. Their eyes locked and held fast. Hers were a bit desperate, she knew—his were haunted. He looked like he was using all the self-control he possessed to keep from pulling her into his arms. She wanted nothing more than this, but he couldn’t—and she couldn’t—
Oh, Lord, a way of escape . . . please.
With a forceful shove on the serving door, Mariah hurried in, shattering their closeness. Roxanna glanced at Abby still playing with her dough, crafting letters on the trestle table, the dusting of flour on her face making her appear more waifish. Suddenly she got down from the bench and slipped her hand into Cass’s own, giving him a heart-melting smile. As Roxanna looked on, her heart was nearly rent in two.
Oh, to be like Abby, oblivious to intrigue and danger, able to love her towering commander with unabashed devotion.
24
Cass sat alone in headquarters, watching the April rain splash the crude pane of the blockhouse window, a copy of the Virginia Gazette before him with news—old news now—of war exploits in the east. He was so far removed from the conflict he sometimes felt he was reading about a different country, and that the men he’d rubbed shoulders with—Washington, Jefferson, Lafayette—were mere shadows half a world away.
Day after day, he waited here in this wild place to be recalled to the heat of battle, but the call never came, and it seemed he continued to hold the Kentucke territory and tried to expand her boundaries for men who’d forgotten all about him.
He pushed aside the paper and looked down at the manual of arms on his desk, thinking of all he’d learned at Valley Forge when Baron von Steuben had unified a dangerous mix of malcontents into a fighting force for General Washington. He’d been one of them. The memory seemed edged in glass, sharp and painful and permanent as any wound he’d earned in battle.
In the years since, he’d tried to hold on to the good things, those shining moments amidst all the misery. There were blessed few. His rapid promotion from major to aide-de-camp to Life Guard was but one, followed by the Purple Heart he’d earned at Brandywine Creek. And then the hero’s welcome he’d received upon arriving at Washington’s headquarters soon aft
er.
Lately each honor seemed as tarnished and unsavory as a copper spittoon. What had they amounted to in the end? A fetid outpost on the fringe of civilization and a king’s ransom of spirits to dull the pain of past and present. And now he was attempting to ferret out a spy, having put the entire garrison on alert to that end.
Reaching inside his breast pocket, his fingertips touched the locket and scrap of paper lodged over his heart. Praying for you. The ink was now smudged, he’d read it so many times. He wondered exactly what she prayed. He recalled his own agonized petitions when he had sensed her slipping away from him in the shadows of her cabin. Stripped bare of all pretense and unbelief, he’d begged the Almighty to make her well. And this time He’d answered.
Simply put, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. She was his first thought upon waking, coming to him each morning in that misty haze of half consciousness that had once left him dreading the dawn. She’d consoled him by bringing the peace and light of her presence to this dreary post, allowing him a reprieve from the near-constant foreboding that shadowed him night and day. Somehow, inexplicably, she’d returned his thoughts to the Almighty. Most miraculously of all, she’d uprooted the bitter memory of a woman he’d once thought he loved and who no longer stood between them.
Yet despite these hard-won victories, he was far from realizing a relationship with her, as he still hadn’t confessed what lay so heavy on his soul.
A soft knock on the door made him shift in his chair. Roxie. He stood, swallowing down the keen disappointment he felt when he saw the orderlies on her heels. He’d not been alone with her—hadn’t let himself be alone with her—since they’d spoken in the kitchen a few days before, thinking it would somehow stem his gnawing need of her. Yet the hold she had on him was steadfast. And today she wasn’t making it any easier.
The clean lines of her blueberry dress only called out all the lush lines of her, making her appear even more alluring, the soft chignon at the nape of her neck teased into stray wisps by the wind. As she passed to her lap desk in the corner, she gave him a fleeting half smile, and he did the same, wanting to send the orderlies out, but he felt so addled he couldn’t think of a good reason to do so.