by Laura Frantz
“At God, you mean.”
“Yes, God. That is the very heart of it—and that is one of the reasons I must refuse you.”
He fixed her with a bruising stare. “What kind of God would deny you marriage to the man you love?”
“I—I never said I loved you.”
“You didn’t have to.” He gentled his tone and let go of her. “You care for me as deeply as I care for you, only you do a poorer job of hiding it. You still love me no matter what I’ve done, no matter how hurt you are. There’s no denying it.”
Beneath his keen gaze, she felt exposed, as if stripped to her shift. He was referring to their kiss, surely, looking past their wager over cribbage to the wealth of feeling beneath. Only he was contemplating it with far greater calm.
“Roxie, look at me and tell me you don’t love me.”
She stood as lifeless as Abby’s rag doll, her insides twisting. It hurt her to look at him, to see the raw regret in his eyes, the wearied lines of his striking face. She turned away, but he simply came nearer, the buttons of his coat pressing into the soft silk of her bodice as his arms went round her. Her hat, pushed back by their closeness, fell in a lacy heap at her feet. She began to cry, sobbing into her hands, his breath warm against her ear.
“Roxie, I love you beyond all reason, and I’ll not rest till you’re living in the stone house, sharing my table and bed and all else I own.”
“But you’re about to go on a campaign . . .”
“Till then we’ll take our fill of each other, making many a memory to carry us through the time left to us.”
Her dream returned to her in a poignant rush—abed and about to deliver in the stone house—without him. Suddenly it made sense. He wasn’t there because he’d been killed on some far-flung battlefield, never having known his son or daughter . . . “What if there’s a child?”
“Then I ken there’s no better way to leave you.”
She rested her head against the fine cloth of his coat, feeling the strong heartbeat beneath. The premonition she’d felt sitting across from him in his study returned with sickening clarity.
“No matter what happens, no matter what’s ahead, I’ll not leave you wanting,” he murmured, his calloused fingers a caress upon her damp cheek. “Congress has promised me a fine pension. With that and what’s left of my inheritance, you’ll be one of the wealthiest widows in the colonies.”
She shut her eyes, the pain in her heart so sharp it seemed his words were naught but a knife.
“Roxie, what do we have in this life—except each other?”
What indeed? He was offering her the world—himself, a home, perhaps a child. It was all she’d ever wanted, all any woman could hope for. Her new life could begin in the span of a few moments. She would not have to return to her father’s crude cabin with all its lonesome ghosts but could stay on the hill, the mistress of the stone house. She could love him wholeheartedly and passionately, without reservation . . .
She took a step away from him and saw a shadow pass over his face. Despite the overwhelming check in her spirit, she said, “You were wrong to ask, to presume I would forgive you—continue to love you. I don’t—and I never will.”
He studied her, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes a swimming blue. With her sharp, careless words, she’d wounded his pride and far more. Yet he stood before her straight and silent and noble. He wouldn’t reveal the depth of his hurt. An officer was schooled in many things, particularly stoicism in the face of defeat, even heartache. Her father had been much the same.
For a moment she feared she’d not stay standing. Her grief at their quandary settled over her like a mourning shawl, so cold and heavy it seemed to push her into the ground. She couldn’t shake the sense that by refusing him, by holding on to forgiveness, she’d shut the door on her future happiness—and his. The weight of her twenty-eight years seemed to rush in and crush her. Trembling, she bent and picked up her hat and walked away.
At the edge of the orchard, she looked back, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were on the deep green woods with their flickering lights and shadows. Perhaps he, like she, was past caring that there was no guard. Let the enemy rush in and wreak whatever havoc they would. It seemed far preferable to a barren life.
She walked down the hill unescorted, heart sinking lower with every step. She didn’t know how she summoned the wherewithal to smile and nod at the people she passed on the way to her cabin—as if she’d just returned from a Sabbath stroll, not left her heart and discarded dreams in the orchard. Though she felt utterly broken, she knew he was wounded as well—and she feared the consequences.
Oh, Cass, don’t drink your disappointment away. One day you’ll see that I was right to refuse you.
Yet even as she thought it, she wished for a little blackberry wine to take away the sting of her own unhappiness. She craved aloneness, yet the parade ground was full of spring revelers singing “Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier” and playing with pewter whizzers and rawhide balls. Beneath the lone elm where the Sabbath service had been held, some enthusiastic betting was going on over a well-watched game of cribbage. The sight nearly made her wince, and she shut the door of her cabin, wishing she could shut away her sorrow as easily.
Benumbed, she was hardly aware of setting her hat aside and making tea. She reached for the cup and saucer, but they were no longer resting high on the mantel, their graceful porcelain lines reminding her of all she’d just forsaken. She took a pewter cup and waited for the kettle to boil, startled when a soft knock came at the door.
Oh, Lord, I cannot face anyone now, especially Bella.
Very slowly, Abby pushed open the door. Her face held a rare pensiveness, her pale features twisted with worry. Without waiting for an invitation, she came inside and slipped onto a stool. Roxanna took a steadying breath.
“You’re just in time for tea, Abby,” she said, trying to smile. “Sukey can join us if she likes.”
In answer, Abby set her rag doll at the table with a little acorn cup, placing its cloth hands together as if saying a prayer. Then she took Roxanna’s hands and folded them between her own. The tender gesture touched every raw nerve Roxanna had. With a sob, she sank down on the bench, taking Abby in her arms. Through the emotional storm, she felt a little hand patting her head and shoulder. It was just her and Abby now, and that would have to do.
Thank You, Lord, for a little girl who understands heartache.
29
Cass watched Roxanna walk down the hill, shoulders stooped and steps slowed, as if he and not she had just refused an offer of marriage. Gut instinct told him to go after her, that his hold on her was solid enough she might give in if he asked a second time. But the sting of rejection was too strong, so he shoved sentiment aside and thought of how he’d erred in his asking and might have mounted a better offensive. Despite his best intentions, of not wanting to hurt her from the first, he’d created a double tragedy with his blatant confession and proposal. Her heated words chipped away at any hopes he had of their future together, however brief, and left him hollow, even a bit breathless.
You were wrong to ask, to presume I would forgive you—continue to love you. I don’t—and I never will.
So hopeful he’d been that she’d forgive him—accept him—that he’d told Hank to ready the ballroom and his best dress uniform. Best reverse that order, he thought ruefully, before Hank got to Bella and Bella got to the fort.
Entering through the back door, he heard Hank’s footfall upstairs, high on the third floor. “Hank!”
“Comin’, sir,” came the answering call.
Cass met him on the landing, removing his cross belts and handing them to Hank before unbuttoning his uniform coat. “Shut the ballroom down. There’s to be no celebration.” Though Cass had never said the word wedding, Hank had been hard at work ever since Cass left the stone house for the Sabbath service, clearly as confident as he. And now that it was off, he looked as crestfallen as Cass felt.
>
“You sure, sir?”
“Aye, as sure as the Redcoats are over that river.”
“I’m awful sorry, sir—’bout Miz Roxanna and them Redcoats.”
“You no doubt saw us in the orchard.”
Hank’s face crumpled in concern. “I surely did, though I didn’t aim to. I was airin’ out the ballroom and just happened to look down—”
“I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention it—not even to Bella.” His stern look reinforced the order.
“Guess a man’s got a right to keep his heartache to hisself,” Hank lamented.
Shrugging off his coat, Cass felt the damp linen of his shirt clinging to him in places. The day was too warm for wool, but ’twas his angst over her refusal that left him sweating, not the heat. “The course of true love ne’er did run smooth, so Shakespeare said.”
Hank hung his head. “You be wantin’ some whiskey, sir—or a bit o’ brandy?”
“Nay, spirits are a poor substitute for what I want.” With that, he passed into his room and shut the door, then in one glance wished he hadn’t. He’d walked into a bridal bower.
Flowers spilled out of vases about the room—clusters of redbud and white dogwood in full bloom, and hepatica looking like the sky turned upside down. Fresh linens graced the immense canopy bed, and his best uniform was waiting just as he’d asked. The scent of early summer was everywhere, and the joyous sunlight slanting through the open windows onto the clean plank floor seemed to make a mockery of his misery.
Passing a hand over his jaw, he pondered his next move, then went out and down the curving steps to the sanctuary of his study. Going to his writing desk, he took out a piece of paper and stub of pencil and began to empty his mind of the memory of her. He worked hard and fast as if doing so could expunge his need—a heavy stroke of dark hair here, the thoughtful brow and expressive eyes there, the full, kissable mouth, all contained within the graceful oval of her face.
Finishing, he reached into his breast pocket, removed the locket, and flicked it open. His own rendering was, vanity aside, the superior of the two. He’d captured her just as she’d been in the orchard half an hour before. Vulnerable. Broken. Heartrendingly lovely.
And amazingly resolute.
Leaning back in his chair, he expelled a ragged breath. For the first time in his military career, if not his life, he had no game plan, no counteroffensive. He was left to lick his wounds in private. Roxanna Rowan was proving a formidable opponent. He was more in love with her than ever. And more convinced he didn’t deserve her, or her forgiveness, even had she offered it.
Come Monday, Roxanna had composed herself enough to sit with her lap desk on her knees and write with a steady hand. As if Cassius Clayton McLinn had merely taken her into the orchard to admire the apple blossoms, not propose marriage. She kept her eyes down lest he see straight to her soul and, in his astute way, discover her conflicted feelings for him had only deepened in the ensuing hours, not dwindled. The fact that she’d lied to him—had used her hurt and anger like a weapon against him—stole her peace. His poignant words returned to her again and again, tearing at her heart.
Roxie, what do we have in this life—except each other?
Even now ’twas nearly more than she could bear. She’d considered telling him she could no longer serve as scrivener and thus escape to the kitchen, but he’d behaved so honorably in the face of rejection she couldn’t act dishonorably with him. He’d not been drinking, she knew. The lackluster look brought about by a binge was missing this morning, and she felt profound relief. He was sharp-eyed, terse, and almost unbearably in charge, while she was a quivering mess of contradictions.
Numbly she sat, the officers around her, Cass among them, listening as they discussed the latest reports out of the Ohio country. Despite her heartache, she felt at home in this room, lap desk before her, the scent of leather and smoke and tobacco like old, familiar friends. This was the pulse of frontier life, and she was a part of it. Fort Endeavor’s rise or fall depended on the efforts of everyone present, even she herself in her own small way, and she wanted it to survive if only for his sake.
As she sifted sand over wet ink, she stole a look at him. His arms were folded, his chin tilted toward his chest, eyes upon a detailed map of the middle ground spread across his desk. She wondered how he could stand there looking so nonchalant as if contemplating little more than a game of chess instead of the enemy across the river.
The scouts were speaking in low tones, but the news they brought was chilling. Redcoats were amassing in large numbers at the northern post commanded by Liam McLinn—and so were a great many Indians, not only Shawnee but Wyandot, Miami, and Delaware. Fort Endeavor’s reinforcements were en route from Virginia but still unaccounted for. There were also reports of some schism among the Shawnee—those septs who wanted war and those who pursued peace. Her head seemed to swim with all the details.
“Even if the promised reinforcements materialize, we’re outnumbered twenty to one,” Cass told them. “With so many Indian allies among the British, the war will be waged a far bloodier way. No Redcoat commander, not even Lucifer himself, will be able to keep them in check.”
Joram Herkimer nodded, face grim. “Recent reports of the British and Iroquois fighting the Americans in the east seem to bear that out.”
“I say it’s suicide to cross the river and meet them. They’ll mow us down,” Micajah murmured. “Surely—”
Cass silenced him with a look and gestured to the map spread on the desk. “So you advocate staying put and letting them destroy the settlements instead?”
Roxanna tensed as the next half hour escalated into something of a debate over strategy, Joram and Micajah eyeing one another with barely veiled hostility. It was clear the two men had no great liking for each other. When Cass stepped outside with the scouts, Micajah grabbed the lapel of Joram’s coat, tearing free a brass button. It rolled toward Roxanna and she bent to retrieve it. Before she could right herself, a sudden blow sent Joram reeling backward. He missed her but collided with her lap desk where it perched on a stool. Inkpots, quills, and sand scattered in all directions as an orderly rushed to her assistance.
No one heard Cass enter. They were too intent on Joram as he righted himself and charged Micajah like a wounded bull. Cass stepped into his path, blocking the blow, then took Micajah by his coat collar and propelled him toward the open door.
“Out!” he shouted. “Every man present!”
His voice ricocheted round the room like a spent musket ball and sent them all shamefaced and scrambling onto the parade ground. Only Roxanna remained, gathering up the wayward quills and pots the orderly had missed, watching the spilled ink bleed into the wood floor. Cass knelt beside her and made short work of the mess, but she could feel his anger override his calm of minutes before.
Afraid to say much of anything, she did manage, “I can clean it up, Ca—Colonel.”
“Cass—or Colonel?” He straightened to his full height, her forced politeness seeming to rile him further. “I will not play these games, ye ken. You’ll always be Roxie to me, not Miss Rowan. And I’m still in love with you—and wanting to make you my wife—and I’ll be hanged if I pretend otherwise.”
“Cass, please . . .” His candor made the heat crawl into her face, and she felt a fresh rush of tears.
“Have a seat,” he told her, jaw tight.
She obliged, taking the chair he offered, surprised when he took the one opposite and sat nearly knee to knee with her. She kept her eyes on his hands as he reached inside his coat and withdrew a letter.
Without preamble, he said, “I’m replacing you as scrivener.”
Her eyes fastened on his face, his words hammer-hard and hurtful. She heard herself say calmly, “That is your right.”
His gaze was like river rock, so cold it seemed he’d never been tender toward her. “A soldier’s daughter to the end, aye?”
She didn’t flinch. “What would you have me say? I’ll not beg
to stay.”
He opened the letter. “Then perhaps you’ll be more agreeable to my second offer than my first.”
She realized then how much she’d hurt him by her refusal to marry him, and it softened her toward what he was about to say. Likewise, his voice lost some of its heat, and he leaned back in his chair and looked toward the doorway to make sure they were alone. “Soon after your father died, I dispatched a courier to Philadelphia. I have close friends there—devout Patriots by the name of Alexander and Ruth Hazen. They wrote me back straightaway, but I’ve only just received their reply.”
She took the letter from him, wonder unfolding inside her. Was this the answer to her prayer? The handwriting was a woman’s—light upon the page, as fragile looking as lace. Within the elegant prose was an invitation. The words were so heartwarming they hurt her. She scanned past the introduction to the poignant summons beneath.
Alexander and I lost a beloved daughter last year, and all the life and light in our house seems to have passed with her. It would be a privilege to have Roxanna come and stay with us for as long as she likes—for the war’s duration, perhaps permanently. We are saddened by hearing of her own loss. Perhaps we could be of some comfort, each to the other . . .
She stopped reading, the words a blur of black ink. He’d replaced her as scrivener. She had a chance to make a home elsewhere. The opportunity to escape this dangerous place was open to her as never before . . . and she felt nothing but a gaping emptiness.
Oh, Lord, is this what You have for me, then?
Eyes on the letter, she asked, “How would I get there?”
“A keelboat from Fort Pitt is due any day with a supply of guns and a replacement scrivener. The captain and crew will take you back upriver. ’Tis dangerous, but safer than staying here, ye ken.”
“You want me to go.”
“I want you out of harm’s way.”
“’Tis so . . . unexpected.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized their irony. She’d wanted to leave here the moment she learned of Papa’s passing, and now, mere months later, it seemed a punishment to do so. The realization left her reeling. “Thank you,” she murmured, folding up the letter and pocketing it.