by Laura Frantz
Her mind—and heart—were already leaping ahead to Philadelphia, to a new life, albeit reluctantly. The blockhouse receded, and she envisioned elegant papered walls and a sitting room in the Hazens’ fine town house. Music. Books. Dancing. Sparkling conversation. Only she was still a spinster, filled with bitterness over what had befallen her here, her every thought of him . . .
“Roxie.”
The empty scene snapped shut, and she looked at him again, obviously unrepentant and bent on sending her away. But his tone was tender, and his eyes, such a startling, soul-arresting blue, held hers as only a man in love could do.
Could it be?
“’Tis best for the both of us, ye ken,” he said.
There was no denying this. Once apart, they could get on with their lives . . . forget. She’d go to Philadelphia and he’d return to Williamsburg, or Ireland perhaps, though he might well be hung as a traitor there. Truly, the Hazens’ invitation seemed a godsend. She’d think no more about his plans or the future he claimed he wouldn’t have.
He stood and his voice rolled over her, crisp in its finality. “I’ve no more need of you today. I have to discipline my men.”
She glanced down at the ink stains on the floor and felt it was her heart twisted and bleeding upon the pine planks instead. Setting her lap desk aside, she stood and forced herself to say, “Thank you for making the arrangements for me.”
Their eyes met and held, and then she looked away. For a few seconds she thought he might take back the letter and throw it into the fire. His expression was, for the briefest of seconds, besieged. She tried to translate that look and couldn’t, for it didn’t match the man she’d come to know. Certainly not the man in charge of the entire western frontier. Seeing him thus shook loose what little security was left in her ever-changing world.
In the golden half-light of dusk as she left the necessary, Roxanna felt someone shadowing her. Taking the lavender-scented handkerchief from her nose, she turned to see Graham Greer standing by the corral where the officers’ horses were milling restlessly. Cass’s Shawnee stallion snorted and blew as she passed, as if chastening her for the apple peelings she’d forgotten.
“Might I speak with you, Miss Rowan?”
“Hello, Private Greer.”
He removed his tricorn and held it over his heart. A charming gesture, she thought, even if he hadn’t meant it to be. They’d not spoken since the Sabbath service, though it seemed he was intent on doing just that in the fading light. When he hesitated, she was struck by a latent realization. Was he truly smitten?
Her own throat felt bone-dry, but she managed to say, “’Twas a fine Sabbath service—and well attended.”
“I’m afraid it’s to be my last.”
“Oh?” She felt a strange twist of regret. “Are you leaving?”
He smiled and offered his arm. “We’re leaving, Miss Rowan. Colonel McLinn assigned a guard to guide you to Philadelphia. I’m personally responsible for seeing you safely to the Hazens’ doorstep.”
Her steps nearly faltered. “He—what?”
“Half a dozen regulars received orders to that effect today. I have a letter of introduction right here.”
“Yes . . . of course.” Feeling caught off guard, she tried to summon good sense. Since learning of the Hazens’ invitation this morning, she’d been unable to push past her hurt to think of the particulars. Of course Cass would have assigned a guard—he’d not leave her unescorted with polemen of questionable character. “Thank you for telling me.”
They walked slowly past the sally port, moving under the deep eave of the commissary that afforded more privacy. She was barely aware of katydids croaking a throaty tune beyond the walls and bursts of laughter erupting from a near porch. A multitude of eyes followed them from every quarter. One thing she wouldn’t miss upon leaving Fort Endeavor was the utter lack of privacy.
“What will you do once you see me safely there?” she asked quietly.
“I was hoping you’d ask that.”
The conversation had taken an intimate turn. Graham’s gaze held hers in a way only a man with romantic notions would do, and she found herself studying him in a new way. His eyes—were they blue or brown? Why hadn’t she noticed how attractive he was? The answer sprang to mind in a heartbeat.
Because she’d been drowning in Cass McLinn.
“I’m thinking of staying on in Philadelphia for a fortnight before making my way back to Virginia,” he said.
“I heard you have a farm in Fairfax County.”
“Aye, on the main road near Thistleton Hall.”
Her heart did an absurd little dance. Home. “I know it well.”
“Mayhap this is too soon, but I’d be pleased to take you there.”
She paused, a bit lightheaded. Since Cass’s confession—and proposal—she’d hardly eaten, and now, amidst this turn of events, she felt faint. Lord, is this my way of escape? Relief and grief tugged at her so fiercely that tears came to her eyes.
He studied her in the half-light. “If you don’t mind my saying so, there’s a bit of talk about the fort that you and the colonel have parted company. I wouldn’t press my suit otherwise.”
She bit her lip and balled her hankie into a fist, glad when they resumed walking. “I’m flattered by your offer, but my life is in such disarray I think I’d best ponder it all before making any plans.”
“I understand,” he replied. “But if it’s any consolation, I’ve been praying and feel the Almighty has brought us together for a purpose.”
Had He? Graham sounded so sure, and she clung to his words like a drowning woman being thrown a bit of ballast. She was about to embark on yet another journey. If she made it to Philadelphia, what then? The Hazens’ home shone bright as a beacon in her stormy thoughts. If she was ever to forget Cass, might she meet someone in the city? Or should she simply accept Graham’s invitation and return to Virginia?
Oh, Lord, things are happening so fast. Please make the path plain to me.
30
Dawn’s intrusion through the windows was a welcome sight. Around midnight Cass had been jerked awake by a dream so disturbing it took all his will not to cry out. Sleepless ever since, he’d lain awake in the humid darkness, only to have Roxie rush in and banish the blackness. Roxie with her violet scent and inky hair and soulful eyes. If he couldn’t have her, hold her, he could still possess her in the stillness of daybreak and feel his arms around her in sweet recollection.
Lately he’d prayed for God to guide and protect her, to let her go to Philadelphia in safety and peace. Yet without her—without her steadying, comforting presence and her prayers—he felt himself slipping further into darkness. Despite her avowals that she didn’t love him and never would, she seemed the last shred of light he had against the coming campaign. His dread of what awaited him deepened by the day.
Liam’s malevolence seemed to be reaching across the river, ruffling that smooth expanse of green water, encroaching on his sleep. In his dream he’d faced him, faced his Redcoat army and a great many Indians, his own men having deserted him. Liam was demanding he give an accounting of his sins. Somehow—but how?—Liam knew about Richard Rowan and the men mistakenly shot at dusk. Because of this, Cass was to be stripped of his commission and sent to Ireland in disgrace.
Outside the window a lark trilled, and he reached for the locket he’d taken out of his uniform coat the night before. On the bedside table it lay open, a keepsake Roxanna didn’t know he had. Snapping it shut, he felt a despair he’d never known. He was sick to death of secrets.
Roxanna stood up in her garden, lush vines of melons and gourds in a green tangle at her feet. With one hand she steadied a bowl of peas against her hip, and with the other she shaded her eyes against the glare. Lately she always seemed to be looking upriver for the keelboat that would take her east, but since Cass had told her of its coming the week before, nothing except a heron or two had disturbed the water. It flowed green and empty past Fort Endeavor as
if taunting her packed trunk and unmet expectations.
Turning, she thanked the guard who’d stood watch as she’d worked, and made her way to the sally port, careful to keep her eyes off the stone house. It was quiet this morning, as Cass had gone downriver on some business at Smitty’s Fort. She’d seen him and the guard ride out, leaving Micajah Hale in command. A lingering cloud of dust rose in the wake of a woodcutting detail that had just exited the gates. Inside the fort, regulars were busy about the parade ground and commissary, and it seemed a great many more men were on watch than usual.
All around her, birdsong threaded the warm air and the sky was an unclouded blue. Kentucke was a paradise, she mused, but it still needed an army to defend it. Would it always?
She entered the kitchen, thankful to find it empty, and wrinkled her nose at the smell of burned bacon and greasy eggs. It being washday, Bella and the Redstone women had gone to the river and left the cooking to her and Dovie. She lifted a linen cloth and peered at a giant mound of dough cocooned in a wooden tray, then started shelling peas. Her garden was hardly big enough to feed the entire post, so she named it her officer’s garden, giving its bounty to “the chosen twelve,” as Bella called them. LeSourd had shot a buffalo, and two huge roasts were spitted over a smoky fire just beyond the back door. Though she disliked the gamey taste, the men seemed to relish it.
Perspiration beaded her upper lip as she finished the peas and began peeling a small mountain of potatoes. Adding some of both to the stew Bella had started, she turned to find Dovie filling the doorway to the dining room, hands full of fresh herbs. Her plump face was creased with concern, her waist so expansive that Roxanna wondered if she might deliver sooner than planned. Or might she be having twins?
“I hear you’re leavin’ on the next keelboat.”
Her expression was so plaintive Roxanna felt a spasm of remorse. Was Dovie hurt that she hadn’t shared the news? “I—it’s only just been decided.” Truly, she’d been so steeped in pain and the suddenness of the plan she’d given little thought to anyone else. “I’m sorry, Dovie. I was going to tell you . . .”
Crossing to the table, Dovie set the herbs down and fingered her apron. “I disbelieved it when Bella told me. I was countin’ on you bein’ with me when the baby comes.”
“Colonel McLinn has made the arrangements, otherwise I’d stay. Things have become so . . . complicated. ’Tis better I go.”
Tears glittered in Dovie’s eyes, turning her touchingly childlike. “I never thought you’d abandon your friends, Miz Roxanna. You’re needed here. I need you.”
“But you have Johnny, and Mariah and Nancy—”
“That ain’t the same. Everybody says you’re helpin’ hold this post together, nearly as much as Colonel McLinn. I know you don’t believe it, but it’s true. Johnny says since you’ve come, the colonel’s a changed man. And that bodes well for the rest of us. If you go, you’re liable to take the heart right out o’ this place.”
“But we can’t stay penned up in this fort forever, Dovie. We have to get on with our lives, whenever the opportunity presents itself to leave this place.”
With a sigh, Dovie nodded halfheartedly, her gaze searching. “You all right, Miz Roxanna? You look a mite peaked.” Raising a hand, she brought the hem of her apron to her brow. “This kitchen’s so hot I’d rather be on wash duty down at the river, Injuns or no.” Turning, she moved to open the back door wider, securing it with a bucket.
Swallowing down the knot thickening in her throat, Roxanna asked, “Dovie . . . does Johnny ever . . . talk about the last campaign?”
“You mean the one when your pa—and them others—got killed?” When Roxanna nodded, she said, “He don’t ever mention it, least to me. But he’d be the last man to speak ill of Colonel McLinn, respectin’ him like he does.” She perched on a stool, mouth drawn. “Now, Johnny ain’t so fond of Major Hale.”
“Oh?”
“Got a chip on his shoulder as wide as that river out there, Johnny says. And he ain’t too fond of Hank neither.”
Raising a handkerchief to her own damp brow, Roxanna said, “Please . . . think no more of it.” She began taking out bread pans, greasing them and setting them out by rote. Wordlessly they formed the dough into loaves to let rise, and Roxanna fought the expanding ache in her chest. Finally she said, “Dovie, I’m not feeling well. I’d best go back to my cabin for a spell.”
“You go on, Miz Roxanna. I can finish up here.”
On her way across the dusty parade ground, she spied Cass coming through the postern gate atop his stallion, two officers and the guard in his wake. Anger flared inside her, hot and bright as a candle flame, only to be extinguished by a rush of relief. Outside fort walls, he was ever so vulnerable. She never felt at rest when he was away.
Especially since she’d removed the protective covering of her prayers.
“Keelboat comin’!”
Roxanna heard the regular’s hoarse cry and wished she could share in the excitement it wrought. In the sultry May twilight, she watched half the parade ground empty as she stood in the doorway of her cabin. Since the officers were still eating, the regulars were assigned to welcome the boat in. In a few days’ time it would take her upriver, once the cargo was unloaded and the relieved crew drank enough rum to brave the trip back east, so Bella told her.
She turned and took in her packed trunk. Already the tiny cabin had an empty, inhospitable feel. Who would occupy it next, she wondered? Whoever it was, she pitied them. She sat down, weary from a long day in the kitchen. Moments before, she’d left the serving to Bella and the Redstone women, overwhelmed with all that faced her. Philadelphia promised a refuge . . . peace. But would she ever reach it?
Dovie’s words still haunted her, made her feel she was indeed abandoning them all. Thrusting through her turmoil was Abby’s little face—Abby, who seemed on the verge of emerging from her silent cocoon, the only soul who seemed to bloom in this dangerous place. If Abby spoke, Roxanna would be gone and wouldn’t witness the miracle.
She left the cabin and joined the soldiers hurrying to the river. But before she was halfway down the hill she sensed something was horribly amiss. The vessel seemed to be limping along, and only one man was standing on the broad deck. Had there been a plague? A fight? One long look confirmed the latter. Pausing by her garden, she could see the devastation littering the keelboat’s deck. Goosebumps crawled all over her.
She was barely aware of Cass coming and taking command of the situation, his calm a startling counterpoint to her trembling. Though no one said a word, she surmised in a few brief moments the truth of the matter. She wouldn’t be leaving Kentucke now—perhaps ever.
A sheen of perspiration that had nothing to do with the Kentucke heat speckled Cass’s brow as he set foot on the riverbank. Everyone seemed to be watching him, gauging his reaction to so much carnage in so small a space. Ginseng and molasses and rum poured forth from hatchet-marked crates and barrels around the fallen men. Flies swarmed in black clouds over both cargo and bodies, and the stench was nearly unbearable.
Swallowing down the bile backing up in his throat, he waded through the water in his boots till he could grasp a hemp rope and help haul the vessel in. The lone man at the tiller regarded him with hollow eyes. Cass had seen that look in soul-sick men after battle and could feel the morale of those watching plummeting all around him.
There was no reason the lone riverman should have been alive—save one. He’d been spared solely to deliver a message. Cass sensed it even before he boarded the boat. Pity stabbed him as he took in the older man’s trembling hands and ashen face and noticed he leaned on the tiller not to steer it but to support himself. It took great effort for him to fumble inside his soiled linen shirt and pull a paper free. A sudden gust of wind snatched the missive from the man’s bony fingers, and it landed at Cass’s feet.
“You’re safe now,” Cass told him in low tones, retrieving the paper.
The man nodded jerkily and looke
d back over the deceptively tranquil river. “Mebbe . . . mebbe not.”
The scarlet seal of the letter seemed to confirm the dire words. Cass tucked it inside his coat and reluctantly turned toward the bank. His glance landed on Micajah, but he hardly heard his own order. “Bury the bodies and burn the boat.”
He glanced uphill and saw Roxie standing by her garden fence. Even at a distance he read misery in her gaze. Turning away, he began searching the vessel, putting together the pieces of this macabre puzzle that held particular significance to him. This was the embodiment of his bad dream—yet another part of the terrible premonition that his life was now measured in days . . . hours. The evil he’d felt was indeed reaching across the river. Every one of his senses, straining with the stench of blood and buzzing insects, told him so.
As soon as he stepped onto shore, the burial detail got to work. He trudged up the hill, careful to avert his face from the woman whose fate was in his hands and who, if he’d had his way and sent her upriver, might well have ended up among the carnage.
Roxanna pulled her gaze from Cass’s retreating form and tried to get the attention of the guards who stood as woodenly as the chess pieces in office headquarters, their eyes trained on the river and woods. Finally one did break rank and return her to the fort. Thanking him, she spied Abby just inside the sally port, the chaos of the moment engraved on her small face.
Forcing a smile, Roxanna held out her hand, solaced when the grubby little fingers found her own. Oh, but she was in dire need of another bath. Lately Olympia had been ignoring her altogether, and her red crown of curls was naught but a briar patch. A bit of rose soap and a clean linen shift would soon set her to rights again. ’Twould be a blessed distraction, Roxanna thought, if she could keep from breaking down.