The news of Hancock’s return and the grim report he brought spread through the fort like smallpox—rampant and deadly. Rosina loosed a sigh.
There was little sense pondering what would become of them all. Only their Maker knew. Days passed. Life went on in unbroken monotony. Animals were tended, meals prepared, crops cared for. A semblance of normalcy, a bid for the future, shone through in the announcement that young Peggy Nelson was to wed her sweetheart, Aaron Winter, on the coming Saturday. There’d be a frolic following the service. Though some protested against the noise dancing and fiddling would make, Boone had agreed to the festivities, promising to station extra guards where needed.
Sitting in the semidarkness of Jemima’s cabin, mending one of Flanders Callaway’s hunting shirts—Jemima had always hated stitching, even her own husband’s garments—Rosina pondered the coming frolic. She’d not attended one since her own wedding, and she remembered little of that, the hours lost in a haze of misery. Of fear at what would follow later, after she and Jeremiah retired to their private quarters.
Her fears had not been unwarranted.
Of course, she’d not dance at this frolic, heavy with child as she was. She’d nothing fine to wear, no dress at all, save the one she’d fled to the fort in. Of course, few boasted finery, with provisions scarce as they were. Peggy was wearing Jemima’s best gown to be wed in, and Rosina’s next task, after finishing Flanders’s shirt, was altering it to fit the girl’s slighter frame.
A small figure appeared in the cabin doorway. Rosina smiled and beckoned Chloe Stuart to where she sat by the hearth. Wee Shadow, Rosina sometimes called her. Three years old, the only one to survive an attack of fever that swept her family last winter, the child had latched onto Rosina for some inexplicable reason. Chloe now lived with the Nelsons, but though Mistress Nelson doubtless tried to look after the girl, her own passel of seven least’uns left her little time to tend another’s child.
“Come, Chloe.”
Little Chloe stepped inside, clutching a small cornhusk doll in her chubby fists. Her curly blond hair hung in a mass of unkempt tangles down her back. Her bare feet made dusty prints on the puncheon floor.
She held up her arms in a silent plea.
“In a moment.” Rosina smiled, laying aside the mended shirt and crossing to the chest at the foot of Jemima’s bed. She lifted the lid and pulled out a comb. Chloe followed her movements with wide eyes as Rosina dipped a rag into the bucket near the fireplace.
“First, let’s tidy you up a bit.” Chloe submitted as Rosina wiped dirt and who knew what else from her cheeks, then proceeded to comb the snarls from her hair. “We must have you looking pretty for the party tomorrow night.” Perhaps she might dance after all. Rosina smiled at the thought of twirling little Chloe as the fiddlers played. Goodness knew, the girl needed some joy in her young life after the loss of her father and mother, stricken along with Chloe’s older brother.
The sun shone plentifully enough outside the cabin. What they needed was a bit more of it inside all their hearts. Her own, weary and bruised after the long months of marriage to Jeremiah, and then his sudden demise. Chloe’s, orphaned inside a fort that, at times, seemed like a powder keg ready to explode with the smallest spark.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Rosina called, focusing on brushing out a particularly nasty tangle as gently as she could.
She didn’t expect Silas Longridge’s tall frame to fill the doorway. And fill it he did. The man’s presence always made postures straighten, gazes turn. He owned command like a mantle, covering his broad shoulders with as much ease as the buckskin shirt he wore.
“Good day to you, Mistress Whiting.” He punctuated the sentence with a nod. Unlike Boone, Silas frequently left his broad-brimmed hat behind. Sunlight wove itself through the jet of his hair.
“Good day, Captain Longridge.” Rosina’s hands stilled from their ministrations to Chloe’s hair, and the little sprite took the opportunity to squirm free. She raced toward Silas with a squeal and launched herself at his leg, wrapping her arms around it. Rosina stood with an amused smile.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Miss Chloe Stuart.” He bent and swung the little girl high. Her high-pitched giggles filled the tiny cabin. Rosina watched, a sudden wrench in her heart. Who would play with her child as only a father could? Who would provide a man’s strength and presence in her child’s young life?
Jeremiah would’ve done the job poorly. But at least it would have been something. Now her babe would have only her.
Could she be enough?
Still holding Chloe, Silas turned to Rosina. The little girl busied herself with the fringe on his buckskin hunting shirt, bare feet dangling.
“How have you been keeping?” The cabin was too small for the both of them. He stood close enough for her to catch the intermingled scents of sunlight and soap and an indefinable fragrance that could only be called … Silas.
Rosina’s cheeks flushed at her mental cataloging of his scent. She hoped the semidarkness of the cabin prevented him from taking notice.
“Fair enough.” She rubbed her lower back, easing out a kink. The more her child grew, the easier she wearied. “I’ve been busy. Helping Jemima. Cleaning, sewing, and suchlike. You?”
“Doing what I can to prepare the fort. Mending rifles. Making gunpowder. Out of all of it, the simple act of waiting is the most wearisome. ’Twould be easier if something, anything, would happen. That I could contend with. But the job of waiting, wondering … I must confess, is not my favorite task.”
“Nor mine.” She smiled, thoughts turning toward the travail of birthing her child. “But God provides ample strength for whatever we must face. Be it the waiting or the acting. Both require a different kind of strength, I think. But ’tis the same God who gives both.”
“Aye.” Silas nodded. “ ’Tis true.” He held her gaze in that solemn, tender way of his. “Are you going to the frolic?”
Did he ask out of simple curiosity? Or was there more behind his words?
How muddled he always made her feel. As if she could scarce form a reasonable thought, let alone a sufficient answer.
“I’ll be there, I suppose. For Chloe’s sake,” she hastened to add, reaching out and running a hand over the little girl’s rumpled skirt.
“Ah.” He nodded. “I see.” He turned his face toward Chloe, as if in an effort to hide whatever emotion lingered in his eyes. “There’ll be ginger cake. Do you like ginger cake, Chloe?”
“Cake! Aye, Mr. Silas.”
“Then I’ll see to it you get a great big piece.” He set her down, turned toward Rosina. “I bid you good day.” ’Twas a polite choice of words. Almost too polite. As if she had disappointed him with her answer about the frolic. But what did he expect her to do? Dine and dance like a carefree girl, when she was a widow newly made and an expectant mother to boot?
Before she could return his farewell, he disappeared, the cabin suddenly yawning wide with his absence.
She pulled Chloe close, resting her hand atop the little girl’s curly head with a sigh.
She’d do well to put her emotions and Silas Longridge at opposite ends in her mind. ’Twas best they had no cause to meet.
Threat of an impending siege did not lessen the settlers’ fondness for a frolic. Perhaps it was partly because there was to be a siege that they behaved so. Laughing and living as if this day might be their last. Fiddling and frolicking as if there might never come another summer’s eve, another reel.
Silas had stayed out of most of the proceedings. He’d taken a long stretch of guard duty while the young couple said vows. He’d not needed to hear those sacred words again. They’d only dredge up unwanted remnants of the past—of the last wedding he’d unwillingly witnessed.
The early August air held the texture of summer sweetness. A light breeze stirred the trees, a welcome change from the recent heat. Dusk turned the sky shades of peach and dusty blue. The scent of woodsmoke lent its tang to the air, mingling with that of roasted buffalo meat.
Finished with guard duty, Silas made his way to the center of the fort. The fiddler belted out another reel, brawny arm sawing away, forehead glistening with the effort. The newly wedded couple sat on a plank bench, arms twined around each other. The bridegroom leaned toward his new wife to whisper something in her ear. She smiled and blushed.
Silas looked away. After all, he’d not come to the frolic to witness matrimonial happiness.
What, or perhaps more aptly, whom, had he come for?
Childish giggles drew his gaze to the stretch of grass reserved for dancing. Chloe’s blond curls bounced in the breeze as she twirled with Rosina.
The mere sight of Rosina made his heart do a thousand foolish things. She wore her dark hair free around her shoulders, save for a few strands at the top pulled back and secured with an indigo ribbon. It suited her, the girlish style, and though she wore the same dress, the bit of ribbon at her throat and the laughter in her eyes made her prettier than he’d ever seen her.
So beautiful it made him want to encircle her in his arms, press his lips against the silk of her hair, and never let go.
Quiet footsteps came up behind him. He turned. Boone stood at his shoulder. He’d donned a fresh hunting shirt and his square jaw bore remnants of a recent shave.
“All work and no play makes dullards of us all,” Boone remarked, gaze on the dancers spread across the grass like a colorful, moving patchwork.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.” Silas looked away from the dancers, focusing instead on the tables of food and drink—not much by most standards, but a bounty of frontier fare.
“If my Rebecca were here, we’d not sit out a single one.” His eyes took on a rare softness. “What a dancer that woman is.”
“I’ve had the privilege of partnering Mistress Boone a time or two, and I agree.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Boone’s tone held a trace of command. “Stop looking at the woman and go ask her for the next set.”
Silas swallowed. “That wouldn’t be fitting. Her husband’s been gone only weeks.”
Boone turned, facing Silas directly, blue eyes flashing in his leathery face. “If we wait for the right time and place, it may never come. We’re promised no tomorrows, Longridge. Live today while you still can.” He moved away toward his own cabin. Silas watched him go, the tall frontiersman who carried such a weight yet nonetheless managed to make it seem light.
His gaze found Rosina again. She tipped her head back, spinning Chloe with one hand.
Ah, but she drew him. Like a helpless moth toward a flame that had singed before, but tempted nonetheless.
Live today.
Straightening his shoulders, he crossed the space between himself and the group of dancers. The reel ended. Chloe, flushed-cheeked, darted toward him, latching onto his leg.
“Mr. Silas! See me dance?”
“Indeed I did. And a prettier sight I’ve not found in all Kentucke.” He gave her a warm smile, patting her sweat-dampened curls.
Chloe beamed.
He turned to Rosina. “Evening, Mistress Whiting.”
She nodded, her cheeks bearing evidence of her exertions. “Captain Longridge.”
“Can I get a drink?” Chloe looked up at Rosina. “I’m thirsty.”
Rosina nodded, motioning to the tables. A couple of middle-aged women stood beside them, assisting with the serving. “It’s right over there.”
Chloe scampered away with a child’s boundless energy. Both watched her go, Rosina with a soft, almost motherly smile on her lips. The dancing had lulled while the fiddler quenched his thirst from a brimming piggin and the guests clustered around the refreshment table. Silas turned to Rosina.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“I suppose.” Her tone took on a note of wistfulness. “It’s been so long since I’ve attended something like this. Since I’ve enjoyed it, even longer.”
“But you have enjoyed tonight?” Of a sudden, he wished he’d taken more care with his appearance. He’d washed and shaved that morning, dressed in a clean shirt tucked into a pair of breeches, combed back his unruly black mane. But compared to her feminine self, he could be nothing but rough and unkempt.
“I have. Peggy and her husband seem very happy.”
And absent. Silas noted they no longer sat on the bench, no doubt craving the privacy that could now be theirs. He’d have done the same if he’d married a wife this August eve. What were dancing and feasting when compared to sweet togetherness with one’s beloved?
“ ’Tis good they wed today. With things so uncertain, I mean.”
“Living each hour as if there would never be another?” She peered up at him from beneath thick, dark lashes.
He nodded, taking a step closer. The fiddler struck up another tune, less lively this time. A cadence out of rhythm with his heart, beating fast at her nearness. The sweetness of her fragrance—sun and wind and a trace of lavender.
He couldn’t resist. Not in light of Boone’s words. Nor hers.
“Dance with me.” He held out a hand, palm outstretched. “For old time’s sake.”
She didn’t answer. The soft pressure of her hand placed in his said more than any words. They didn’t join the others in the set, just stood together as she and Chloe had. Holding hands, he turned a circle, the steps familiar and simple.
Her dark hair danced in the breeze. Music and laughter filled the air. Overhead the sun slipped lower, the magic of twilight claiming full reign over the evening.
This was real. This was right. In the months she’d been married to Jeremiah, he’d missed it. Perhaps he hadn’t realized it then, but there’d been a crack in his heart growing wider each day they’d been apart. Each step he took with her tonight was one step nearer to mending that crack, despite the secrets and questions that still lay between them.
“I haven’t danced with you in so long. I thought I’d forgotten the steps,” she whispered, gaze touching his.
Forgotten. ’Twas a word of finality. Of doors closed that could not be opened. Walls erected that could not be torn down. He’d closed those doors, erected those walls the day Rosina married Jeremiah Whiting.
Now …?
“You don’t forget something like that,” he said simply.
As if of one accord, they stopped, her face inches from his, their hands still intertwined. Fading sunlight fell upon her face. Her breath emerged from parted lips. His own went ragged.
He’d always ached to kiss her. Never had, waiting for the day when it would be right and proper and sanctioned by God for him to do so.
That day had not come.
“Nay.” She shook her head. “You don’t forget. Not something that meant so much.” Unshed tears glittered in her dark blue eyes. She brushed past him, darting away in the direction of Jemima’s cabin.
Leaving him standing in the middle of a fort full of revelers, wretchedly, completely alone.