10

Roxanna awoke the next morning to reveille, her heart and head pounding from the jarring noise of fife and drum. After shrugging on a dressing gown, she made tea at the hearth, pouring the steaming brew into the exquisite thistle cup given her by Colonel McLinn. Despite the sunlight sliding through the shutter cracks, Papa’s shadow seemed to hover in every corner. How would she ever heal, coming back to this lifeless place day in and day out? Perhaps it would be better to take up residence in another cabin.

Perching on a cane-bottomed chair, she let the cup warm her cold hands, eyes on the mantel clock. Only six. Two more hours till she faced McLinn. Why did it feel like a court-martial instead? Glancing at her father’s writing desk in a dark corner, she realized she’d need to sharpen some quills, check the ink and sand and paper again—ordinary rag linen as well as fine Dutch bond. She felt the familiar tug of excitement when using a fresh sheet and sharpened pen—yet it jarred sourly with her grief.

Taking the desk onto her lap, she wondered what she should call him. “Colonel,” she guessed, or “sir.” Would he even like her work? Bella had indicated he was exacting, hard to please. Withholding a sigh, she opened the tambour top, took stock of all the implements, and found them in good order. Good soldier that he was, Papa had been exacting too.

Her fingertips brushed the smooth, dark lines of wood, familiarizing herself with what was now hers. When she’d been small, Papa had always kept a sweet or two hidden in an interior drawer, away from the casual eye. He’d called it his secret compartment, and only the two of them had known how to press the tiny hidden spring that surrendered its contents.

She finally found it through her tears, half hoping to discover a piece of sugar candy. But the drawer divulged something else entirely. No sweets, only a little leather-bound book, its cover smooth and its edges worn. She swallowed down her disappointment and opened it. Papa’s fine Gothic hand dominated the page, and her eyes lingered on a telling line.

April 1, 1779, Thursday. In this isolated, forgotten outpost, intrigue swirls on every side . . .

Before she’d finished the first sentence, a chill danced down her spine. She snapped the book shut, stunned by the strong feeling of the words within, knowing it was a private journal not meant for a daughter’s eyes. Quickly she put it back and shut the secret drawer, then returned the desk to the corner. Truly, this task as scrivener was already beyond her ken, and she hadn’t even begun.

Thoughts swirling again, she dressed in the most demure of her dresses—a serviceable gown of brown tabby silk, the sleeves and bodice ruched and beribboned in matronly fashion—before pinning up her hair, every ebony strand, wishing for the curling tongs Bella had wielded so well. Before she’d laced up one worn black boot, she heard a sob outside her door and then a timid knock.

Dovie peered in, Abby in her wake, a look of abject misery marring her comely features. “Oh, Miz Roxanna, somethin’ awful’s happened.” She shooed Abby inside and shut the door, swiping at her wet face before sinking down atop a chair by the door. “Colonel McLinn’s turnin’ us out—in this bitter cold—with nary a goodbye to our sweethearts. Just sendin’ us away with the clothes on our backs and not a shilling to our names . . .”

Her voice trilled higher as she recited a litany of complaints against the colonel with hardly a breath between. Roxanna opened her arms to Abby, who nested in her lap like a kitten, leaning her tousled head on Roxanna’s chest. Dismay pummeled her as she listened. She wanted to close Abby’s ears to such talk and give her a bath and clean clothes and a secure future. But all she could do was listen patiently, waiting for the finale that finally came with a pitiful request.

“Now, we know you have the colonel’s sympathy,” Dovie said. “Might you say somethin’ to him about his rough treatment? Buy us a little time? Just so we can make other arrangements?”

“Of course I’ll speak to him,” she said reassuringly, holding Abby closer and glancing toward the clock. Half past seven. Time enough to plead Dovie’s case. Dread knotted her stomach, and she swallowed down a sigh. “You’d both best go to the kitchen and get some breakfast. And pray. I don’t know if I have the colonel’s sympathy, but I’ll do what I can.”

Two orderlies were already at work when Roxanna knocked on the blockhouse door. Colonel McLinn looked up from his work as she appeared, lap desk in arms. Standing, he cut a fine figure in the candlelight that danced in the manifold drafts airing out the stale room. She’d always thought the Continental uniforms dashing with their buff and blue, far more so than the British scarlet and white. On this particular Irishman, she admitted grudgingly, they rose to new heights.

With an inward wince, she looked away. Bella was right. She’d been a fool to take this on. And Papa had been no wiser tying them together on his deathbed. She was hardly an impressionable schoolgirl. And McLinn was no fledgling officer. The fine lines about his eyes cast him over the age of thirty, and the confidence he wore like a cloak aged him older still. Pleading for the soiled doves in the far row of cabins was not going to set well with a seasoned officer, she feared. But since he had been fond of her father, perhaps he’d honor this one request.

“Miss Rowan,” he said in greeting.

“Good morning, Colonel McLinn.” Compared to his sonorous lilt, her voice seemed whisper thin in the suddenly still room.

He glanced at the corner clock then gestured to the Windsor chair. “You’re early. I like that in my staff.”

She took the chair and settled the lap desk like a hedge between them. “Actually, I’ve come ahead of time to discuss something with you.”

He sat back down and seemed to sear her with his astonishing eyes. Too blue, she decided, meeting them reluctantly. Like the Virginia sky in July. The firelight just behind him was making his hair a halo of reddish-gold, emphasizing his broad shoulders and the dimple she’d just noticed in his left cheek.

Lord, have mercy . . .

“What say ye, Miss Rowan?”

She swallowed, schooling her thoughts—or trying to. “I’ve just learned that you’ve bid the women from Redstone farewell.”

“Aye, so I did.”

The room stilled. She was aware of the orderlies pausing in their work, and she lowered her voice to a near whisper. “That is not setting well with at least one of them. I’ve come to ask you to reconsider.”

To her surprise, he almost smiled. Leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms across his chest, and she saw the flash of a signet ring on his right hand. “On what grounds?”

Her gaze wavered, and she looked down at her lap desk. “It is winter. And they have nowhere to go.”

“This isn’t a civilian station, Miss Rowan,” he said amiably. “They should have thought of that before they left Redstone.”

“Foresight is not everyone’s gift, Colonel. Perhaps if you gave them some time to make other arrangements—”

“Other than the fortnight I’ve already given them, you mean.”

She held back a sigh. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Now you are. Need I remind you that I’m commanding a garrison here, Miss Rowan? Not a tavern?”

She looked up at him, stung by his condescension. “I need no reminding, sir. But since you’re commander of the entire western frontier, it would seem you could find a more suitable solution than sending destitute women into the cold with an Indian war on.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the orderlies move away, as if expecting some sort of a ruckus. “And there is a child to consider, as you know.” At this, his jaw tightened ever so perceptibly, but she rushed on regardless, her tone quiet and respectful but firm. “I’ve heard Smitty’s Fort is at full capacity and Fort Click is no better.”

“You’ve heard correctly,” he returned, surprising her. “What is your recommendation?”

“You might employ them. Bella could use a hand in the kitchen and laundry.”

“In return for room and board, you mean?”

“Yes, just till spring, of course.”

He was smiling now, leaning forward conspiratorially, Irish charm oozing. “I would like to hear your scheme for keeping them locked in their quarters at night and not out carousing with my men.”

Oh my. Her fingers did a nervous dance upon the tambour desktop, and she faltered under his scrutiny. “I—I—”

“Any other recommendations, Miss Rowan?”

She smiled a triumphant smile and stilled her hands. “Yes. Reward the women—and the men—for good behavior by having some entertainment at week’s end. I’ve heard a fiddle or two since I’ve been here. And I have a dulcimer. Surely a frolic now and then would help while the winter hours away.”

He contemplated this for a few solemn seconds before looking toward the orderlies who’d been listening hard and pretending not to. “Hobbes? Wilkerson?”

They stood at attention, nervous smiles playing across their faces. “A fine plan, sir. Compliments to the lady here, sir.”

He turned back to her. “And may I have the pleasure of the first dance, Miss Rowan?”

She gave him a slightly wide-eyed stare, while his eyes narrowed and crinkled at the corners, full of mischief.

Mercy . . . he does work quite a spell. Her poise dissolved and she shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t dance, sir.”

At once all the joie de vivre left his handsome face. Abrupt as he was, she half expected him to press the matter. Astute as he was, she was surprised he hadn’t noticed her limp.

He waited until the orderlies were across the room rummaging through some maps before he said, “Do you not want to dance, Miss Rowan?”

She looked down at her lap. “’Tis not a matter of wanting, Colonel, but being unable.”

There, she had confessed it. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as a host of memories flooded her. The only man who’d ever danced with her had been her father, and with him she’d felt she had no infirmity at all. But Ambrose . . . Ambrose had been embarrassed to dance with her.

“’Tis too soon,” he murmured, averting his eyes and studying the papers strewn across his desk. “I apologize. But later, should you change your mind, the offer stands.”

He didn’t understand, of course, thinking grief held her back. But she was in no frame of mind to set him straight, as if anyone could, imperious as he was.

As the clock struck eight, she opened the desk and prepared her quill, swirling it in the pot of ink and awaiting his directive. He shuffled through some papers, moved a spyglass, and took something an orderly offered him. Spreading it upon the desk, he anchored it with a surveyor’s tool and a small cannon ball, and she saw that it was a detailed map of Kentucke and the infamous middle ground of Ohio.

He shot her a quick glance. “First letter will be to the acting commander at Fort Pitt.”

It seemed like a cage of butterflies had been sprung open inside her at his curt command. All her father had taught her seemed to take wing and fly right out of her head. She gripped the quill tighter, and a drop of ink soiled the rag linen paper beneath. A flicker of alarm pricked her, and then she remembered it was only the original, not the official copy she would craft for him later.

He began, “Sir, I have received your letter of the seventeenth of September. The present state of affairs at this frontier outpost in regards to the hostiles is thus . . .”

The symbols and abbreviations she’d once learned as a sort of game at her father’s side returned to her in a small flash flood. Occasionally, the colonel would pause to peruse his map, allowing her to catch her breath. He had a natural eloquence that was easy to follow, and his low voice . . . Oh my, but it seemed to her like silk and leather and cream. Thinking it, she scribbled the wrong symbol then crossed it out.

Before she knew it, the clock struck eleven and an orderly was bringing in a tray of hot coffee and beaten biscuits. The colonel looked up in surprise and glanced at Roxanna as she sifted sand over the last letter in order to dry it.

“It would seem Bella is concerned I not overwork you.”

She returned her quill to the inkpot. “Perhaps she is worried I will overwork you.”

His mouth curved in a near smile. “I suppose this calls for a truce.”

They both looked at the tray awkwardly, as if unwilling to make the first move. Suddenly she was overcome by the realization of how intimate simply sharing a cup of coffee could be. Taking a cup, she made a fuss of stirring in cream and honey and timidly took one biscuit.

As she sat across from him, all her insecurities returned to her tenfold. She’d never before taken coffee with a man. A true gentleman. Discomfort needled her and nearly made her hands shake. Coupled with the fact that he was looking at her in that intent way of his, as if she was undergoing inspection and had a button undone or a spot on her kerchief . . .

He leaned back in his chair. “Would you rather be in the kitchen, Miss Rowan?”

She looked up, thinking he was teasing, but found his face tense. “I . . . nay,” she replied.

He picked up one of her letters. “Your writing hand is finer than your fa—” The last word was bitten off, and a pained expression crossed his face. “I apologize.”

“I don’t mind if you mention him,” she said quietly despite the sting of grief. “He’s never far from my thoughts.”

Setting the letter down, he stirred cream into his cup but didn’t take a drink, nor did he look at her. “I lost my own father prior to leaving Ireland and enlisting under General Washington.”

As a Life Guard? Wasn’t that what Bella had said? Or in the field? There was something mysterious about his coming to Kentucke . . . something about a red-roaring rage and his being sent west. But she could hardly mention that. Sympathy nudged her. “I’m sorry about your father. Did you come to Kentucke from Virginia?”

“Aye, I did. Next month marks three years.”

She took a sip of coffee and found it strong even with cream and sugar. “You’ve done a great deal since coming here—the stone house and orchard, this fort.”

“My orders were to build a garrison that couldn’t be breached. I had the stone house built as well, knowing it would outlast this post. It sends a clear message to the Indians that we’re here to stay.”

She thought of the enemy British and Indians marching east to Virginia at dawn. All but two. Though she’d not seen those remaining men yet, she felt a wary fascination. They were heavily watched and kept in the guardhouse. She wondered about the colonel’s reasons for detaining them, if they might not be important to his cause, whatever that was.

“You’re a long way from home, Colonel McLinn. May I ask what makes this war your war?”

He looked at her then, so keenly she wanted to wince beneath his blue gaze. “Half the Continental army is Irish, Miss Rowan. There are twenty-six Irish-born generals serving under Washington, not to mention lesser officers like myself. We’re committed to ending the tyranny of England whenever and wherever we can. If not in our homeland, then here.”

She nodded, shamed at her ignorance of the world at large and the war. Mama hadn’t allowed her to read the Virginia Gazette or indulge in politics. What little she’d gleaned came from her father’s letters and her time spent tutoring. “So England has long been the enemy of Ireland.”

“Aye, not only Ireland but Scotland and other parts. Now we have a chance to fight back.”

“My father mentioned you have an estate in Ireland.”

“Had. The Crown confiscated our ancestral lands when I joined the Americans. But ’tis a loss well worth bearing for liberty’s sake.”

She detected a bite of bitterness beneath his gentlemanly tone and imagined there to be far more to his losses than the privation of his estate. But she warmed to the conviction in his voice, and her eyes moved from his face to his uniform coat, lingering on the fine gold epaulets atop his wide shoulders, the eagle insignia on his left collar, the blue riband worn across the breast between his coat and waistcoat. Yet for all her looking, she failed to find the distinction she sought.

Where, she wondered, was his Purple Heart?

“You’ve done a day’s work all in one morning,” he said abruptly, returning his cup to the tray. “After this you’re at your leave. I have to interview the Shawnee prisoners, and I don’t want you present.”

She merely nodded and finished her coffee, tucking the biscuit discreetly into her pocket for Abby and seeing a flash of amusement cross his face as she did. He missed nothing. Little wonder his men couldn’t get away with the slightest infraction.

“I’ll finish the correspondence in my cabin and have it ready for your signature in the morning,” she said, lifting the lap desk and wishing he wouldn’t ask an orderly to carry it for her, which he promptly did. She hoped he wouldn’t forget about the Redstone women, and then discarded that notion as well. She’d worked with him for a wee three hours, long enough to know he overlooked little.

“Good day, Miss Rowan,” he said, standing till she was beyond the blockhouse door.

An icy blast of air sent stinging particles of snow into her face and threatened to pull her hair free of its pins. Her eyes moved to the quarters where the Shawnee were being held, then Olympia’s cabin just across. She could see Abby’s pale face in the square of window, and her heart twisted. After she’d finished her correspondence, she’d invite Abby to the cabin. Waving a hand, she moved on.

Just outside the kitchen blockhouse, Bella’s wash stood at stiff attention on the sagging clothesline. Smoke from a dozen chimneys hung over the parade ground like a dirty linen shroud. Everything was cast in shades of gray—somber, bleak, distressing. Despite her high feeling about her morning’s work, thoughts of her father crowded in and snuffed out her satisfaction. She felt her mood plummet with every step.

All I need is a cup of tea. And a good cry.

She thanked the orderly at the cabin door and slipped inside, surprised to find the fire blazing and Bella stabbing it fiercely with a poker.

Whirling, her dark eyes exclamation points, Bella sputtered, “Why, I thought you’d not be shed o’ McLinn till midnight!”

Roxanna set down the lap desk and hung up her cloak. “Bella, you don’t have to fuss with my fire—not with all the other work you have to do.”

“It was the colonel’s doin’, tellin’ me not to let yo’ fire go out while you were workin’ with him over in the blockhouse.”

Truly? Hearing it, she felt a tad lighter in spirit, touched by his concern. “I have some good news. The colonel’s decided to let the Redstone women stay till spring—if they’re willing to work.”

Bella snorted then scowled. “I doubt even McLinn could get a guinea’s worth o’ work out o’ any o’ them doxies, or even thought to try. I bet this is yo’ doin’.”

Sheepish, Roxanna ladled water from a bucket into the teakettle and hung it over the fire. “I thought you’d be glad. You could use the help.”

Bella perched on the edge of a chair and eyed the porcelain cup Roxanna set out. “So how did it go with the almighty McLinn this mornin’?”

“Well enough that I don’t believe a bad word said about him.”

Her lips pursed in a pout. “Well, the honeymoon ain’t over yet. I give it till the end o’ next week.”

“So far I find him a prodigious worker, uncommonly astute, impeccably mannered—”

Bella glowered. “I don’t know a one o’ them words. He’s dangerous as a keg o’ powder, and you’d best see him for what he is.”

“I think you need a cup of tea,” Roxanna said, pouring the hot water through the strainer and watching as pink liquid sloshed into the fine cup. “Sassafras.” Taking the biscuit out of her pocket, she placed it on the table. “For Abby.”

“I thought this cup was for you,” Bella protested as Roxanna handed her the steaming brew.

“I just had coffee at headquarters, remember?”

Bella took the cup, peering at Roxanna with fresh intensity. “Maybe McLinn’s smitten.”

The notion was oddly pleasing, if ludicrous. Roxanna resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Why would you think that?”

“Cuz he’s behavin’ hisself.”

“Soldiers and naval men prefer blondes, Bella. Isn’t that how the popular military saying goes?”

Bella looked down at her steaming tea. “I did hear somethin’ ’bout an Irish lass o’ his.”

Roxanna sat down opposite her, surprised by the tight feeling blooming in her chest. “I expect he has someone waiting somewhere.”

“How ’bout you?”

“Me? I was betrothed . . . once. But he married another.”

“Then you is free.”

Free? Roxanna’s eyes roamed the dark cabin walls with its sole stingy window, the savage woods just beyond. “I don’t feel free locked inside this fort. I think everyone outside these walls is free, but not me . . . not us.”

Bella pondered this and sipped her tea. “Hank tells me there’s trouble brewin’ on account o’ them two Indians McLinn’s got locked in the guardhouse over yonder.”

Roxanna held back a sigh, having wondered the same. “Did Hank tell you what the colonel plans on doing with them?”

“McLinn ain’t one to blat his brains out even to his second-in-command.”

“And who would that be?”

“You mean you ain’t met him? He’s never far from the colonel’s side. His name’s Micajah Hale. Major Hale.” When Roxanna didn’t answer, Bella pursed her lips. “You ain’t heard a word I been sayin’ for a full five minutes. You thinkin’ ’bout that little gal again?”

“I am,” Roxanna admitted, sitting down opposite Bella and digging in her knitting basket.

“I don’t know for the life o’ me what that child is doin’ with such women.”

“’Tis simple, really. Olympia is her aunt. Her mother died not long ago of a fever.”

“Oh, I know all ’bout that. Who’s her pa?”

Roxanna lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “Some passerby, Olympia said. She was born and raised in a tavern in Redstone, remember.”

“Why don’t she speak?”

Roxanna sat back, a half-finished rag doll in her lap. “She’s missing her mother, I suppose.”

“I bet that child’s seen things no child should. Olympia sure lords it over her, hardly lettin’ her out o’ her sight.” Bella’s dark eyes landed on the doll and shone with rare sympathy. “I been watchin’ how you try to draw her out . . . get her to smile.”

“I thought maybe this doll would help. Why don’t we have a little tea party—just the three of us? I imagine Olympia is sleeping and wouldn’t even miss her—”

Behind them the door cracked open as if on cue, and two inquisitive blue eyes fastened on Roxanna. She turned toward the sound and her smile widened. “Why, Abby, come in!”

Looking furtively over her shoulder, the child slipped inside, hovering as if unsure of the invitation. Roxanna said quietly, “I have something for you—two things, actually.”

The light of curiosity sparked in her face and she took mincing steps across the small cabin, eyes on the biscuit Roxanna gestured to. “I can make you a little tea with cream and honey too.”

Bella got up to fetch another cup as Abby slid onto the bench beside Roxanna. Taking a bite of biscuit, she lowered her eyes to Roxanna’s lap.

“I’ve almost finished your doll, but I need to know what color you’d like for her hair.” Rummaging again, Roxanna held up a hank of cochineal-dyed wool and then one of yellow and brown. Lovingly, the little hand stroked the red in silent communication.

Was her mother’s hair red? Roxanna wondered. “Red it is, then,” she said, wishing she could elicit a smile. But the little face was locked tight, pale as frost beneath her unruly red cap.

“I had me a doll when I was young and in Virginny,” Bella said, setting Abby’s pewter cup in front of her. “My mammy made it for me.”

Roxanna looked up from braiding the doll’s hair, touched by her poignant tone.

“I wished I still had it sometimes. It was nothin’ but corn husks, but I loved it.”

Abby chewed the last of her biscuit, then took a sip of tea. When Bella offered her the honey spoon, she licked it almost daintily, her chin spotted with sticky drops.

Roxanna softened at the whimsical sight. Why on earth is such a beautiful child in such a forbidding place? she wondered for the hundredth time. She made a mental note to mend Abby’s worn frock—the calico was so tattered in places it was nearly transparent. But she’d have to speak to Olympia first, as she was so touchy about anything concerning Abby.

While they sipped their tea, Bella began to talk about supper and LeSourd’s foray for turkeys and the overdue supply train. Roxanna listened absently, eyes drifting to her lap desk, the thought of her father’s journal worming its way into her thoughts. Shifting uncomfortably, she tried to dismiss it, but the cryptic words seemed burned into her brain, kindling the need to look again and unravel its mystery.

In this isolated, forgotten outpost, intrigue swirls on every side . . .

With some difficulty, she returned her attention to Abby and wondered what would happen to the girl. Though Olympia hadn’t said, Roxanna guessed the child was about five years old. Time she learned her letters. But to what avail? This was no safe Virginia village, but hostile wilderness. Folks weren’t concerned with schooling, just survival. She could well imagine Colonel McLinn’s reaction if she were to broach such a civilized topic.

Unbidden, he seemed to lurk in the corners of her mind, making a mess of her yarn.

Oh, Lord, please help Abby. And me. And all the broken people in this broken place.