The Colonel's Lady (11 page)

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

11

Cass stood with Micajah Hale as the two Shawnee prisoners were brought in, their chains clinking with a lethal rattle that cast him back to the twilight eve when he’d ruined Roxanna Rowan’s life. The fact that a head chief of the Kispoko Shawnee now stood before him seemed less a coup than hollow victory. The young chief had to duck his head to enter the blockhouse door, and the flash of black eyes seemed to probe the dim room for an escape before assessing and dismissing each officer. At last his icy gaze leveled on Cass and lingered like a predator fixed on its prey.

Cass met the dark eyes without wavering, knowing he was as revered and feared among the Shawnee as the young chief was among Kentucke’s settlers. It was this Indian, backed by the British, who’d destroyed a Kentucke fort and two stations and taken a host of white prisoners. Cass’s task was to arrange a prisoner exchange, if it could be done. In retaliation for the destruction this Shawnee and his warriors had wrought, he had crossed the Ohio River with his men the previous summer and destroyed five Shawnee towns and six miles of corn.

Lately it seemed almost a game of sorts between them, albeit a dangerous one. Only now Cass had the upper hand. He wondered how long it would last. He wouldn’t turn his back on the man for the slightest second, even guarded. He motioned for the regulars escorting them to seat the captives on a long hickory bench in the center of the room.

His translator, a bearded half blood named Jim Bear, surveyed his kinsmen through squinted eyes. Despite their being confined in the guardhouse and in chains, they’d not been denied the basic necessities. They were clean and well fed. He didn’t want to alienate them completely before forcing their cooperation, if they could be forced.

The older Shawnee was looking around in undisguised curiosity, but the younger chief had turned inward, almost brooding, and Cass stepped in front of him, motioning for Jim to begin.

“Ask him his name.”

The Shawnee translation was swift, even musical, and completely unnecessary. Cass well knew his name was Five Feathers, not simply owing to the eagle feathers affixed to the silver disc above his left ear. Tales of his misdeeds had spread clear to the colonies and beyond. The
Virginia Gazette
even carried a regular column about his exploits, which, Cass rued, needed little embellishment.

Jim Bear repeated the question, but the answer was a stony silence.

Cass moved to stand in front of the two Indians, hands clasped behind his back, and addressed them directly in English. “Do you know why you’re at Fort Endeavor?”

Jim repeated the question in Shawnee, and there was a protracted silence. Finally the older Indian answered slowly and Jim translated. “Why has the red-haired chief brought us here?”

Why indeed?
The question—coupled with their name for him—nearly elicited a wry smile. They were here so he could ascertain if the captives from the burned-out forts had been tomahawked, assimilated into the tribe, or sold to the British in Detroit for bounty. Equally vital was his learning which British officer was behind the attacks on the settlements and supplying the Shawnee with what they needed to do it. But he’d start small.

Cass crossed his arms and fixed his eye on the clock across the room. “I mean you no harm by bringing you here. Just as an enemy can come peacefully into a Shawnee town and remain unharmed, so too you can come here and expect fair treatment.”

Jim Bear took his time with this, speaking as much to the younger Shawnee chief as to the elder. But Five Feathers sat as if deaf, his tawny face so impassive his fearsome features seemed cast in stone. Cass felt a spasm of impatience. He hadn’t the time to waste with silence. He looked toward the regulars who had escorted them in.

“Increase their rations and give them both a gill of rum.”
A goodwill gesture
, he didn’t add, thinking it might do little good at all. As they left he said to an orderly, “Send for Miss Rowan.”

Within minutes the orderly returned. “She’s not in her cabin, sir.”

“Check the kitchen, then.”

Sheepish, the young private shut the door, and for a few seconds the cold weight of remorse and grief rushed in to fill the empty space. Cass eyed the crystal decanter of brandy on a corner table and then the clock. A quarter till three. Too early yet to take the edge off his emotions.

When the door creaked open again, he tamped down an incapacitating rush of regret as Roxanna entered the room, her arms full of papers, the orderly trailing behind with her lap desk. Shoving the memory of Richard Rowan aside, he recalled the gown he’d last seen Cecily wearing. Not the simple, spinsterish brown Roxanna wore, but an extravagant silk the hue of a ripe peach with a ribbon of the same winding through her honeyed hair . . .

“You sent for me, Colonel.”

Even with his desk between them, he could see a slight dusting of flour on her cheek and chin. His mouth quirked wryly and he said, “You’ve been baking.”

She colored slightly. “Yes.”

“
What
have you been baking?”

“Pumpkin pies.” At his intensity, she cradled her papers in one arm and lifted a hand to smooth away the flour, her eyes hugely blue in her pale face. “Fort Endeavor had a fine garden last year, Bella tells me. Pumpkins, anyway.” His gaze slid to the papers she held, and she added, “These need your signature before folding and sealing.”

He leaned across the desk and took them from her, resisting the sudden urge to brush the remaining flour from her face. Had she ever been properly courted by a man, he wondered . . . kissed? Kissed by a man who knew how to do so? Thinking it, he nearly forgot the matter at hand. The sheaf of papers held a hint of . . . was it violet? He found the documents impeccably transcribed, the elegant slant of each letter as appealing as the one who penned them.

Sitting down, he took up his own quill and scrawled his signature in bold black six times across as many documents. As the ink dried, he watched her settle the lap desk on her knees and take up her quill, though she didn’t look at him. Since she’d arrived, she seemed to be trying
not
to look at him, he realized.

Perhaps the sight of him pained her as much as her presence did him. Their distressing situation only strengthened his resolve to quit his post. Since the eve he’d shot her father, he’d been a hairbreadth away from resigning his commission. Every morning of the past three years he’d considered it, hardly believing he was still in this crowded, filthy fort with two hundred surly, affection-starved men and half as many horses, in constant danger from illness and Indians, and with repulsive rations to boot. This was his punishment for a crime he hadn’t committed. General Washington had sent him west, saying it was his salvation. Sometimes he wished they’d simply hanged him instead.

“Colonel McLinn . . .”

The gentle voice brought him back, and he grabbed for the first rational thought he could, saying tersely, “Next letter will be to the Continental Congress. ‘Dear Sirs: It is proposed to carry the war into the heart of the country of the Shawanoe, to burn their towns, destroy their next year’s crops, and do them every mischief which time and circumstances will permit. This I have done with less than two hundred able-bodied men, few supplies, and no reinforcements.’ ”

She was scribbling hard and fast, her head tilted just as Richard Rowan’s had often been. He could see so much of her father in her earnest face. Then suddenly she stopped writing.

He hesitated, hardly able to speak past the crushing soreness in his chest. “Do you need me to repeat anything?”

She kept her eyes on the document. “Nay, I do not care to hear it again.”

There was a sharpness to her voice he’d not heard before, and it set him further on edge. He continued on, “ ‘Presently I have two chieftains in custody with which to enforce compliance with the last treaty made at Fort Pitt, ensuring the Shawnee bring in every Kentucke captive they have in custody prior to the next council to be held in September this year.’ ”

The orderlies were back—and Micajah Hale, freshly shaved and impeccable in blue swallowtail coat, linen stock, and buckskin breeches. Cass gave him a cursory nod and ran a hand over his own shadowed jaw, rebuking himself for not shaving properly. Finished with dictating, he made introductions, looking on as Micajah took Roxanna’s hand and brought it to his lips.

“I think I may be in need of a scrivener myself, Cass,” he said lightly, lingering a little too long on her upturned face, which was, under his scrutiny, turning a becoming pink.

“Then I suggest you send for one,” he replied drily. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with couriers than I.”

“Still smarting over that last dispatch? I’ll wager that missive never made it past the Licking River.” He smiled down at Roxanna, his affable demeanor belying his ominous words. “Perhaps Miss Rowan will turn our fortunes and keep a courier alive with her correspondence.”

“With six deaths, I doubt it,” Cass replied, crossing his arms and leaning against the edge of the desk as Roxanna sifted sand over the ink to dry it. Her lips parted and she seemed about to say something, then hesitated. He couldn’t resist asking, “What say ye, Miss Rowan?”

She gave them both a gentle look laced with warning, her voice as beguiling as any Virginian’s could be. “I say, speak not of melancholy things as death and wounds, gentlemen, and if others mention them, change the discourse if you can.”

Micajah’s rumbling laugh filled the cold space. “Pardon, Miss Rowan.”

Duly chastised, Cass bit the inside of his cheek, wondering why he’d asked her to serve as scrivener in the first place. She was a bit of a prude, he guessed, sour over being jilted—and now in mourning. Mentally he raced through the ranks of his men, wondering who could serve as scrivener in her stead. Facing her day after day, being reminded of what he had done, was more than he could bear. And then to have her rebuke him . . .

She was intent on the document now, funneling the sand back into a jar and presenting it for his approval. He took it and forced himself to play the officer and gentleman. “Miss Rowan, forgive my lapse in judgment. I’ve nearly forgotten all rules of civility and decent behavior since coming to this godforsaken place.”

She smiled up at him, so wide and winsome it was like a sunrise coming up in a cold, dark place. “All is forgiven, Colonel McLinn.”

All. Even the unforgivable act of killing your father.

She seemed to be waiting for him to smile back at her—to speak—but Micajah was doing just that, saying in his infernally charming way, “Perhaps God hasn’t forsaken this place, Cass, and has sent an angel to remind us of our manners.”

“I need no further reminding, Major. And I doubt even an angel could stomach this miserable outpost.” He swirled the quill in ink, venting his angst in a particularly aggressive signature across the immaculate paper. Any solicitous thoughts he’d once had of the Almighty had dissolved in the hail of lead that cost Richard Rowan his life. He’d be hanged if he trusted in Providence again.

He looked up to find her eyes still on him, but all the light in her face had gone out. She was regarding him just as she had the day he’d tried to tell her of her father’s death—with an uncanny solemnity and concern, as if she could sense his inner turmoil. He didn’t like that dissecting look, and he deflected it by putting on his tricorn and turning away.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a court-martial—as are you, Major Hale.”

He felt her eyes on his back as he exited, aware that Micajah lingered, probably to make amends for his bad behavior. He cursed under his breath—in Gaelic—as he went out. She wouldn’t understand Gaelic, he guessed, and could utter no rebuke about that.