Why did Cass have it?
As she tucked it in her pocket, a sliver of pain punctured the joy of discovery. Yet another secret . . . a deception. Turning, she hurried below the stairs to do what she should have done in the first place.
Midnight. All her bread and finely seasoned broth went untouched. ’Twas cinchona tea for her patient—and barely. Even semiconscious, he despised the stuff and knocked the spoon out of her hand repeatedly.
“Cass, Cass,” she half scolded, continuing to force the liquid between his lips. She finally gave up and tried spring water instead. His fever seemed to be ablaze inside him, chilling her with all its implications. Here he was, abed, the whole Kentucke territory undefended and on the verge of attack . . . How then, she wondered, could he still vie for control, sick as he was? When he opened his eyes, the fire in them frightened her.
“Roxie.” He caught her wrist, stilling the cloth she held. “Let a sick man die, aye?”
But she paid him no mind, dipping the linen in a bucket of cold water and wringing it out till her hands were raw. Her sure, sweeping movements over his face and neck and chest seemed to settle him, and he slipped away from her again. Weary, she pushed stray strands of damp hair off his forehead and whiskered jaw. His hair seemed to flicker and flame in the candlelight, a brilliant russet even in the dark. Too tired to stand, she perched on the edge of the immense bed and gave in to her perennial need to look at him.
Her gaze trailed over his chest, the smooth, muscled flesh marred by scars large and small—an upraised crescent along his side, a pinkish knot on his shoulder. Other smaller wounds now healed but still visible. ’Twas a warrior’s body . . . a soldier’s. A grudging compassion flooded her. He might have died from such wounds. Many did.
Her pondering gave way to wonder as she glimpsed the boy he’d been. Roguish. Intense. Mesmerizing. Had he been a handful for his mother? Did he resemble his father? And Liam? Did he look just like him? Every heart-stopping detail?
Rising, Roxanna cooled him a final time with the cloths. Intuition urged her to stay near him all night, not risk the twenty or so steps to the bed in the blue room. Her eyes settled on a wing chair, and she sought its cushioned comfort, bringing the candelabra closer. Oh, but she’d forgotten to shut the third-floor windows. Surely he’d been delirious uttering such things. She didn’t believe Redcoats or Indians could scale walls . . .
34
She came wide awake at dawn. ’Twas another glorious summer day, the birds bursting with song beyond the tall windows, the shutters unable to hold back the light. And there, standing in a sunbeam, was Abby. Roxanna stared, sleep muddling her senses. Had she left a door unlocked? Such a small child couldn’t have gotten in a third-floor window.
Abby was alongside the immense bed, her solemn face in profile. Cass lay on his back in a tangle of bedding, eyes closed, unaware of the little hands reaching out to him. Abby’s mouth opened and closed, as if rusty from lack of use. Chest tight, Roxanna sat on the edge of her chair as Abby uttered a single unmistakable word.
“Papa.”
Papa? A wealth of fresh pain knifed through Roxanna. Was she dreaming? Hearing Abby’s voice at last—so bell-like and sweet—seemed impossible. She felt like an intruder in the room, partaking of yet another secret she shouldn’t know. Gripping the arms of the chair, she stood, and the sound sent Abby spinning.
“’Tis only me, Abby,” she said soothingly, though her calm words belied her fractured feelings.
Abby threw herself into Roxanna’s arms, sobbing into her skirts. Sitting back down, Roxanna gathered Abby onto her lap and tried to shush her, rocking her back and forth, though the wing chair gave no movement. Was she afraid of losing Cass like everyone else she’d ever known? First her mother, then Olympia? And now . . . her father? ’Twas a relationship she’d never once suspected.
A wave of wonder followed on the heels of her hurt. “Abby, you can speak! Praise be, you can! Now tell me—please—how did you get into the house?”
The small, upturned face shone with tears, and she patted her pocket and produced a skeleton key—Bella’s own.
“Did you take the key?” Roxanna queried. “Or borrow it?”
But the little mouth was clamped tight even as she gave up the key. From the bed, Cass shifted restlessly. Abby got down from Roxanna’s lap and climbed the bed steps, crawling on the high tick to reach him. For a moment Roxanna thought she would perch atop his chest, but she sank down near his head instead, leaning over and kissing him on the nose. He came awake and smiled a slow smile at her.
“Abby-girl.” Pleasure faded to confusion as he looked toward the shuttered windows, then searched the shadows for Roxanna.
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday, June 2,” she answered.
The day you meant to march.
Drawing Abby near, Cass tousled her curls and then pushed back the bed linens, swinging two bare, well-muscled legs to the floor. Was he able to stand? Hopeful, Roxanna took this as a cue to leave, hurrying down the steps to lock the door Abby had opened minutes before. The study window told her Fort Endeavor was still bustling and awaiting word of their commander. She wanted to run downhill and see Bella . . . ask about Hank. But the sound of a dresser snapping open and shut and the murmur of voices returned her upstairs. She found Cass leaning against the door frame, clearly spent. Her hopes for his recovery dissolved in a look.
“Abby was just telling me how she picked Bella’s pocket,” he said, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Was this how she came by the key? Preoccupied as she was about Hank, Bella was not her usual sharp self. And Abby—had she really spoken? The child wrapped her arms round Cass’s knee, a winsome smile on her freckled face. The expression was so like his, Roxanna felt a bittersweet pang.
“What’s for breakfast?” he murmured.
“Bread, broth,” she answered.
He was moving toward the landing, dragging Abby as she clung to his leg, giggling all the way. Before taking the first step downstairs, he scooped her up like a sack of meal and slung her over his shoulder. Roxanna followed, expecting him to weave like a drunkard since he was so ill, but his hand was firmly anchored to the banister.
How on earth did he do it?
He was still consumed with fever—she could tell just by looking at him. But he was up and dressed in an immaculate linen shirt and buff breeches, a creamy stock expertly folded about his neck. Coming to the central foyer, he paused by the dining room door and set Abby down.
“Will you ladies join me for breakfast?”
Abby nodded vigorously while Roxanna glanced at the massive, polished table with its Chippendale chairs gathered round like officers convening. “’Tis so . . . big.”
“In the study, then.”
She hesitated. The study held too many memories of that other tender time.
He was studying her thoughtfully. “Will you refuse a man’s last request, Roxie?”
Last. An ominous word, one she didn’t like. She met his eyes, her reluctance plain.
“We could go in here, ye ken,” he said, gesturing to the kitchen.
At this, she brightened. He and Abby took a seat at the small worktable with its simple puncheon top and surrounding stools. Reaching for an iron poker, she stirred the fire and set the broth to heat, glad to turn her back on him and get her bearings.
“You look more at home in this kitchen than Fort Endeavor’s,” he told her.
“’Tis hardly a kitchen, it’s so beautiful.” She smoothed her apron, wishing he’d look away from her. Everything felt odd and she felt old. Catnapping in a chair all night had left her stiff and sore as an old soldier. But the pain in her heart was far worse.
She took the stool opposite and tried to smile. “We should say grace.”
“Aye.” He nodded, looking down at Abby.
She turned a sunny face up to him, eyes agleam.
“Abby will say grace,” he said quietly, though it was
an order nonetheless. Abby simply shrugged her little shoulders, as if it was all a game. Leaning over, he whispered something in her ear.
She echoed with a little lisp, “Be present at our table, Lord . . .”
He bent nearer and she repeated, “Be here and everywhere adored . . . These creatures bless . . . and grant that we may feast in paradise with Thee. Amen.”
Roxanna got up, blinking back tears as she served their breakfast. She could handle Cass the soldier and Cass the patient, but Cass the father left her undone. Heads bent and side by side, he and his little daughter dipped their pewter spoons in bowls and ate. Dawn was suddenly flooding the room with a rainbow of light, rifling their vibrant red heads and illuminating every matching feature.
Yes, Cass, she is yours. How could I have been so blind?
But the shock of it wasn’t the hardest part. ’Twas knowing that another woman had possessed him in a way she never would and that together they’d produced this enchanting child.
Taking up her own spoon, she tried to eat but was no more successful than he. Only Abby drained her bowl and asked for a second serving.
Sitting across from them, pretending nothing was amiss, was excruciating. The kitchen was far too quiet. Roxanna heard the tick of the hall clock, the rhythm of her own pain-bound heart. From somewhere beyond the windows, a rooster crowed and broke through the birdsong. She was barely aware of the knocking at the front door till Cass started to get up.
She rose with far more ease. “I’ll go.”
In moments, Bella stood before them, arms akimbo, eyes questioning. Did Bella know about Cass . . . Abby? Abby looked up from her soup as Cass leaned over and murmured something in her ear.
With a contrite half smile, she echoed impishly, “My ’pologies, Bella.”
With that, all of Bella’s dander disappeared and her eyes turned a velvety brown. “So you finally found your voice up here at the house. I been waitin’ a long time for that.” Eyeing Cass’s plate and bowl, she muttered darkly, “You’d best be drinkin’ that cinchona and followin’ Miz Roxanna’s orders. Miss Abby-gail best go with me.”
But what she didn’t say was all Roxanna heard.
No Hank . . . no able-bodied commander . . . no sign of reinforcements.
Roxanna saw them out and locked the door behind them, noting the sag of Bella’s shoulders and Abby’s reluctant steps as the guard returned them down the hill. She found the kitchen empty and her heart gave a queer lurch. Taking the small stair against the far kitchen wall, she found Cass in his room again, atop the bed on his back, boots and all. From where she stood, she could see he was racked by chills, waves of them rippling over him with an unrelenting vengeance. Eyes closed, he was already slipping away from her and hardly stirred when she tugged off his boots. He’d gotten up for Abby’s sake, she guessed. And now he’d pay the price.
Later, Bella came to relieve her. Roxanna all but raced down the hill, heart so heavy she felt it would burst. A mass of contradicting emotions left her breathless. She didn’t want to leave Cass’s side, yet she did. The locket she’d found in his shirt was tucked in her pocket, adding yet another mystery to all the rest—her father’s death, Abby’s origins, and Hank’s whereabouts, not to mention the enemy’s.
Micajah intercepted her on the parade ground, and she felt an unwarranted irritation brought on by a near-sleepless night.
“How is he?” he asked, stepping into her path.
“Dr. Clary warned it would be a bad attack. At first he seemed to rally, but now he’s out of his head.”
“Bella’s with him, I suppose.”
“For the time being.”
“Then there’s naught to do but wait. Everything’s ready for the march . . . but the commander.”
She detected a slur in his tone, and it made her bristle. Her eyes moved from his tanned face to the arm encased in a sling. “’Tis a shame you yourself are unfit for duty, Major, or you might have led the campaign in his stead.”
He flushed an angry, indignant red, and she spun away from him, wondering where Abby was, still awed that she was Cass’s daughter. Finally she spied her with her pony, chatting with a regular at the far end of the parade ground. The sight softened her angst. No doubt she’d keep Fort Endeavor spellbound for days with her charming lisp.
Shunning her cabin, Roxanna retreated to the kitchen, where Bella had left dough rising and side meat simmering. But the familiar room seemed dank and ugly, such a contrast to the stone house, and it only added to her melancholy. Dovie looked up from finishing breakfast dishes when she entered, her burgeoning stomach pressed against the sink. Mariah and Nancy were missing.
“Miz Roxanna, you look plumb frazzled. Colonel McLinn ain’t no worse, is he?”
“Yes, worse. Any word of Hank?”
Dovie shook her head and dipped a final plate in rinse water. “The search party brung his wagon back, is all.”
Roxanna felt a jarring loss. Somehow she kept thinking if Hank came back, Cass would get better. Hank best knew how to tend him. “Malaria is a terrible malady, particularly at a time like this.”
“With the men itchin’ to march, you mean?”
She nodded, lifting the lid on a steaming kettle. Beans and potatoes filled it to the brim. Nearly nauseous, she stirred them, wanting to ask about Abby but unable to push the words past the lump in her throat. Maybe Dovie didn’t know . . .
“I sense you got more on your mind than the ague,” Dovie said, taking a seat near the hearth. “Care to tell me what it is?”
At this, all Roxanna’s reservations came tumbling down. She turned away from the fire and sank onto a stool, wondering where to begin. Inside her head, confusion reigned, and she struggled to broach the matter as delicately as she could. “What do you know about Abby’s origins, Dovie?”
Their eyes met in mutual understanding, and Dovie’s face grew grave. “Well, I . . .” She paused, clearly pained by the question. “Abby’s ma, Bethann, was a real beauty. She hadn’t been workin’ at the tavern long when Colonel McLinn came downriver with a surveyin’ crew. She took to the colonel right off—all the women did. He only had eyes for Bethann, though.”
Bethann . . . surveyors. The two words made a stew of her insides with all their implications.
“He stopped by again on his way back up the Ohio and found she’d had Abby. The colonel wouldn’t admit she was his, said it could have been any man’s. Olympia was in a fury. Only he could have sired a child with a head of hair like that, and we all knew it. Nearly broke Bethann’s heart in two. When she died, Olympia said the colonel killed her, not the pox.”
Roxanna swallowed past the catch in her voice. “The French pox?”
Dovie nodded. “Same as what took Olympia. When the tavern on the Redstone burned, we didn’t have nowhere to go. Olympia heard from the keelboaters runnin’ the river that the colonel was down here at Fort Endeavor. She figured if we showed up with Abby, he might take us all in.”
The story sounded plausible enough. Only Roxanna didn’t want to believe it. She’d thought it was her own pleading on their behalf that resulted in the Redstone women staying on. She guessed Cass had been operating out of guilt even then, allowing them to take up residence.
A new thought pummeled her. Did he have the French pox too?
Dovie rested a hand on Roxanna’s shoulder. “I’m glad Abby’s got her voice back. She ain’t said a word ever since her ma died. But she sure knows who her papa is.”
Roxanna looked down at her lap, thinking of the tender scene between them in the bedchamber and then at table. “The colonel does seem to care for her, whether he acknowledges she’s his daughter or not.” Slowly she stood, fighting an everlasting weariness. “Thank you for telling me, Dovie. I’d best relieve Bella.”
Up the hill she trudged to find Bella waiting in the foyer, wringing her hands in an odd, heartrending way. The guard hovered outside, eyes on the river and woods, as if expecting the enemy to burst forth at any moment.
/> “The colonel’s worse than I ever seen—talkin’ out of his head and thrashin’ about and callin’ your name and Hank’s. It’s plumb more than I can stand.”
“Go on back to the fort, Bella,” Roxanna said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “I’ll do what I can.”
Locking the door after her, she took the stairs in a rush, strangely breathless. Might Cass defy Dr. Clary’s predictions and die—or find the guns she’d hidden a second time and harm himself? When she burst through the bedchamber door and saw the twisted bed linens and his restless, sweat-drenched form, her panic soared.
“Coming across the river . . . got to stop them . . .”
She leaned over him as he rambled, and he grabbed hold of her wrist with surprising strength.
“Bella . . . get Roxie . . . tell her . . . her father . . .”
“Cass,” she whispered, bending low and laying cool hands on him. “I’m here and you needn’t tell me anything. I know about Abby and all else.” She was crying now, fear scaring the words out of her. “You mustn’t speak . . . please.”
Taking a basin of water, she wet a cloth and tried to cool his tortured skin, but he continued to thrash about as the fever’s intensity spiked higher. One hour passed . . . two. The clock over the door ticked on endlessly, and nothing she did relieved him. Not cinchona or cold water or kind words. Not prayer, or tears, or all the reluctant love in her heart.
Lord, please . . . help me . . . I’ll forgive him everything if You’ll only heal him.
After countless hours of wrestling with his confession, she was beginning to understand that her father had died in a terrible accident. When her feelings settled and her faith thrust itself to the fore, she knew it was a part of God’s plan. Incomprehensible. Hurtful. But allowed by Him.
She also sensed, deep within herself, that Cass’s physical suffering mirrored the distress buried in his soul. He’d cared for her father, and the guilt of what he’d done was killing him. And she . . . wasn’t she guilty as well? By withholding forgiveness, wasn’t she adding to his grief?