Free The Colonel's Lady by Laura Frantz

wearily, peering out the crack in the kitchen door as the dining room filled.
    Within minutes Abby arrived in a dirty frock, her curls a rat’s nest of red tangles. Relief flooded Roxanna. “Morning, Abby,” she said with a smile, handing her a long wooden spoon. “I could use some help. Would you stir the syrup, please?”
    Abby nodded, ever solemn, and Roxanna noted how blue-gray her eyes were, stormy as the Atlantic on a blustery day, the dark shadows half moons beneath. Was the women’s carousing keeping her awake? ’Twas time—past time—to talk to Olympia about Abby.
    This morning she’d heard reveille for the first time since arriving at Fort Endeavor. Colonel McLinn was back, and sick as he was, some semblance of order had been restored in the wake of Captain Stewart’s lax command, after a brief period of mourning. Taking a huge platter, she began to stack pancakes half a foot high, eyeing Abby as she stirred the kettle of maple syrup she’d set to warming.
    Someone had churned—or tried to—but the butter hadn’t set properly and was more a puddle. Roxanna dumped it into the pot of syrup, smiling in approval as Abby stirred more vigorously. Pancake making always reminded her of her mother, who’d been more at home by the hearth than anywhere else in the house. She held on to the image now, saw her mother’s bent, graying head intent on her task, nearly tasted the jams and preserves they’d concocted. If Mama had ever been happy, it had been in her kitchen. Distracted by the bittersweet memory, Roxanna poured more batter on a big griddle slick with lard, trying not to wince as Bella bossed Dovie and Nancy.
    “Now, snap to it and go round with these cakes, startin’ with Major Hale near the head o’ the table. Then take the syrup round next and give ’em each a dip, but don’t let ’em manhandle the ladle away from you, you hear? Some o’ them men are more hog than soldier. There’s got to be enough for everybody, remember. I won’t have Miz Roxanna workin’ those fine hands o’ hers to the bone makin’ more.”
    Nancy made a face and took the platter, leaving Dovie the syrup kettle. Still yawning, they disappeared into the dining room. As the door cracked open, the warm sound of laughter and the scraping of chairs filled the cold space. Bella followed with a mound of jowl bacon and a pot of coffee, and Roxanna sighed. Cooking was a pleasure, even for a crowd—when provisions were plenteous, the men were content, and she could hide in the kitchen.
    Truth be told, all those broad backs and booming voices made her more melancholy than ever, given her father should have been among them. She could hear murmurs of approval and Dovie’s high-pitched tone squeaky as a fiddle string. The merry tenor of men’s voices grew bolder and less distinct as more soldiers flocked to the tables.
    And then the hubbub ground to a sudden halt. All she heard was the clink of a fork as it hit the plank floor and a muted round of respectful murmurs that might have been a greeting. Ears taut, she continued making pancakes—and would do so till Bella told her to quit. She fixed Abby a plate near the warm hearth, relieved when she wolfed down two pancakes and held up her plate for a third.
    Bless her heart . . . Hadn’t Olympia been feeding her? Where was Olympia anyway?
    With a sudden whoosh, the kitchen door opened and Bella swept in with an empty platter and coffeepot, face tense. “Colonel McLinn just come in.”
    Roxanna said nothing, watching as Bella took a clean pewter cup and began to brew something from a small tin. “It’s cinchona bark—good for bein’ malarial. But best serve him some of yo’ fine coffee too. He ain’t eat for nigh on a week, Hank says, so keep right on makin’ them cakes.”
    The feeling in the air seemed different now, and she could hear the distinct lilt of an Irishman, followed by an onslaught of fresh laughter. Was the colonel up to making jokes? She hoped it wasn’t