Free The Colonel's Lady by Laura Frantz Page B

mouth quirked in a half smile. “It appears you’ve been there and back.” His gaze took in the mess all around them—the batter-encrusted crockery and wooden spoons, a mound of spilled coffee grounds looking like a swarm of ants near his boot, a puddle of sticky syrup dripping down the hearthstones.
    A battle indeed.
    Her cheeks warming, her eyes trailed after his as he surveyed her domain. “I’ll soon have it cleaned up and set to rights,” she said spiritedly. “Just in time for the next . . . skirmish.”
    A flash of amusement warmed his face. “And what is your plan of attack at noon?”
    “Soup, bread, perhaps some apple tarts. Unless you order otherwise.”
    He ran a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “If I remove you from this kitchen, my men are likely to court-martial me.”
    She almost smiled. He was treading lightly for her sake, she guessed, because she was in mourning. Taking the stool nearest the hearth, she darted another glance at him and saw that despite his winter-tanned skin, he remained a very ill man underneath. Or was he so grieved by her father’s death—
    “I want to see you in my office first thing tomorrow morning—say, eight o’clock,” he ordered, then amended quickly, “at your convenience, of course.”
    “Of course,” she echoed, wondering if she should offer to make him more of that bitter brew called cinchona. Thinking of it jarred her into remembering the tea he’d sent, and she recovered her manners, folding her hands in her lap. “I want to thank you for your letter—and the teacup and fine things.”
    And all the gentlemanly sentiment behind it.
    “The pleasure, Miss Rowan, was mine.” His voice was deep and thoughtful and so formal it seemed they were in some fine Virginia drawing room. “If you have need of anything else . . .”
    Only my father , she thought. And you can hardly remedy that.
    Her eyes grew damp as he stood and cast a long shadow in the dim kitchen. She watched him turn and go, wishing he’d invited her to meet him at the stone house instead. Its handsome facade remained a riddle, looking like it had been plucked from some lush hill in the Virginia countryside and settled stone by stone upon this wild and dangerous ground. It truly reminded her of home.
    The home she no longer had.
    When land taxes had come due and Papa’s soldier’s pay came late, the debts had mounted and the creditors had come . . . Shrugging the painful memory aside, Roxanna tried to dismiss her homesickness, but it made her nearly ill with longing. She’d loved every stone of that house, unassuming as it was. It had been the only home she’d ever known.
    In this dim, dismal fort, she couldn’t forget Old Orchard, as Papa called their former farm, its expansive windows gracing every wall and drawing the outdoors in, every room resplendent with light whatever the season. Here a loophole just big enough to ram a rifle barrel through had to suffice, the danger was so deep. Aye, this place was fraught with danger and a hint of mystery, the least of which was her father’s sudden death.

9
    She couldn’t sleep a wink between missing Papa and considering the coming confrontation with the colonel. Sometime during the night she plucked her dulcimer from the mantel and sat as close to the fire as she dared, the flannel of her nightgown hardly warming her. Her hair was loose and hung like a mourning shawl about her slumped shoulders as she softly played, casting glances at Pa’s open Bible. If she kept her mind on both the Bible and the music, she’d be all right, even in the frigid darkness with soldiers and Indians right outside her door.
    Colonel McLinn’s fine house was too far away for comfort. Though it was less than a stone’s throw from the fort’s west wall, she felt they were a continent apart. She wished he was inside this fort with the rest of them, perhaps because she craved the security of Papa’s presence. There had always been something so solid and