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
“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
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