The Colonel's Lady Read Online Free PDF Page A

man on her left for the first time, forgetting his name, wondering about his intentions. But he was old enough to be her father—was a friend of her father’s. Relieved, she blew Abby a kiss, bid goodbye to her supper companions, who were hardly aware of her going, and slipped out into the chilly, star-laden night.
    Once inside Papa’s tiny cabin, she built up the fire and began shucking off her soiled blue calico dress and the clumsy shoes that helped disguise her limp. The left boot heel was a good inch higher than the other, making her walk with a near-normal gait, if no one looked too closely. But since her trek in the woods, the heel was missing a shoe nail or two and in danger of coming off altogether. Her other pair was aboard the flatboat, perhaps gone for good. Papa had always seen to her shoes. Since he’d soon be back, she wouldn’t worry about them.
    Shivering, she decided to keep her stockings on, garters and all, along with her shift and petticoat. Her nightgown was missing too, locked in the leather trunk bearing her initials. Captain Stewart had sent out a scouting party as promised to inspect the damage and salvage what they could. She prayed they’d return on the morrow, scalps intact.
    Tonight she’d forego the nightly brushing of her hair, given she didn’t have so much as a comb. Nor did her father, she discovered—just a rusty razor lying beside a wash basin. The unfamiliar corn-husk tick seemed seeped with cold, and she struggled to bring the thin quilt up to warm her, too tired to say anything but the childhood prayer she’d learned so long ago.
    Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep . . . She lay on her back, looking up at the firelight dancing on the crude ceiling, teeth chattering. If I should die before I wake, at least I’ll leave this dismal place.

4
    The snow was spitting, the wind punishing every man present. Cassius McLinn stared hard at the glowering sky and ordered his men to make a bonfire over the burial site. They would have to thaw the unforgiving ground before they buried the six soldiers they’d mistakenly shot at dusk. And they’d be making twin fires this morning, he directed. Two of the prisoners—a Redcoat and a redskin—had died in the night from wounds received from yesterday’s skirmish, and he vowed they’d not share the same grave.
    His men were watching him warily, watching the herd of prisoners, waiting for orders. He was bone weary—and feverish—and trying to hide it. He was having to think everything through twice to surmount the foggy miasma in his brain and hide the swell of emotion behind it.
    “Major Hale!” He looked around for his ailing second-in-command and found him on the edge of the wood with some men, bringing in deadwood for fires.
    Micajah Hale came running. “Colonel, sir,” he said, his pale face pinched more from grief than the dysentery. His own cousin had been mistakenly shot in the gloom, and though the regular hadn’t killed him, they both wished he had. Gut-shot he was, and bleeding to death in the makeshift shelter behind them.
    “Make sure the prisoners are fed so they’ll be able to march. I’m sending Simmons out with a scouting party to make sure we aren’t being followed. We’ll set out as soon as we see to this.” He gestured toward the struggling fires and stingy smoke.
    Turning away, Cass crouched and entered the lean-to where Hale’s cousin lay completely still. Was he already gone? Before the hope kindled, it was smothered as the wounded man moaned and moved an agitated hand. “Colonel?”
    “Phineas.” He said the captain’s name as he’d said it a thousand times—but never with such regret. Phineas’s dull eyes fluttered open and—could it be?—still regarded him with respect and affection.
    “I—I—”
    “Don’t try to talk,” Cass intervened, his own insides wrenched with pain. “Bail o Dhia ort.” The grace of God be with you. The Gaelic rolled off his tongue