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laughter and fiddle music but had soon fallen back asleep on the thin pallet made for her father’s sturdy frame. Last night it seemed she was the only one abed. This morning it seemed she was the only one who wasn’t, save the sentries and the elusive washerwoman.
    Forehead furrowing, she thought again of Abby. Truth be told, she missed her, waif that she was. Olympia seemed intent on keeping her shut in with the Redstone women, and that was precisely what troubled her. What was going on behind their doors? Moreover, what would Colonel McLinn say when he arrived to find all this feminine company? Something told her he might not be as welcoming as his affection-starved men.
    “Law, Miz Roxanna, you get away from that mess!” The strident voice seemed almost to shout, stinging her with embarrassment as she stood wringing out the first shirt. The sentries turned dull eyes on them, amusement enlivening their cold features.
    The washerwoman was behind her now, scolding mightily. “What would your pa say to see you so? Washin’ filthy breeches! Ain’t no daughter of Richard Rowan gonna scald her hands on soldiers’ rags!”
    Roxanna kept right on wringing and looked over her shoulder with a half smile. “At least let me finish what I started.”
    She crossed thin black arms over a skeletal chest, her scowl slipping. “I know you is only tryin’ to help me. But it pains me to see a lady doin’ such.” Casting a backward glance at the silent cabins in the morning shadows, she sighed. “Now, them hussies might need somethin’ to do besides cattin’ around all night and makin’ mincemeat o’ soldiers come mornin’. ”
    Flushing at such plain talk, Roxanna took the first shirt and pinned it to the line. But would it dry? The wind gusted and tossed a few snowflakes about as she studied the surly sky before returning to the drain trough. “I don’t believe we’ve met, at least properly.”
    The woman took up the wash paddle and began to stir idly. “My name’s Bella, Miz Roxanna. Just Bella.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Bella.” She took up some steaming breeches and began wringing them free of water. “You already know who I am, obviously.”
    A wide smile spread over the woman’s lined, mahogany face. “Law, but you is just yo’ pa in a dress. Nobody had to tell me so.”
    Pa in a dress, indeed. Roxanna didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Do you really think he’d mind my helping you this fine morning?”
    Bella grimaced and shook her head. “Naw. Reckon I got too many things goin’ on all at once. Since them hussies come, Captain Stewart’s given me a heap of washin’—and a mess of orders for victuals.”
    “I’m a fair hand in the kitchen. Love to cook, truth be told. When my mother took ill, the only thing she could keep down was a broth I concocted.” This tidbit was tossed out and then Roxanna held her tongue, wondering how it would be received. But Bella pretended not to hear. They continued to work side by side in silence till all the wash was hung and not a dirty garment remained.
    When Bella finally turned toward the far blockhouse, Roxanna followed. She was headed to the kitchen, she guessed, the same place they’d eaten last night. Her stomach growled a complaint, and she thought she could smell coffee when Bella opened the door.
    Mercy, but what I’d give for another steaming cup sweetened with molasses . . . and an egg and a crust of bread besides.
    An amused smile pulled at Roxanna’s face as she walked in Bella’s footsteps. The washerwoman well knew who shadowed her but didn’t say a word, just trooped past long trestle tables in the dining hall, finally slipping through a squeaking door into a cold, dimly lit kitchen. Bella wouldn’t ask for her help, she guessed, but neither would she shoo her away. Relief washed over her as she surveyed the friendly fire blazing in the huge hearth and the generous assortment of cooking vessels all around. This was like home, and