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steal two dried apple strings from the timbers above.
    “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. Isn’t that what they say?”
    “Can I have me another biscuit?”
    “Certainly. Take two.” Roxanna began measuring out flour and lard for pie dough, thinking she could flesh out Bella’s spare frame, if not the remnant of men at the fort. “What shall we make for supper tonight?”
    “Best talk to LeSourd—the fort hunter. He’ll bring down anythin’ you want to cook. Cap’n Stewart’s partial to buffalo. But Colonel McLinn likes them beef cattle that come with the supply train.”
    “I don’t see any sign of beef. Or Colonel McLinn. One buffalo, then. That should feed these men—about thirty, did you say?—and us guests.” Her forehead furrowed as she added water to the dough. “I’m not familiar with buffalo, though. You’ll have to show me how it’s done.”
    “I’ll fetch LeSourd,” Bella said, going toward the dining room door and pushing it open a crack. “Law, but we got a mess o’ men to feed this mornin’. They must have smelled yo’ biscuits. If you cook, I’ll serve. LeSourd’ll have to wait.”
    The scraping of chairs along the puncheon floor and the men’s muffled voices made Roxanna abandon her pie making. “It seems discipline is a bit lax among the men. I didn’t hear reveille this morning.”
    Bella turned away from the door. “Colonel McLinn keeps his men strung tight as fiddle strings, but Cap’n Stewart—well, he ain’t cut o’ the same cloth. He and the colonel don’t see eye to eye so the cap’n gets left behind to man the fort. And things get a little lax.”
    Expelling a relieved breath, Roxanna said, “So Captain Stewart isn’t likely to turn me out of this kitchen, then.”
    Bella’s dark face twisted with a knowing smile. “Naw, Miz Roxanna. He’ll leave that to Colonel McLinn.”

    Pushing open the door to her father’s cabin after breakfast, Roxanna surveyed his domain. On the mantel were some twists of Virginia tobacco alongside his treasured clay pipe. A worn wool cape dangled by the door above his boots. Tallow candles, half burned, stood in pewter holders here and there. Taking up a poker, she stabbed at the smoking logs in the hearth as they tried to catch on their bed of sour ashes. At least so tiny a cabin was easy to heat, she mused, cheered again by the thought that Papa’s enlistment was ending and they’d soon be on their way. If she could just keep her mind fastened on their future, she’d be able to tolerate her dark surroundings.
    She breathed a thankful sigh that her belongings were intact, including her best gowns and beloved dulcimer. The detail Captain Stewart had sent out to the flatboat upriver had returned with her locked trunk and the possessions of the Redstone women, but the cargo of gunpowder, lead, and other valuables was missing, the vessel abandoned on the north side of the river. Where the surviving polemen had gone was anyone’s guess.
    Though she’d been here a fortnight, she was still disturbed by what she saw. Since Ma’s passing, Papa had nearly gone to seed. Dust and spiderwebs decorated the tiny room, and she looked askance at the bed’s tattered counterpane and a mountain of ashes that needed hauling from the hearth. This was so unlike her orderly father she winced. An assortment of quills and inkpots littered one small corner desk, a testament to her father’s work. But this was white with dust as well, the quills down to nubs, the inkpots dry.
    This was why she’d come. During her time as a tutor, traveling from one genteel house to another, she’d sensed he needed her. His letters, written in his characteristic longhand on fine foolscap, never said so, but she’d read lonesomeness and discontent between each and every line. And she, truth be told, needed him. Her Virginia life had become dull, predictable. She had faded to little more than Miss Rowan, a patient, capable tutor of children, invisible at