Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(48)

The next afternoon, Aletta sought solace from the crowds—the auction attendance higher today than the one previous—and she was grateful to find the kitchen empty and quiet. For the moment, at least. She checked her list for the next item to bake.

Pecan pies. Her favorite.

There was something special about the sugar-coated pecans and the gooey goodness of the filling that tasted like comfort. And home. She gathered the ingredients for the piecrusts and began working them together for the pastry as her thoughts wandered, questions never far from her mind moving closer. Come January, where would she and Andrew go? Where would they live?

Since room and board were included with this position, she’d managed to save almost all of her earnings. But Andrew . . . He was going to be heartbroken to leave Winder. And to think that the boys could continue to be playmates simply wasn’t sensible.

She divided the pastry and began working the rolling pin over the first pie shell, pressing down harder than she’d intended. So she folded the dough over itself and started again.

And what of Jake? After the auction he would go back to the war, which only confirmed within her again that she’d made the right choice. No matter that her feelings sometimes challenged that decision.

“Rest assured, Captain”—Mrs. McGavock’s voice drifted down the staircase leading to the kitchen—“we’re so grateful you came when you did. It’s been a pleasure having you here with us.”

“It’s been my pleasure, Mrs. McGavock. And I appreciate your understanding about my request to return to my regiment.”

Aletta paused, rolling pin in hand. He was leaving? Already?

“Oh, I understand completely, Captain Winston. So does the Colonel. He and I both applaud your honor and dedication. In fact—”

Aletta felt guilty for listening to their conversation, but if they’d intended for it to be private, they should’ve chosen a more private setting. Still, she clanged a couple of pans together to soothe her conscience.

“Only last night,” Mrs. McGavock continued, “the Colonel commented about how much he appreciates the work you’ve done not only on the auction but on the cabin, the barn, the smokehouse. He’s been quite impressed with your handiwork and initiative.”

“Again, ma’am, it’s been my pleasure. I’m only sorry if when—”

The kitchen door opened and several volunteers entered, chatting and laughing, bringing the cool air in with them, and Aletta could no longer hear the conversation. And by the time things quieted down again, it was apparently over. She stared down at the piecrust.

So Jake was returning to his regiment. And at his own request, it seemed.

She reached for a bowl and cracked three eggs into it, then set butter to browning in a pan on the stove. That was good, that he was returning to his post. It was what she’d wanted. And what was best. He was well enough, after all. And she’d long held the opinion that every able-bodied man should be fighting. But . . .

The thought that something could happen to him formed a knot at the base of her throat. She measured a cup of sugar into the bowl and stirred. Andrew would be disappointed to learn of Jake’s departure. But perhaps not as much as he would be when the time came for him to leave Winder, and Carnton, behind.

She reached for a dash of salt when movement outside the window drew her attention. Jake climbed up into a wagon and both boys scrambled up beside him. Andrew looked up at him and said something, and Jake nodded, then handed her son one of the reins. A dull ache filled her chest and began working its way up.

Still . . . it was a good thing Jake was leaving. A very good thing.





CHAPTER 19

“Who told you I was leaving?” Flat on his back beneath a wagon, Jake studied the broken axle, then finally peered up. But he couldn’t decipher her expression.

“Well, I—” Aletta shrugged. “I happened to overhear a portion of your conversation with Mrs. McGavock yesterday afternoon. But in my defense,” she said quickly, “I did clang some pots together to announce that someone was in the kitchen.”

“Huh . . . And here I thought some actual cooking was going on.”

She frowned. “So you’re not leaving.”

He crawled out from beneath the wagon, brushed the dirt from his clothes, and looked down at her. “No, Aletta. I’m not leaving. Not yet, anyway.”

“But you said you’d requested a return to your regiment.”

“That’s right, I did.”

“And yet you didn’t say anything to me about it.”

“Nope. I didn’t.” He grabbed a mallet, crawled back beneath the wagon, and gave the busted axle a hard thwack. Not that it needed it, but it made him feel better.

Her disappointment that he’d be staying at Carnton a while longer confirmed that he’d made the right decision to request a return to service. Only, he wished now more than ever that Colonel Stratton had granted his approval. Instead of telling him to stay the course and get the sketches and the piece written for the newspaper as requested.

“But your superior officer said no?”

“That’s right. So I’m here until the Colonel sends word otherwise.”

“But why? Your shoulder is clearly healed. You’re able to fight.”

He peered up at her from beneath the wagon. “I’m glad you think so, Aletta. And if I thought it would change anything, I’d have you write my superior and share your opinion.”