Tessa had dusted hers with a sprinkle of hammered sugar and nutmeg, giving it a special polish. Ma had refused Tessa’s offer of nutmeg and Hester was not fond of the spice, so Tessa’s cake alone bore that touch. Next the women began the communal task of making the noon meal. With so many hands at the hearth, Tessa took a seat and snapped green beans by the window.
Near the flagpole stood all the able-bodied men from sixteen to sixty. Though Tessa tried not to dwell on him, Clay couldn’t be missed. His unusual height made a fine target. ’Twas a wonder he’d survived the wilderness and numerous forays for a decade or better. She’d heard tell he’d served with George Washington, who was widely known for his military bearing and physical prowess. That and their wits kept such men alive, surely.
The men stood in neat rows, equal distance apart, as the colonel inspected their weapons in a blinding haze of sunlight. Free to study him unawares, she did so, another tendril of affection wrapping itself round her hungry heart.
Clay vowed to pray for rain, or at least clouds, on future muster days. A coastal Philadelphia wind would be welcome this windless morn. No breeze stirred the earth they stood upon or dispelled the aroma of unwashed bodies and garments begging lye. As he passed in front of the Buckhannon militia, all in need of spring water and already craving their fair share of muster-day rum, he took solace in the heavily spiced air.
One of his earliest—and rare—memories of his boyhood was of his mother at her hearth. She’d been tall and graceful and capable to a small, clumsy boy. He’d been her firstborn, his vision of her unclouded by other images and voices. Oddly, his fragile grasp of her was scented with what he thought was gingerbread, the lingering aroma so familiar, so fragrant, his eyes smarted from more than the sweat stinging his vision.
He stepped sideways as he finished his inspection, to the very end of the last column, and came face-to-face with Zadock Swan. The sun’s glare highlighted every bruise and bump, rescuing Clay from his bittersweet memory.
“Tussle with a panther in the woods?” he asked Zadock quietly.
“Nay, sir. Kin.”
“Your sister, mayhap?”
A broad smile strained Zadock’s split lip. “Jasper.”
Unsurprised, Clay examined Zadock’s rusted musket, a sad affair from the last war, woefully inaccurate and making a frightful amount of noise. It underscored his concern that there were more farmers than frontiersmen here, forced to carry weapons because of the ongoing hostilities. He far preferred the arrows of his youth. Unlike guns, arrows fired repeatedly and with deadly accuracy, the bows easily maintained and repaired. The tomahawk served well in a hand-to-hand tussle, yet few had them along the Buckhannon, most relying on skinning knives instead.
He swallowed his aggravation. How was he to improve the tattered reputation of the colonial militia, who were not only ill equipped but undisciplined? He’d penned a bold letter to Virginia’s governor, placing an order for gunsmiths to make as many flintlocks as possible to be transported by wagons under guard. Highwaymen east of the mountains were as much a threat as Indians west of them, the governor fired back, and gave no promise of weapons.
The remainder of the morning was spent drilling, the activity curbing the staunchest appetites as the aroma of the coming meal overrode the spicy gingerbread. Clay called a halt just after noon, his voice carrying over the common like a gunshot.
Once the muster-day cakes were cut, they’d roll out the Caribbean rum from Fort Pitt. Keeping a tight rein on the unruliest men was an ongoing challenge. He’d not have them awash in kill-devil by nightfall. Hester had already lectured him unnecessarily about that.
For now, spits of roasting meat puffed enough smoke to keep the insects at bay as women served bread and vegetables from the fort’s garden on makeshift tables. He held off eating till the men had their fill, knowing Hester would save him a trencher full.
Heading to the blockhouse, he removed his sweat-stained hat and came face-to-face with Tessa as she stepped out of Hester’s cabin, a crock in each hand. Their eyes met and then a mutual mortification set in. Just as quickly they went their separate ways with nary a word betwixt them.
On his desk sat his noon meal, flies hovering in an unappetizing mass yet failing to dint his appetite like his near collision with Tessa had. Once upstairs, he shed his shirt with short, jerky movements, wishing he could rewind time and give her a nod, at least. He leaned over the washbasin and poured the entire pitcher of water over his sweltering head and shoulders. Sweet relief. After toweling dry, he pulled on a clean shirt, gaze drawn to the open window.
From here he could take in the entire garrison in a glance. Inevitably his gaze hung on one petticoat. Tessa paused at the end of one makeshift table near the lamb pen, garnering the attention of one too many men. Why, with the odds so in her favor, had she not wed?
He sat down on the closed trunk, wishing for closure on his conflicted feelings, this warring desire to be near her yet push her away. Even the distant sight of her made his pulse gallop. Despite his best intentions, he was no longer commander of a garrison in hostile territory but a hopelessly smitten, double-minded, would-be suitor. Didn’t Scripture even warn about such a thing?
Yet he gave in to the guilty pleasure of watching her from a distance. She was, by any measure, the most striking woman he’d seen this side of the mountains. Even Keturah’s blonde, blue-eyed beauty failed to move him in light of Tessa’s fiery warmth.
He forced his gaze away. Hester was now leading the charge, the women parading a great many cakes from cabins and setting them on the judges’ table at the edge of the common garden. A few huzzahs sounded as Cutright and Jude rolled out casks of rum to wash the cakes down.
Jasper was supervising as the men drew straws to act as judges. Once the selection was narrowed, Clay would cast the deciding vote.
Had Tessa done any baking?
The thought sent him downstairs again to shoo the flies from his meal and take a few half-hearted bites. Best save his appetite for rum and cake.
He rejoined the melee on the common, counting nineteen cakes on various plates from pewter to wood. Six judges gathered, none of them Swans. Clay stood in the smithy’s shade by Jude as the cake cutting began. Even unliquored, the men were full of tomfoolery, the chosen six making such a show Clay was cast back to the theater in Williamsburg. Plenty of chewing, belching, and patting of stomachs ensued to earn these ruffians their backwoods standing. In a half hour, amid a fair amount of seriousness and ceremony, three cakes were singled out, the rest sliced and served to any comers.
“Colonel Tygart, sir.” Maddie smiled at him, gesturing to the waiting cakes. She sliced the first with a sure hand, balancing his sample on a broad knife. Every eye was upon him and nearly made him squirm.
He tasted, swallowed. A bit dry. Crumbly.
The second sample was overwhelmingly spicy and a tad overbrown. How in the name of all that was holy had it cleared six judges?
But the third . . . Even before it met his tongue he breathed in the essence of nutmeg, cast back the thousandth time to his mother’s table. Moist. Well seasoned. Redolent with molasses, with just a bite of lemon and orange peel. And perfectly browned. One bite wasn’t near enough.
He picked up the pewter plate it rested on and looked to the knot of aproned women. “Who’s responsible for this creation?”
