Sperry regarded them with wry amusement as he summoned the barmaid for another toddy.
“I leave for the saltworks tomorrow, as you know.” Rhys leaned back in his chair, wishing Mae was as near as the hovering tavern maid. “The salt meadows near Mount Pleasant, if she’s wanting details.”
Bohannon’s chuckle turned into a cough. “Women always want details.”
Rhys felt the toddy do its mellowing work, bracing him for the ride back to Lowantica Valley and another long, lonesome evening without her. “Tell her to pray we encounter no enemy scouts nor spies.”
The moon was blessedly full, their party of two dozen riflemen loaded with salt. Even with the British blockade of imported salt and the redcoats destroying saltworks along the Jersey shore and elsewhere, salt must be had. The newly named states needed to find ways to manufacture it with armed guards or suffer dire consequences. At twenty-six dollars a bushel, few could afford it yet few could live without it. Procuring it had been worth the toil and danger.
Rhys left his party at Day’s Bridge Tavern and turned toward Chatham, where candlelight flickered in myriad windows like fallen stars. The clear night was bone-chilling, and his stomach gnawed an empty complaint after a few bites of jerked meat. What he craved was Mae’s company and something hot to eat, though he reckoned he’d have one and not the other. Tonight his aim was to leave a bushel of coarse salt at her back door and be away without alerting her. The moon foretold nine o’clock. She’d likely be abed already on so bitter a night.
He turned down a back street, his plodding horse in want of feed after so many miles. Weary and hungry as he was, he rued his decision to trade the Bohannons’ for Lowantica Valley. The luxury of a bath and a feather tick taunted him.
He dismounted, untethered the salt sack with numb fingers, and slung it over his shoulder as he made his way to the back door. Light framed the kitchen window. Nearing the back steps he slipped on an icy patch, then righted himself by grabbing hold of a porch post. The slight commotion brought a figure to the window. Mae?
Before he took another, steadier step, the kitchen door swung wide. “General Harlow?”
“Aye.” Could she tell how elated he was to see her? “With a gift.”
“Please come in. My prayers for your safe return have been answered.”
He passed her and set the sack on the worktable.
Her face radiated joy. “What have you brought?”
“Salt.”
“Praise be.” She felt the sack, her hands roaming over it like it was gold. “James said you’ve been gone for several days.”
“Salt making is a tedious process, aye.”
“Let me pay you.” She started for the mantel, where she kept a stash of coins.
“All I want is something to eat and drink.” A bald-faced lie. All he wanted washer.
Smiling, she pulled a chair closer to the hearth. “Mrs. Hurst has made a delicious fish chowder that’s still warm. And there’s bread, butter, and applesauce if you want to wash before you sit down.”
A feast. He leaned his rifle into a corner and set his hat atop it before washing, watching as she stirred a kettle. She poured him some cider and then disappeared out the back door into the night. He wanted to follow but decided he’d only slow her. A nicker from his horse and the opening of a stable door told him she’d seen to Copper too.
In minutes she’d served him enough for three hungry riflemen, including a refilled salt box. He bent his head and said grace, savoring the abundance of the moment. When she sat near him on a stool, her arms about her petticoated knees, he nearly forgot to eat, she made such a comely silhouette in the firelight.
“I’d planned to leave the bushel by the back door,” he said apologetically.
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I thought you’d be abed, the night’s so cold.”
“I’m a night owl, since you didn’t know.” She looked to the mantel clock as he ate. “Lately I’ve been sewing late by the kitchen hearth. It’s warmer here than the parlor.”
He saw a stack of garments piled high in a chair, their pale folds indicative of a great deal of dedicated stitchery. Soldiers’ shirts? “I haven’t thanked you proper for mine. Your name sewn in the hem makes it as meaningful as it is practical.”
“Sometimes it’s the simplest things that mean the most.”
“Like this meal.” He took a drink of cider. “I miss many things about lodging with you Bohannons.”
“I feared you’d forget about us, being so busy with drills and meetings and such.”
“There’s no forgetting you.” He held her gaze. “Let that be clear.”
