Scarlet RIbbons

by Judith E. French

  Sarah checked on the biscuits and decided they needed to brown a few minutes more. Having Forest around the place would be a big help, especially now that she had her hands full with the garden. She'd count herself lucky if she could get him to stay until the leaves turned. Forest was strong and willing, and she had to admit that she'd slept better last night than she had in months.

  She began to slice cold ham onto a wooden platter. As soon as the bread was done, she could begin to serve breakfast. Men's voices were already coming from the public room. Luckily, none of the guests were gentlemen. There'd be only one room to serve this morning.

  Three of the six men in the original party were seated at the long table, with the new arrival. They called out boisterous greetings as Sarah entered the room with a tray of ale and hot bread. She nodded pleasantly, bidding them all a good morning. None of the men were strangers; they all had plantations south of the Misakaak.

  "Don't spill any of this ale," she warned. "It's precious stuff. I've just broached my last cask."

  A tall, whip-thin man groaned. "Miz Turner! Why'd you want to tell me that when I've got a thirst big enough to drop the level of the Misakaak this mornin'?"

  "Nate here saw Howe's fleet moving' up the bay," an older man said. "Washington's done for. Obediah will be home afore harvest."

  "I hope so," Sarah agreed. "He said in his last letter he couldn't get a decent pint up north."

  "Amen to that," another man agreed. "I went to New York, one time. Didn't leave nothin' there, though. The Eastern Shore is good enough for Micah Jones."

  Two more guests filed into the room and took seats at the table. Sarah went back into the kitchen for the rest of the breakfast. Forest was on his knees, adding wood to the fire.

  "Good," Sarah said. '"Take two more mugs of ale and the ham in, while I start to dish up this oatmeal. They're all sittin' together—they can just eat family style."

  "Morning, Mama." Joshua's face appeared in the doorway. He was carrying, or attempting to carry, a very large white goose. "I found Polly, Mama. She came up and started pecking on the door."

  Sarah put down the ladle and stooped to kiss Joshua's cheek. "You're up early this morning, son." She ruffled his dark hair fondly. "Didn't I tell you that fool goose would come home when she got hungry?"

  "I was afraid the wolves would get her."

  "A big goose like Polly?" Sarah shook her head solemnly. "No," she said. "Polly would be more likely to eat the wolves if she found any."

  "Thet's a fine goose ye got there, Master Joshua," Forest said. "Looks right smart, too."

  Joshua grinned shyly. "I raised her from an egg," he admitted.

  "Sarah!" came a shout from the other room along with the clank of mugs. "Sarah Turner! Have ye turned to salt?"

  "The ale!" Sarah ordered.

  Forest filled the mugs and carried them in. The farmers were discussing the imminent British invasion with obvious vigor. No one paid Forest any attention as he slid the ale in front of them. Unwilling to leave the room just yet, he pretended to busy himself with moving a round table and chairs.

  Sarah came back with the plate of ham, more biscuits, and a corn pudding. "Help yourself, gentlemen," she said.

  A stocky, yellow-haired man with a bad complexion let his hand brush against Sarah's leg. "I'd like to do jest that," he quipped.

  Sarah flashed him a warning glance and stepped out of his reach. Forest bristled. By sheer will, he forced himself to stay where he was. Sarah went back to the kitchen to carry in the oatmeal in wide crockery bowls.

  "I need a hand here," she called to Forest as she pushed open the door with her hip. He took the bowls from her and brought them to the table while she dipped out more oatmeal.

  The last two bowls Sarah served herself, being careful not to come too near the yellow-haired man when she gave him his portion. As she reached across the table to put down the final bowl, he reached out and smacked her on the backside.

  Before the man could do more than snicker, Sarah swept the bowl of steaming oatmeal neatly into his lap. He let out a yell and jumped to his feet, swearing as rivulets of hot oatmeal ran down his legs and into his boots.

  Forest cursed and dove for the man, catching him by the back of his collar and lifting him free of the floor.

  "Too hot for you?" Sarah asked sweetly. She followed the oatmeal with a full mug of ale—dashed into his face and down the front of his shirt. "Forest, if you please," she said, and pointed firmly toward the front door.

  Forest grabbed the seat of the man's loose breeches and hauled the unruly customer across the room and through the hall. Giving a mighty heave, he tossed the scoundrel headlong into the dirt.

  "You forgot your hat," Sarah called. She paused long enough to pour the last of the ale into his cocked hat and then tossed it after him.

  Scrambling to his feet, the man backed away, hurling curses. When Forest took a menacing step in his direction, the man turned and fled. Sarah looked at Forest, and they both began to laugh at the same time.

  "I must say, Abe Forest," Sarah managed, when she could control her giggling, "you're a handy man to have around."

  "I try, ma'am. But it didn't look to me as if yeh needed much he'p. It was thet ugly feller I was tryin' t' rescue, this time."

  Chapter Three

  The New Hired Man

  King's Landing, Maryland

  August 20th, 1777

  Sarah sat on the back porch, shelling beans for the midday meal. Both hounds lay beside her in the shade, only occasionally stirring to snap at a buzzing fly. Just beyond the porch, Forest—stripped to the waist in the hot sun—was digging the last of the potatoes in the garden. Joshua was following close behind, brushing off the dirt and tossing the potatoes into a basket.

  For days, the three had busied themselves with harvesting everything in the garden. Bushels of beans and squash were drying on a flat shed roof, along with corn, onions, and peas. They had buried carrots, potatoes, and summer apples in a straw-lined hole in the riverbank—far enough from the house, Sarah hoped, to avoid detection.

  It was too early to gather the pumpkins; they were too green and small to be edible. The pumpkins would have to stay in the garden for at least another month.

  With the British fleet in the Chesapeake, the war had come to Sarah's back door. She needed no urging from Forest to gather all the vegetables she could and hide them. She knew that her livestock were in danger, too. She had instructed Joshua to take Bessie and the mule to the greenbrier thicket. Obediah had hacked a clearing in the center of the impassable tangle before he'd gone away to join his Loyalist regiment. When briers were pulled in front of the gate, it was impossible for a passerby to see the enclosure.

  Under the barn floor was a small cellar that even Forest didn't know existed. There, Sarah kept her extra flour and smoked ham and bacon. An inn couldn't function without food to serve to guests, and Sarah had no intention of sharing the fruits of her labor with any army—not even King George's.

  Joshua began to laugh, and Sarah glanced up from her beans and pursed her lips. In the few weeks that Forest had been at King's Landing, he had paid the boy more attention than Obediah had ever done. Joshua was fast forming an attachment to the auburn-haired backwoodsman. The boy would be hurt when the man moved on; Sarah knew it, but she was unable to do anything about it. To try to keep Joshua away from Forest—with the man's tall tales and good-natured teasing—would be nigh impossible.

  Face it, Sarah, she admitted to herself. The boy would not be the only one to miss Abe Forest when he left. Deliberately, she fixed her gaze on the basket of beans in her lap. Watching a man like Forest dig potatoes would be dangerous for a woman so long alone. He stirred emotions in her that Sarah hadn't believed existed.

  Forest was a slim, narrow-hipped man, in contrast to Obediah's massive bulk. Forest's stomach was flat and his shoulders wide for a man of middling height. His arm and shoulder muscles didn't bulge out like Obediah's brother Isaac's—Abe Forest
was as sleek and smooth as a hunting cat. The hair on his chest was sparse and silky, not coarse and thick like the Turner brothers'. Forest was a clean-looking man, except for that God-forsaken mane of unruly hair and the beard. Even the dark auburn color was striking.

  Listen to you, Sarah, she admonished herself. You sound like some man-grasping old maid. If you had an ounce of the sense God gave you, you wouldn't be sitting here savoring the half-naked body of your hired hand! She'd had a taste of married life and a taste of living alone. It didn't take a lack-wit to know that being on her own was the best bargain for a sensible woman.

  The trouble was, it was impossible not to be drawn to Abe Forest. Despite his rough appearance, there was something about him that she found irresistible. Forest was hardworking, with the manners of a gentleman, and the audacity of a London pickpocket. He made Sarah laugh and eased the burden of the long, work-filled days. Sarah set her basket on the floor, straightened, and brushed off her apron. If she wasn't careful, she'd come to depend on him, and that would be a terrible mistake.

  Joshua ran toward her, holding out a handful of dirt. "Look, Mama! Look at all the worms Forest dug up with the potatoes! Can I go fishin'?"

  Sarah hesitated. With all the unrest of the war . . .

  "Please, Mama? I'll just go down to the bend. I can take the dogs with me."

  Forest set the basket of potatoes on the step. "He worked hard, ma'am. Fish would go good with them beans, I'm thinkin'."

  "You're thinkin'," Sarah mocked. "It seems to me that you two do entirely too much thinking around here. All right, Joshua, you can go for a little while. But if you see a sign of a boat on the river or hear anything move in the woods, you hightail it back here. You're not to speak to any strangers or even let them see you. Do you understand?"

  Joshua nodded. "Yes'm." He grinned, showing a space a new front tooth would soon fill, and then turned and ran awkwardly in search of his fishing pole.

  Sarah's throat tightened. Joshua would never run and jump freely like other boys, and she would never stop aching for him.

  "He's a fine young'n."

  Sarah's gray eyes flashed a warning. "In spite of his foot, you mean?"

  "If I'd-ah meant thet, I'd-ah said it."

  Sarah blushed faintly. "I'm sorry. I've heard that so often. 'A smart lad, Miz Turner. A likely boy, your Joshua—too bad he's a cripple,'" she mimicked. "Most folks, even well-meaning ones, see the foot instead of the boy. It hurts."

  "No use ye bein' touchy about it. Boy's got a cross t' bear. He don't need no clingin' mama makin' his life harder." Forest's expression softened. "Ye ever take him to one of them physicians? I hear tell they's better'n a barber fer fixin' bones 'n such."

  "Master Turner doesn't hold with doctors." Sarah took a few potatoes off the top of the basket to go with her beans. "You're good with children," she said. "Do you have any of your own?"

  Forest turned his face away. "No."

  Sarah couldn't miss the agony in his voice. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried into your—"

  "No secret to it." The cords on the back of his muscular hands tightened. "I had a son an' I lost him." Forest rested a hand against the porch post and then flung the arm downward and clutched his hand. "Damn it to hell!" he muttered between clenched teeth. A black wasp crawled across his palm. Forest knocked it to the ground and stepped on it. "Damn you! Sorry, ma'am, but it stings like fire."

  "Let me see it." Sarah took his hand firmly between hers. An angry swelling already covered an area the size of a shilling. "That's a bad sting," she said soothingly. "I've never seen one turn red so fast."

  Forest paled. "Bees, hornets—anything, they seem to bother me worse'n other people."

  "Come in the kitchen and wash. I think the stinger's still in your hand." Sarah led the way to the plank table and poured fresh water into a basin. "We'll clean it up and take a look."

  Forest sat down on the bench and offered his hand. Using a bit of linen, she washed away the garden soil and inspected the injury closely. A splinter-like object protruded from the center of the swelling.

  "See that?" Sarah said. "I told you the stinger was still in it. Hold still." Forest's hand was broad and callused, scarred by years of hard work, yet the nails were close-cut, his fingers shapely. Sarah could feel the controlled power flowing from that warm and indisputably masculine hand. Her pulse quickened as unfamiliar sensations of excitement formed a knot in the pit of her stomach. Lowering her head, she brushed the palm of his hand with the tip of her tongue until she touched the stinger. Forest's skin tasted lightly of salt.

  "What are you—”?

  Catching the stinger neatly between her teeth, Sarah pulled it free and spat it out into her hand.

  "Ouch," Forest protested.

  She released his hand and laughed, quickly covering her own loss of composure as she brushed the minute stinger off her skirt. "You're worse than Joshua," she teased. "It doesn't hurt when a stinger comes out—only when it goes in." Quickly, she poured a little vinegar into a wooden bowl and stepped away from him. "Soak your hand in this while I fetch some rue from the herb garden. Oil of rue will suck out the poison if anything will."

  Forest drew in a ragged breath. "There's no need to go to such trouble. I think the swelling has stopped."

  Sarah's eyes widened in surprise. "Not only has my nursing cured your hand," she observed wryly, "but I seem to have smoothed out your speech as well." She rested her hands lightly on her trim hips. "There are questions you'll be answering for me, Abe Forest—if you expect to stay on here."

  He grimaced. "I'd make a poor player, wouldn't I?"

  Sarah frowned. "No more of your tricks. Out with it! Who are you and why are you here?"

  He stood up and dried his hand on a linen towel. "Forest is my given name," he said softly. "Abe I borrowed from a man I knew in the war—I tried to steal his speech as well."

  Sarah blinked. "Why?"

  Forest folded his arms across his chest. "I tried to find work in Chestertown," he lied, "and in Oxford. When I opened my mouth, I was sent on my way. It seems a little learning is a dangerous thing. I am too poor for a gentleman and too well-spoken for a hired man."

  "Why did you come here?"

  He shrugged. "I didn't even know the inn was here. I saw your lights at night and—"

  "You're a deserter, aren't you? From which army? Are you Patriot or Loyalist?"

  Forest colored beneath his tan. "My past is my own," he said. "If it troubles you, I'll be on my way." His expression hardened as he started for the open door. "I trust I've given you fair labor for my pay, Mistress Turner. If you've no—"

  "Wait," Sarah called. She stared intensely at him, raising her gaze to meet his. The single blue eye seemed to dare her. "Perhaps it is the war," she murmured. "We all do and say things we would not in peacetime."

  "If you want me to go, I will."

  She shook her head. "No, I don't want you to go." It was true! She could not bear the thought of his leaving. Unconsciously, she wound her fingers in her apron. "Keep your secrets," she said, "so long as they don't harm me or mine. But . . . " She tried to make her tone matter-of-fact, despite the flutter in the pit of her stomach. "It would be best if you kept up your pretense of low birth in front of others. I will speak to Joshua. You need not fear that he will give you away. As you say, you are too well-spoken for a servant. Abe Forest you were, and Abe Forest you shall remain. Whatever you are running from, it is not my concern."

  "Are you certain, Mistress Turner?"

  "No." She sighed. "You've a tongue that could charm the leaves from the trees. But I'll take a chance on you just the same . . . at least for the time being."

  "That may be, but I wish I'd a tongue that could charm those potatoes out of the ground. Unless I've missed count, I've two more rows to dig." With a grin, he turned and left the house.

  Sarah stared after him, her mind in turmoil and her fingers still tingling from the feel of that broad, powerful hand clasped in hers.<
br />
  ~~~

  Sunday, August the twenty-fifth, was quiet at the inn. Only a single horseman paid to have Forest ferry him south across the Misakaak River. The stranger spoke not more than four words until the log raft was in the center of the river.

  "Have ye heard anything?" The gray-haired farmer stood a few feet away from Forest in case someone should be watching from the shore.

  "Silent as the grave," Forest replied. He kept his eye on the water as he pushed the pole. "Where's Howe?"

  "If he goes any farther up the bay, he'll run aground. I'm headed for Colonel Richardson in Somerset with dispatches." The man spat into the water. "It's gonna blow, Forest. Watch your scalp. Word is Nate Gist is on his way from Virginia with regulars and some of his Injun scouts. Them Cherokee ain't too particular whose hair they lift."

  "Which way do you think Howe is moving?" Forest asked. The surface of the Misakaak was deceptively smooth today . . . the water reflected the sunlight and glowed with rich colors of gold and rust and olive green.

  "My guess would be Philadelphia. If he throws his troops full force on the Eastern Shore we won't last a week."

  "What about the lower Delaware counties?"

  The man bit off another piece of tobacco. "They might hold out another two days—maybe."

  "You tell the captain I've seen nothing of Obediah Turner or his brother Isaac. Turner's wife acts like a woman who's been running things herself."

  "No Loyalist gatherings?"

  "Not unless they're all ghosts. King's Landing is for George—the woman makes no bones about it—but I've heard nothing that would link her to our Tory raiders. The only Loyalists I've seen have been a few farmers, none of them fighting men, by my thinking."

  The raft touched the bank, and Forest leaped onto the shore. "What's the scuttlebutt? Will the old man make a stand?"

  "Washington?" The messenger shrugged. "Nobody knows. Hell—he probably don't know. I don't see how he can—not up against twenty thousand men and all that cannon. Half our army's scattered to hell and gone. Them fire-eatin' New Englanders is takin' their own sweet time about gettin' down here." He stepped onto the muddy bank and led his horse off the ramp. "Take care. Ye might not know the next man by sight. The captain says if a stranger comes claiming to be yer contact, yer to ask him where he hails from. The right answer is Stony Bridge. If he don't know the password, help him on to his final reward."