Guns of Liberty by Kerry Newcomb

only offer you room and board and a few shillings for your labor, take your rest when you need it.” She picked up the pitcher. “Keep you some water from the well here.”
    “A pretty lass is as refreshing as the coldest, purest drink.” He stepped forward and momentarily blocked the young woman’s way.
    Kate stopped in her tracks and looked straight into his square-jawed face. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, gunmetal gray and tinged with fire and daring. An ember in the forge exploded in a shower of sparks that shot upward behind the Highlander and outlined him in its crimson-orange light.
    Neither spoke. Kate could scarcely catch her breath. The forge was nothing compared to the heat emanating between them. They were silent and more than a little wary of one another.
    “What are we doing?” Kate asked softly, breaking the stillness of the moment.
    “I don’t know,” Daniel answered. “But maybe I better stop, eh? Your pardon, lass.” He stepped aside. “Been a long time since I held these tools, since I’ve built anything.” He ran a hand through his hair and attempted in vain to smooth the unruly locks.
    He glanced around the smithy. His mind searched for the right words to say how he felt. For a moment, his contentment overshadowed the real reason he had come to the Hound and Hare. It was good to forget, even for a moment, to set treachery aside and feel part of something again, to feel he belonged. He had been a long time wandering. It was good to pretend, if only for a little while, to be home.
    A phaeton rolled into the drive and brought their idyll to an end as they both moved from the shade of the barn. The low-sided, four-wheel carriage was drawn by a matched pair of blaze-faced geldings and driven by a man whom Kate instantly recognized.
    Colonel Nathaniel Woodbine of the New York Militia was a man of below-average height and above-average ambition. He stood no taller than Kate, about five feet three. He had sloping shoulders, a thick chest, and his ample girth was firmly encased in a brown frock coat and waistcoat of the same material. His rust-colored breeches and stockings disappeared into shiny black boots. A saber with an ornamented guard dangled from a broad black belt draped across his chest. A white silk ruff was gathered at his Adam’s apple by a silver clutch and fanned out beneath his throat. He was fair of skin, victim of constant sunburn; he wore a white wig, as was the custom of the day, denoting his gentlemanly station.
    Four dragoons in dark blue coats and pale blue breeches sat their mounts several paces behind their commander. The four quickly dismounted and made a hasty progress into the courtyard. One of the men tugged on a cord and rang a brass bell that had been mounted on a post alongside the entrance in the stone wall.
    Moments later Loyal emerged, tankards in hand, and led the way to the cider barrel.
    Woodbine stepped down from the phaeton, doffed his tricorn, and opened his arms to embrace the young woman coming toward him.
    “Kate Bufkin, there’s not a prettier girl in all of the colonies,” Woodbine greeted. He placed Kate’s arm in his and walked with her toward the barnyard, where Daniel pulled on his shirt and immediately found himself introduced.
    “Glad to meet you, my good man,” said Colonel Woodbine after learning the redhead’s name. “A smith, are you? And a woodsman, by the look of you,” he added, eyeing McQueen’s buckskin breeches.
    “I’ve trapped some,” Daniel conceded. He remained guarded, for he carried a deep-rooted suspicion of men of wealth. And through no fault of Woodbine’s, the gentleman reminded Daniel of the father of a girl he had once loved and almost married until that same father discovered his prospective son-in-law’s humble origins. A blacksmith’s son had no place courting the daughter of Boston’s aristocracy.
    “A man of few words.” Woodbine brushed the road dust from his coat. “I like that.” He