I know Maple’s going to be mad about us all getting underfoot in her kitchen when she’s about to fix food for supper.

Sure enough, she glares at Bessie as she shuffles in, but when her eyes settle on me, she strikes, “And where have you been? You think you’re some kind of high and mighty to leave off your work before you hardly got started? I saw the vegetable garden and all the work you didn’t do today.”

Some slaves would make worse masters than the masters, and Maple is of one of them. She’s got so much hate balled up inside her it can’t help but leak out.

“Missus told me to stop.”

She sucks her teeth and plants her hands on her hips. “You must take me for the dumbest kind of fool there is, if you expect me to believe Miss Martha’s going around me to tell you to stop working.”

Master Thomas pushes in from behind us. “I get to have peach cobbler and Sarah’s going to make it for me and Bessie’s going to teach her how.”

“In my kitchen? I got to fix your supper.”

“Mother said.” He drags me and Bessie deeper inside. “’Cause I rode a horse.”

“Humph,” Maple says, scowling at the child. “You’re liable to get hot peppers in your cobbler with these two. And your mother better not start fussing with me when her supper’s late.”

“We’ll be quick,” I say.

She just glares at me harder. “I ain’t cleaning up your mess. And you better not leave my kitchen looking like no pigsty.”

Chapter 15

Henry

At the end of the day, as the sun tucks itself behind the blue mountains in the west, I sit at my forge, staring into my fire. I think of her sitting between my legs on that horse, her back pressed against me, my arm wrapped around her waist. I remember the feel of her hips when I lifted her from the horse’s back, warm and soft under my fingers. And the sway of her voice, like the dip and swing of those hips.

That’s what I’m thinking of, when I look up and see her walking toward me. I stand, but I don’t trust myself to speak.

“I came by to thank you for your help earlier. With Master Thomas. And the horse.”

I keep myself from looking at her hips. Instead, I watch her lips pucker and stretch, forming the words. She lifts a cloth of homespun cotton off a plate. The sweet smell makes my mouth water.

“I brought you some peach cobbler. To thank you. For earlier.”

I look down at the plate and back up at her. I should say something.

“It’s Bessie’s recipe,” she says. “It’s a good one.”

She holds it out to me, and I step closer to her, until the plate’s right between us. Her eyes are chestnut and hazel flecked together, reflecting the light like smoked jewels. I ease the dish from her fingers.