Free Guns of Liberty by Kerry Newcomb Page A

even wait for Daniel’s dust to settle in the courtyard of the Hound and Hare before he came calling on the beautiful Kate Bufkin.
    Henk massaged a cramp out of his right calf and settled back against the trunk. He patted the rifle and readjusted his position, easing his buttocks off a sharp stone. Already the wait had unnerved him. His thoughts drifted to the Schraner farm, not an hour’s ride from the front porch below. Papa would no doubt be furious that the cows had not been milked or the eggs gathered this morning. Let Eben or Barnabas see to such chores—and high time they did.
    Anyway, Henk did not fear the old man’s wrath. Lucy Dee Schraner, Henk’s mother, a widow who had become Papa Schraner’s second wife, could be counted on to temper her husband’s anger. She had done so for the past three years of their marriage, turning a blind eye to her son’s faults and championing his every cause, no matter how vain. Dear doting Mum , Henk mused in the silence of the woods. Every son should have one.
    Henk grinned at his own cleverness. He inhaled deeply the spring fragrance of the woods where the pungent fragrance of rotting wood vied with the heady aroma of white sweet clover borne on May breezes from nearby meadows. Buzzing bees and rustling leaves heralded a world at peace, in sharp contrast to the violence in the young man’s heart.
    Sister Agnes worked the straw through a cow horn whose pointed tip had been sheared away, leaving a narrow hole that compressed the straw as it emerged. Every eight to ten inches she tied the length of straw with twine, creating a kind of tough, grassy rope that she could coil into the appropriate shape of a skep, a straw hive, for her bees.
    Later she would sew the loops together to hold them in place and create a solid structure. Most interesting of all, Daniel found, was her choice of work spots, for she calmly perched upon a wooden stool ringed by half a dozen skeps whose occupants swarmed around her in a veritable tornado of wickedly buzzing life.
    A young woman with round, wide eyes, she glanced up as Sister Hope called her by name and noticed the rough-looking, redheaded stranger who stood at Hope’s side.
    “This is Agnes’s peaceful spot; no one bothers her here,” Sister Hope remarked.
    Daniel warily watched the swirling cloud of bees and nodded. “I can understand that,” he said. It would take a braver man than he to approach the woman through the surrounding swarm. The bees not only filled the air, but landed on the woman’s burnoose and on her shoulders. Yet the young woman seemed perfectly at ease.
    “Yes, Hope …” Sister Agnes said, continuing her work as she looked away. She smiled at Daniel. “You must be Kate Bufkin’s new man. Hope told us all about you.”
    Daniel sensed the diminutive woman at his side stiffen with embarrassment. “Why, I didn’t think she knew ‘all.’”
    “Mr. McQueen has come for the candles you promised Kate.” Sister Hope pointedly ignored their remarks.
    “I am told there are no finer beeswax candles in all the colonies.”
    Daniel’s compliment found favor with Sister Agnes; she positively beamed. “Sister Constance taught me the craft. Now the poor dear is ill abed.” She paused to reflect, then continued. “You’ll find the candles in the barn, yes—two large sacks of candles just inside the door.” Sister Agnes hesitated. “I could show you …”
    “We’ll find them, dear.” Sister Hope waved a pudgy hand toward the tall-roofed structure erected for the livestock. The shed, like an afterthought, was attached to the back wall. Both structures were showing their age, and Daniel made a mental note that he would find time to reshingle the worst spots for these good souls.
    “God bless you, good sir,” Sister Agnes called out as Sister Hope led Daniel away.
    He glanced back and waved but offered no reply. Christian admonishments left him uncomfortable and at a loss for words, even more so considering