Horsemen and Hot Chocolate (The Haunted Brew #3)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

Katrina Van Tassel had never met a man as self-assured in his inept dancing as Ichabod Crane.

His long feet pranced like a fawn learning to walk as he hooked his arm around hers in a flourished spin.

The Virginia Reel was a simple dance, yet he missed every cue by half a beat.

Katrina might have found his bumbling steps endearing if he had even a shred of humility.

But the man’s ego seemed almost as inflated as the bulbous Adam’s apple protruding from his throat.

However, it wasn’t his appearance that displeased her as much as his leather shoes stepping on her toes.

Katrina winced, grimacing at his face. Ichabod had a long, sharp nose, mousy features, and limp brown hair tied into an innovative queue at the nape of his neck.

Most folks in town called the schoolmaster a “snooty scarecrow” for his lanky limbs and habit of sticking his nose in a book.

Though she disagreed with such cruel nicknames, Ichabod’s pompous airs and less-than-impressive talents in singing and dancing did little to win her over.

The next man to take her arm was no better.

Brom Bones grinned down at her, his grip tightening possessively. Black curls swept over his brow and framed his chiseled face. He wore his best red coat, proudly displaying the bulging muscles beneath it. With an arrogant smirk, he flaunted his strength and prowess as the superior dancer.

Katrina resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The two men had been relentless in their competition to win her favor.

At first, she paid no attention to their senseless rivalry.

But as the days turned into weeks, their antics became increasingly exhausting.

No matter where she went in town, the men would intercept her, offering trinkets or flowers.

And heaven help her if the two crossed paths.

Once, she’d been stuck in front of the general store for nearly an hour as they tried to outdo each other in poetry recitals and flattery.

What annoyed her the most was Brom’s gags on the poor schoolmaster. First, he taught a stray dog to howl whenever Ichabod sang. Then, he smeared honey on the schoolmaster’s chair to attract flies and ants. Neither action endeared her to Brom in the slightest.

Katrina wished she could disappear from both men. Plenty of people were in the Van Tassel manor—perhaps she could find an opportunity to escape their sight.

Every year, Father invited the town to celebrate All Hallows’ Eve. The night involved dancing, food, ghostly tales, and her favorite: hot chocolate. However, the festivities could not lift her spirits or the crushing pressure to marry one of her suitors.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted her father grinning, sitting in his wing-backed chair with his feet propped up and an ivory pipe clicking against his teeth.

She knew he wished for her to marry to secure the title of their patrimonial estate.

The land, rich with history, could only be passed to her husband, but no one had captured her heart.

Father was growing older, and his nerves grew more restless the longer she remained unmarried, but he hid it well under his cheerful smile.

If only Johannes, her brother, were still here, perhaps she wouldn’t have to entertain any man vying for her hand.

An invisible hand clenched around her throat at the thought of her brother. Brom did not notice her frown, nor did Ichabod when she passed to him.

When the song’s last note rang out, she curtsied to the schoolmaster and quietly excused herself.

Before Ichabod could produce a word, other townswomen intercepted, chatting away and fluttering their lashes, preventing the bachelors from following her.

If only the two men were interested in anyone but her.

Candles wavered in carved pumpkins with gaping mouths. People chattered and laughed beneath the brassy chandelier as Katrina weaved through the crowd. Finally, she slipped between the kitchen doors.

With a heavy sigh, she leaned against the door and relished the heat that chased the bitter memories of Johannes from her heart.

Fire danced in the large brick oven, casting shadows across the long wooden worktable and the pots and pans that hung on the racks.

Delft blue tiles decorated the hearth, giving a cheerful brightness to the muted kitchen.

A myriad of pewter cookware, jars of herbs, and decorative ceramics adorned the low, built-in shelving.

The space was warm and practical, like the woman who ran it.

Marta hummed as she sliced cheese to serve with the dense rye she had prepared. When the portly woman turned around with the wooden tray, she froze.

“Oh, Miss Katrina, are you all right, my dear?” the older woman asked with concern etched in her wrinkles.

A few strands of salt-and-pepper hair stubbornly escaped her cap, and her round cheeks were red from being close to the fire all day.

Flour dusted her apron, and she set down the tray to face her.

Katrina pushed herself away from the door to lean against the table. “I thought I might seek refuge.”

Marta nodded knowingly. “Is it those unruly admirers of yours?”

“Yes.” She sighed.

“Ah, I see. That bad?” Marta tutted and retrieved a porcelain teacup from a nearby shelf. Then, she ladled some steaming hot chocolate from a pot into the cup, adding a dash of nutmeg. “This calls for a nice cup of chocolate.”

Katrina smiled and accepted the cup. “Thank you,” she said and took a sip.

The drink was not too scalding or cold, and its perfect temperature warmed her to the core.

She hummed at its rich, velvety texture, the sweet creaminess of the milk, and the soft, bitter notes of the chocolate.

The pinch of nutmeg and cinnamon added a cozy spice that lingered on her tongue.

Closing her eyes, she enjoyed the temporary bliss and peace.

“Better?” Marta asked, breaking her reverie.

“Yes,” she answered, taking another sip. “Thank you. I rather needed this.”

“I knew you would. Hot chocolate has that gift. It can soothe any troubled soul.”

Katrina nodded in agreement. “If only it could last. Brom and Ichabod won’t leave me be, and with Father around, it seems they are more eager to impress him.”

Marta clicked her tongue. “And I imagine your father is easily impressed?”

“Unfortunately,” Katrina said with a frown. “He would celebrate any man as my husband as long as his line is secured, and the farm passed on to a male.”

Yet, no man in town had piqued her interest. Her gaze drifted to the window and the forest beyond the orchards.

She wondered what lay beyond the shadows and the hills past Sleepy Hollow.

What if the man she sought lay beyond her sight?

What would she find if she could leave this town behind and venture into the unknown?

Marta hummed sympathetically. “He’s become more restless, that’s for certain.”

“At this point, I’m afraid Father will arrange my marriage if I don’t choose for myself.”

Marta reached over and patted her hand. “There, there, child. Perhaps there’s someone you’ve overlooked or haven’t met yet.”

Katrina scoffed. They lived in a small town, and she knew every man. It was unlikely that she’d missed anyone. “If they’re anything like Ichabod or Brom, I hope I never meet them.”

“As you should,” Marta said, giving her another pat. “You have every right to find someone who values you for the wonderful woman you are and not for your father’s fortune!”

“I doubt I’ll find any such man,” Katrina said, bringing the teacup to her lips.

“These men are so… predictable. Whenever a suitor learns what he’ll inherit if he marries me, I become nothing more than a prized game for the hunt.

I want something more—someone unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Someone more…”

“Extraordinary?” Marta supplied.

“Yes, but… perhaps unconventional. Someone with whom I might connect.”

“You’re not too unusual, dear.”

“Others may disagree,” Katrina said wryly. “I know some townsfolk wonder why I haven’t married—that I’m reaching old maidenhood if I don’t settle down. And lately, I’ve been wishing Johannes hadn’t died… I wish I hadn’t said—”

The words lodged in her throat as an old wound pricked at her heart. Her fingers tightened around the delicate porcelain cup. The woman knew all too well what Katrina could not bring herself to say. Marta’s face softened, and she placed a comforting hand on Katrina’s shoulder.

“I know, child. I know… It’s not fair. We all still grieve your brother. He died a hero for our country,” Marta murmured. “But you can’t change what’s been done… or said. You can’t carry that burden in your heart forever.”

Katrina sniffed, swallowing back tears. She had been eleven when her sixteen-year-old brother left to join the Patriot army. Johannes had been eager to stand beside their father on the battlefield, but she hadn’t understood why he, too, would willingly leave her.

After several months had passed, the memory of her mother’s weeping and her father’s hollow expression when he returned from the war, alone, still haunted Katrina’s dreams. They had never recovered Johannes’s body, leaving them without a proper funeral.

All they received was a single letter informing them that he had perished at the Battle of White Plains; nothing more.

Fourteen years had passed, but memories of her brother clung to her dreams like an ever-present shadow.

Although the anniversary of Johannes’s death had been just three days prior, her father never missed the chance to host the All Hallows’ Eve party.

It seemed he wished to drown his sorrows in cheerful merrymaking and bury the past. But Katrina could not bury the past or drown her sorrows.

Her parents refused to entertain thoughts about visiting White Plains, arguing that battlefields were no place for a young lady.

“You do not need to see the horrors of war, my dear,” her father had said.

Yet in her heart, Katrina knew she would never be able to lay her brother to rest until she saw the place where he had fallen.

Katrina finished her hot chocolate and set it on the table. “I suppose I’ve lingered here long enough.”

“You are welcome to stay longer,” Marta said.

“Thank you. But Father has ordered that I entertain my suitors. I believe both men might try to propose to me, and Father will expect me to say yes to at least one.”

“You don’t have to, my dear.”

Katrina shook her head. Had Johannes survived, he would have been thirty years old—a grown man prepared to take on the ancestral estate and her father’s Shipyard Master tasks. Now, the task lay burdened on her shoulders.

“It seems I have little choice,” she said.

Marta gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before letting her go. With a steady breath, Katrina walked out of the kitchens to face the men she never wished to see again.