The Indian Head Tavern, a competitor to both City Tavern and Fox and Demayne, was located at Front and Spruce, overlooking the docks. It wasn’t as large as other taverns, and was smaller than the restaurants, but it had a nice view of the ships on the river, the sails unfurled for clippers that cut through the water, furled for larger ships, idle until the route to the sea was open, free of colonial interference.
Oliver Hart sat at a window table, looking past the street to the water, a dark blue jacket hugging his fit frame, a ruffled white collar sticking from it. Missy Malone sat beside him, her black curls spilling to her shoulders, blue eyes that twinkled in the light.
“Oliver, you look like you’re in pain,” Missy said as she studied her brooding companion.
“Not at all,” he said. “
