The Blacksmith’s Bravery (14 page)

She felt a flush climb up her neck. Why should it bother her that he'd noticed the fit of those boys' trousers, when she'd dressed for years to draw men's eyes to her figure? “Yes, but… am I to keep those things?”

He shrugged. “I don't care. I'll pay for them, if that's what you're getting at.”

“It's not. What I mean is”—she stepped over in front of the desk—“will I be making another run?”

“Oh.” His gaze slid away from her toward the door, the window, the lantern on the shelf—anything but her face. “Well, I don't know. I wasn't planning on it. On the other hand, sometimes it's hard to come up with an extra messenger.”

“Or driver?”

He brought his fist down on the desktop with a
whap
that made her jump. “I told you—you can't drive a stagecoach. You're not good enough.”

She frowned but managed to keep down the anger building
inside her. “I realize I have a lot to learn. An old hand like Bill could teach me a lot.”

“That so?”

“Yes, it's so. And… well, to be honest, after making that ride up to Silver City, I know I couldn't drive that route myself. Not yet. You're right about that.”

“I am?” He scowled. “I mean, I know I am, but I'm surprised you'll admit it.”

Vashti picked up the ticket book she'd left on the desk that afternoon. “As I said, I know I have a lot to learn.” She laid the book down and met his gaze head-on. “All I'm asking is the chance to get that knowledge.”

He watched her in silence. At last, he shifted in the chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. “I'm not going to let you practice on the stage teams.”

“Didn't ask you to.”

“Humph.”

They stared at each other for half a minute. Vashti decided it might be a good idea to let him win, and she looked away.

“I also wished to know…” She gulped, suddenly losing confidence. Griffin was a very large man, and sometimes men like him had hair-trigger tempers. She didn't want to vex him. Neither did she want to go back to the Spur & Saddle without her pay. “I wished to know when you would pay me for making the run.”

“I pay on Fridays.”

“Oh. All right. That's it, then.”

“Fine.”

“Yes. Fine.”

“Bane, you in there?”

Vashti whirled toward the doorway. Ted Hire, the owner of the Nugget Saloon, stood there, sweat beading on his forehead. Griffin stood. “What do you want, Ted?”

“There's a boy over to my place—says he belongs to you.”

Griffin stalked into the Nugget with smoldering fire in his chest.

Justin leaned on the bar, blinking dewy-eyed at Hannah Sue, the blonde Ted had hired a few months back. She wasn't as young or as pretty as some of the saloon girls who had come through Fergus, but she wasn't homely, either, and Griffin knew from experience that she listened well.

Probably Justin was filling her full of tales of how mean his uncle had treated him, while Hannah Sue poured him a drink of—what?— out of a clear bottle.

In three steps, he stood beside Justin and clamped his huge hand over Hannah Sue's on the bottle. “What have we got here?”

Hannah Sue's eyes widened, and she jerked her chin up. Her startled expression slid into a smile. “Well, hi, Griff. I was just making the acquaintance of your nephew. Justin here tells me he arrived in town this afternoon with you. Come all the way from Pennsylvanie, he says.”

As she talked, Griffin yanked the bottle away from her so he could read the label.

Sarsaparilla.

He set it down on the bar with a sigh and turned to Justin. “This ain't no place for a kid.”

Justin straightened and thrust his shoulders back. “I ain't no kid. I'm a man now. My ma said so.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She wouldn't have sent me all this way by myself if I was a kid.”

“That right?” Griffin glared down at him. Justin was nearly a foot shorter than him and weighed about a third as much—hardly more than a sack of feed. “Tell you what, boy: If you were a real man, you'd have stayed home and taken care of your mama and the other kids, instead of worrying her sick.”

Justin's jaw clenched. “Miss Hannah Sue knows I'm ready to take a man's place in the world, don't you, ma'am?” He looked at the bar girl, innocent appeal spilling out of his big brown eyes.

“Well now, Justin, I think you could do that, I surely do.” Hannah Sue's honeyed drawl soothed the boy a little, and his face relaxed. “But you've got to understand that no matter how mature you are,
you have to be a certain age to come into the Nugget. Mr. Hire knows that, and he also knows that if we served you liquor, the sheriff could lock him up and close down his business.”

“Even in the West? I thought it was different here.”

“Not so different as you might think,” Ted said from behind Griffin. “Especially when we've got a sheriff who takes the law seriously.”

“That's right,” Hannah Sue said. “So he went to get your uncle. Now, he could have gone for the sheriff and got you tossed out and your uncle charged with child neglect or some such tomfoolery, but he's a nice man. So instead of getting you and Mr. Bane in trouble, he just fetched your uncle, and it's up to you to play the man's part. Go on home, and don't come back here until you're older.”

Justin's frown had returned. He looked down at the glass on the bar. “But you poured me a drink.”

“Honey, that ain't whiskey. Go ahead and drink it if you want. On the house. Then you go on home with Uncle Griff and behave yourself. In a couple of years, I'll see you back in here.” She winked at Justin, a little more provocatively than Griff thought seemly, but then, nothing about the Nugget was seemly. “Go on, now.”

Justin picked up the glass and sniffed it. He set it down with a thud that slopped sarsaparilla over the edge. His shoulders slumped, and he turned toward the door without another word, shrinking back as he passed Griffin.

“Thanks, Hannah Sue,” Griffin said. He knew she and Ted had both stretched it a little about the law. Most folks wouldn't have cared whether or not a fifteen-year-old boy was served liquor in a frontier town. But in Fergus, people had ideas about decency and helping friends, and he figured they'd done it for him as much as for Justin.

“No trouble,” Hannah Sue said.

Griffin fished in his pocket and found a lone dime. He handed it to her and nodded at Ted. “Thank you, too. If he comes here again…”

“He won't.”

Griff allowed that was probably true. He followed Justin out into the thin autumn sunshine. The chill of winter danced in the breeze, and a drink wouldn't have been unwelcome. But with the boy around…

Yes, with the boy around, Griffin was going to have to consider his habits carefully.

Justin waited at the bottom of the steps with his hands shoved into his pants pockets.

“Where's your coat?”

“Over to the boardinghouse.” Justin's eyes still had the sullen cast.

“Come on. Let's go get it.”

“Where are we going after that?”

“You're coming with me to the smithy.”

Justin's eyes were slits of brown. “Can't I just stay in my room?” “Like you did last time I put you there? Come on, I've got four mules to shoe.”

CHAPTER 9

D
usk hovered over Fergus, reaching long, cold fingers of shadows between the buildings, as Vashti hurried down the street toward the smithy. After the feed store, where the boardwalk ended, she lifted her skirts and quickened her pace. Winter surely was on its way.

The sound of Griffin's hammer told her that he was still at work. It wasn't the loud, musical ring of his rounding hammer on the anvil, but the
tap-tap-tap
of the smaller nailing hammer he used to fasten horses' shoes onto their hooves. As she rounded the corner, he turned the hammer's head toward him and with its claws grabbed the end of a nail protruding from the side of a mule's hoof. He twisted the pointy end off and went around the hoof, repeating the motion five times, then tossed the hammer into the toolbox. Out came another tool, with which he clinched the jagged ends of the nails he'd broken off. Then came the rasp.

Vashti wasn't sure how many more tools he needed to use in the process. Shoeing a horse—or a mule—was a lot lengthier and more complicated than she'd realized. She stepped forward and cleared her throat, but the rhythmic humming of the rasp over the clinches drowned out the noise.

“He don't hear you.”

Vashti whirled toward the open smithy. Inside, Justin sat on a barrel close to the forge, no doubt soaking up its warmth.

She nodded to him, and Justin spoke again.

“You got to yell when he's working.”

Griffin looked up then, taking in her presence and shooting a glance toward his nephew. He lowered the mule's foot and stood slowly. “Miss Edwards.”

“Good evening. Bitsy sent me to invite you and Justin to take dinner at the Spur & Saddle tonight. It's on her and Augie.”

“Well, that's right nice of her.” Griffin slid the rasp into a special slot on the side of the toolbox. He pulled a bandanna from his pocket and mopped his forehead. Even in this cold air, he was sweating.

“Shall I tell her you'll come?”

Griffin looked toward Justin. “What do you say?”

“Is the food any good?”

Griffin scowled at him. “That's no way to talk!”

The boy shrugged. “Sorry. I just thought the smells at the boardinghouse were pretty good.”

Griffin nodded at Vashti. “Tell Bitsy we'll be there after I clean up. And you, boy.” He sent Justin another glare. “Can I trust you to go and tell Mrs. Thistle you're eating with me tonight?”

Justin's mouth went pouty. “Yes, sir.”

“All right, you go, then. If you're not back by full dark, I'll come after you, and this time I'll bring the sheriff.”

His harsh tone took Vashti aback. Then she recalled Ted Hire coming over to fetch Griffin earlier. The episode at the Nugget must not have gone well. She managed to smile at them. “All right. We'll look for you soon at the Spur & Saddle.”