The Blacksmith’s Bravery (6 page)

“So?”

“So, you're not ready.”

Vashti held back her retort and gazed up at him. She liked Johnny in a way. He was boyishly handsome and had a fun-loving streak, but he'd be trouble for the woman who lost her heart to him.

“So how did
you
get ready?” What she really wanted to know was how he'd convinced Griffin Bane to hire him. Maybe it amounted to the same thing.

“When I was a kid, my pa put up a rig for me in the barn, so's I could practice handling the reins without anyone—or any horses—getting hurt.”

“What kind of a rig?”

“It's just a frame with six reins attached like they are on a real hitch. You can pretend to drive for hours at a time, working those lines with your fingers until you can tighten or ease up on any one of the six without affecting the others. That's what you need to do if you're going to control all six horses 't once. You can't drive them all like you would one horse. They'd learn to take advantage of you worse than a tinhorn gambler.”

Vashti scowled at him, but what he said made sense. Already her mind was groping for a place where she could have someone make a rig for her. It couldn't be at the livery—Griff would see it. Besides, she wouldn't want to be over there for hours on end, practicing.

Trudy Dooley would let her have it in her barn if she still lived with her brother. But she'd married the sheriff last summer, so she was Mrs. Chapman now and lived out on the sheriff's ranch. It wasn't far out of town, but it was too far for Vashti to trot out there every day.

Augie and Bitsy didn't have a barn. They had a woodshed, though. She wondered if there'd be room out there. They'd burned all of last
winter's wood, so the shed was pretty nearly empty. But Augie would be filling it soon and ordering a ton of coal, too.

The pastor and his wife stepped outside. All of the church folks must be finished shaking their hands. The reverend closed the church door, and they turned to walk down the steps together.

Vashti smiled as another option came to mind. She hurried toward the couple.

“Mrs. Benton, Reverend—I've got a favor to ask.”

Apphia paused and waited for her to reach them, a smile hovering on her lips. “What is it, Vashti? You know we'll do anything feasible for you.”

Vashti wasn't quite sure what
feasible
meant, but she knew the Bentons were bighearted when it came to folks in need.

“You folks have a stable you're not using.”

The minister's eyes widened. “Are you getting a horse, Miss Edwards?”

Vashti shook her head. “No, sir, that would be nice but too expensive. This is cheaper and easier to clean up after.” Mr. Benton laughed.

Apphia squeezed her hand. “Well, my dear, you have us on pins and needles. What is it you want to use the stable for?”

“For a place where I can learn to drive my imaginary stagecoach.”

CHAPTER 4

T
he next day as the coach came in from Reynolds, Vashti stood in front of the Wells Fargo office, ready to make sure the disembarking passengers had their needs met. Sure enough, a couple got out and turned expectantly toward her.

Too bad—it was nearly time for her to set out for the shooting club's regular practice. But Mr. Bane had made it clear that directing the passengers to food and lodging and hearing any complaints they might make was part of her job, for which he now grudgingly paid her a dime a day, plus the commission on tickets she sold.

“May I help you folks?” she asked, remembering belatedly that Griffin had also specified she smile when addressing customers. She tacked on a perfunctory curve of her lips.

“I think you might be able to.” The man doffed his bowler hat, revealing his balding head. After a quick glance at his companion, Vashti catalogued them as man and wife, in their sixties, probably come to visit grandchildren.

“Do you need a place to eat lunch? Because the Spur & Saddle, over yonder, has the best food in Fergus.”

“Thank you, that was to be my first question,” the man said. “The second was where we might find Mrs. Elizabeth Adams.”

Vashti grinned. “Well, that sure is easy. Turn around.”

A couple of doors down, Libby was just coming out of the Paragon Emporium with Florence Nash, who clerked for her in the store.

“Miz Adams,” Vashti called.

As usual, Libby wore a fashionable but modest dress made of good material. The powder blue gown brought out the vivid blue of her eyes, and her golden curls were topped by a matching bonnet. Florence, who was quite pretty, looked almost ordinary next to the lovely lady.

Libby advanced toward them with a smile. “Yes, Miss Edwards? May I help you?”

Her well-modulated tones inspired Vashti to speak as smoothly as the emporium's owner. “Yes, ma'am. These folks would like to see you.”

Libby looked at the couple, favoring them with a hesitant smile. “Hello. Have you just arrived in Fergus?”

“Yes, ma'am.” The man gestured toward his wife. “We're the Hamiltons. We've corresponded with you.”

“Why, yes, of course.” Libby's reserve melted, and she extended her hand, first to the lady and then to the gentleman. “Forgive me. I wasn't expecting you so soon.” She turned to include Florence and Vashti in her explanation. “Ladies, this couple is interested in viewing the emporium with the prospect of buying it.”

Vashti caught herself so she didn't let out an unladylike whoop. It was no secret that Libby Adams planned to marry the shy gunsmith, Hiram Dooley, but she couldn't until she sold her business. No one in Fergus could afford to buy it—with the possible exception of the schoolmarm, Isabel Fennel, who had inherited a large estate from her father. But Isabel enjoyed teaching and had no desire to run a store, thank you, so Mrs. Adams had advertised the emporium in several Eastern newspapers. Goldie had told Vashti all the details she'd learned while stocking shelves in the store.

“You must be tired.” Libby addressed the lady. “Did you folks come all the way from Boise today?”

“Yes, we did,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “We were anxious to get here and meet you and see the emporium.”

“Of course. But you must be hungry.” Libby looked to Mr. Hamilton.

“Well…”

“Of course you are. Please allow me to entertain you at our finest restaurant.” Libby looked apologetically at Florence. “My dear, I fear I must let you go to the club without me today. Please make my excuses to Trudy. She will understand.”

“Yes'm,” said Florence.

“Let me give you folks a quick look at the emporium before we eat.” Libby turned her head and raised her eyebrows in Vashti's direction. “Miss Edwards, could you possibly run ahead and see if the Moores can accommodate three late diners? We shall be over in ten minutes.”

“I surely can.” Vashti gathered her satin skirt and leaped off the boardwalk. She ran across the street.

When she charged into the dining room, Bitsy was just picking up her husband's shotgun. Dressed in her red bloomer costume, she looked the part of a sharpshooter.

“What's happened?” she asked, eyeing Vashti with trepidation.

“Nothing bad. There's a couple off the stagecoach, and they want to buy Miz Adams's store. She wants to bring them here to eat. Do you have anything left?”

“Praise the Lord,” Bitsy shouted. “Augie! You hear that?”

Augie poked his shiny bald head out from the kitchen. “Hear what?”

“We've got customers coming. Is the stew still hot?”

“Yes, I've got it on the back of the stove.”

“Well, heat up those leftover biscuits, too, and put the chicken pie in the warming oven.” Bitsy stuck the shotgun under the serving counter. “I'll have to stay here to serve them. Tell Trudy.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Vashti asked.

“No, child, you go on. But I need to get out all the luncheon things we put away. We didn't have a single customer to lunch. I thought today was the first day of our decline and bankruptcy.”

“That day happened last year, when we got married and closed the bar,” Augie muttered as he shuffled for the kitchen.

“Don't pay him any mind.” Bitsy pulled three of the best china plates off a shelf. “Go on now, Vashti. Tell Trudy I'll be there Thursday, for sure. And you see if you can't win the prize today.”

Griffin tore open the envelope as he left the post office on Mayor Peter Nash's closed-in porch. He felt bad for his sister, Evelyn. Five kids, and no grandparents nearby to help her out. He'd written to her, offering to help in a small way—he could probably send her a few dollars a month if she needed it.

He pulled the closely written sheet of paper from the envelope and stopped walking to steady it. Squinting down at her spidery writing, he immediately felt a glow of satisfaction. Offering his brotherly generosity had been just the right thing to do. It would help Evelyn and make him feel good.

Griffin felt the sting of tears in his own eyes, just knowing the good he'd done.

Griffin frowned over that sentence. If she didn't need money, what did she need? Just his kind thoughts from three thousand miles away?

Griffin's chest tightened and he feared to turn the page.

Griffin looked up in a panic. People walked along the main street as though everything was normal. A wagonload of women approached from the north. Shooting practice must be finished. Libby Adams and a middle-aged couple came out of the Spur & Saddle, chatting amicably as they headed across to the Paragon Emporium.

Sucking in a deep breath, Griffin turned and hurried back to the post office.