by Lila Felix
“I know you don’t dig surprises. But your brother has a tiny one for you. So act surprised—I just didn’t want you to blow a gasket.”
I flicked a piece of biscuit at Cami across the table. “What do you know about gaskets California Dream?” West laughed at my joke until she pinched his arm.
She flipped her hair across her shoulder. “I know they’re part of a combustion engine.” Well, that surprised me. “And I also know you’re not gonna blow one thanks to your dear sis-in-law.”
Stockton bounded into the room. “I don’t know what you said, Cami, but damn if I don’t hear a little country lilt growin’ on you.”
He bent down to kiss her as she sat at the table and she giggled in response. “Doesn’t matter. Hillbilly twang or not, I’m still your Duchess.”
Tate Halloway would never be able to settle down into a life like this.
She was too—vivacious for this country life.
Stockton’s bass voice brought me out of that thought. “Well, thank the good Lord for that. Bridger, there’s something I want to show you.”
Cami gave me a drawn-out, dramatic wink as I rose from my seat and followed Stock outside. For a while, we stomped the land without a true path. Looking around, I took in all the changes he’d made—building the new barn, digging a new pond off to the side of the property, and the new ducks now swimming in it.
“You know Mama was a bit of a hoarder, right?”
I laughed. Our mom was an old mountain hoarder. She wasn’t like those ladies nowadays who hoarded anything and everything. She hoarded the good stuff. Since she’d died, we’d found cases of moonshine everywhere—buried.
She’d buried it all.
“I remember a little. She made me help her.”
He furrowed his brow at me. “You used to do it too. I remember you burying shit all the time.”
There was no telling how much good stuff was underneath this family dirt just waiting to be discovered.
“Here.” He pointed to the ground where a shallow hole lay empty, its contents had been removed. “Cami and Willa have been using metal detectors around the property. They say it’s fun, but really I think they use it as an excuse to get out of chores. They claim they’ve found something and then dig and dig for days. Usually they don’t find anything, but this time, they did.”
I looked around the vicinity of the hole to see what they’d dug up, but came up short.
“What did they find?”
“I’ll show you. Follow me to the workshop.”
A barrel of thick smoke came from Stockton’s workshop, what once had been my father’s workshop. We went in and the smells and air of the place took me back to my childhood. The heat of the orange embers glowing, the way the smoke permeated my nose and took up residence for days and days after I’d leave—I could almost hear the sound of my dad’s hammer striking the metal for whatever creation had been commissioned.
Stock kept it pristine and organized just like my father had—it was his homage to my dad’s legacy.
“That’s yours.” He pointed to a new addition to the place. A bench, almost exactly replicating the one my father used to work at, was perpendicular to Stockton’s with every tool specific to silversmithing hanging in regimented lines along the wall.
That was me—the silversmith.
Stockton had been taught the art of blacksmithing, but I’d been taught the art of silversmithing—both by our father. It seemed he knew what he was doing. Stockton, with his broad shoulders and brute force, was more apt to metalworking. I, on the other hand, while similar in build, was more attentive to the smaller details.
While Stockton made gates and archways—I made chainmail and candlesticks.
Stockton made knives and machetes—I made bracelets and goblets.
It was a lot more masculine than it sounded.
My trade was a little more industry specific. I’d gotten some small commissions from museums and cosplay participants, but other than that, my talent didn’t have as broad of a spectrum as Stockton’s.
“Thank you, Stock. I’ve been wanting to work.”
He clapped me on the back— hard. “I know. And that over there is what Mama left for you.”
I approached the big tin can he pointed to over at the corner of my new workbench. I jangled the container in my hand, listening to the sound of what Mama had thought was some kind of treasure before looking inside. The rusty can was chockablock full of—forks. Not just forks. Knives, spoons, and even a ladle were all stuffed inside that #10 food can that had probably once been used for something stupid like creamed corn or corned beef.
“It’s like she knew.” Stock pondered. “Now you’ve got some silver to work with.”
“Thanks, Stock.” I threw the words over my shoulder, already bombarded with ideas on what to make next.
“Yep.” Was his only answer as he pulled on his gloves and apron and used the bellow to stoke the fire hotter than before.
A book of sketches I used to keep with me was standing on end near the can. Flipping through the leather-bound pages was like turning the pages of a photo album. I knew where I’d been and what I’d done at the time of each drawing.
An urn—it was drawn at my Aunt Daisy’s funeral when I thought her urn was too plain.
A goblet—from the first time I’d seen Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. When they showed all those goblets, I knew I could design a better one.
A necklace—for that hussy Jesse.
That page got torn out and crumbled to fuel the fire later.
I got to work quickly, melting down the ladle first taking pride in sweating and creating things surrounded by the ghostly history of my family. Intending to make a necklace first, I’d shaped out several links when I realized I hadn’t decided on a specific design.
I might as well start with page one.
But as I turned to the first page, my thick gloves getting in the way, an emotional swift kick to my gut reminded me of my first design, my first sketch, the first thing that had come into my mind when my father took me under his wing and taught me my trade.
A tiny bracelet with a plate engraved with the word: Tate.
Damn it all to hell if I couldn’t get away from that woman.
