by Sarita Leone
“I believe you.” She headed for the kitchen, where Molly already rattled dishes in the wash basin. “But I am not the one who needs to be convinced you are sincere. Why not show our guest that you two can be witty and entertaining? We shall bring the pie out in short order. Until then, be nice!”
Chapter 7
Henry’s days fell into a routine. Wake with the sun. Hasty morning ablutions, then coffee with the boss as they rekindled the forge and waited for it to roar to life. The job was never monotonous because although they worked horse shoes daily, the other instruments and tools they made and repaired varied.
His work life was the only thing that was similar to the one he led before journeying to Lobster Cove. The type of effort was the same, but the kindness and respect he received in his new position was something he had never glimpsed in his last.
Some days, it was almost possible for him to forget he’d known any other life.
For so long he’d pushed the memories of his childhood, the beatings and harsh words, to the back of his mind. And while the treatment he’d received at the hands of those whose blood he shared had never abated, by the time he was older he could pretend it was not happening, that he was not there when the brutality invaded his days. He’d learned to pull himself out of his skin, take his mind and heart elsewhere, and only return when the battered and bruised remains were finally forgotten by those who tortured him.
He had hated his life. The one thing that kept him going through the years of hell was the notion he knew where his fortune lay. He had heard the stories and intended to take what was rightfully his—and find a better life for the remainder of his days. The plans he’d made had kept him on his feet for so many years, he was certain that without them he would have died long ago.
“Nice job with that last set of shoes. It ain’t easy getting them sized just right on a horse that massive.” Smith’s compliments came when warranted, and Henry’s work had been exemplary enough that nearly every day there was something his boss commented favorably upon. Now, the big man stood beside him, so Henry stopped working and wiped his hands on his sooty apron.
“He was a big one, wasn’t he? Those draft horses, they’re generally placid but every once in a while…” He shuddered. “Those colossal feet, especially wearing new shoes…”
A low chuckle, hoarse from years of inhaled smoke. “I know what you’re saying. We’ve all been whacked in the boys a time or two by those big hooves. Damn, but it makes a man want to cry like a girl, doesn’t it?”
He grinned. The way Smith hunched a bit and bent one knee toward his chest as he gave an exaggerated grimace was funny. That, too, was a new addition to his life. Laughter and camaraderie on the job was not something he had ever known before now.
“It sure does. That’s why I was so careful shoeing that big boy. I didn’t want to roll on the ground in the dirt, victim to one of those huge hooves.”
“Smart man. I saw that the minute you came in here, you know. What was it—two, three weeks ago?”
Time had flown. It was startling that it did seem to fly when a man wasn’t struggling for survival. Happy times led to swiftly moving days. It was something the cove and Smith had taught him.
“Four weeks come Friday.” Henry had counted the days, every night before hitting his bunk. He’d marked them off in the book he carried in his bag, measuring his life in little lines swaggering across the page in clusters of seven. A line for each day, a cluster for each week, and every one devoid of hardship and hateful memories.
He dared not believe his good fortune would last. A man like him? Trouble was bound to find him eventually. But for now, little clusters and painless weeks. Nothing more he could ask for. Nothing.
Except…
Before he could begin to contemplate what—or, more accurately, who—was missing from his life, Smith interrupted. Which, as he saw it, was a very good thing because wishing for what—and who—was clearly out of a man’s reach was nothing short of crazy.
“You’re doing a great job here. I am pleased with your work.” Smith took paper and tobacco from his shirt pocket and rolled a cigarette. He took his time, tamping the leaves into a tight wad before twisting the paper and sliding it across his tongue to seal it. The end of a red hot poker was enough to light the thing, and he inhaled deeply before he spoke again. “Are you pleased with working here?”
He did not have to pause to think. “I am. And, I’m glad you find my work satisfactory.”
“Better than satisfactory, man. You did not lie when you said you know your way around a blacksmith shop. You could run the place, if you had a mind to do so.”
“Which I most certainly do not.”
Smith lifted his right eyebrow as smoke drifted past his face. “No ambition for it?”
“None. I do not mind the work, but I am not sure it is to be a lifetime endeavor.” He’d never admitted that to anyone before. Granted, no one had either praised his work or enquired as to the direction of his mind before, either. “Honestly, I do not know what I am meant to do. Where I am meant to be. It is not something I have spent a lot of time contemplating. I suppose I will know…well, when I know. Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all. Pretty solid thinking, as I see it. You have options. Not all men do, have options that is. Me? I was born into this line of work. Generations of blacksmiths, one after the next. Even with the name that seals my fate.” He finished his cigarette and tossed the stub into the fire. Wiping his palms together, Smith shrugged. “I never got the chance to think about how I wanted my life to be. I started in here so early I can’t remember a day I haven’t been in this shop. My wedding day, even. The preacher’s horse threw a shoe, so I rolled up my sleeves and fixed him up right. Then, to the wife, but this place has always come first.”
Henry looked around, as he had done many times already. The tools all hung in readiness, like with like so it was not difficult to locate the correct tool for a job. The place was swept daily, and cleaner than any other smithy he’d seen. Pride made the humble shop glow.
“Doesn’t seem like a bad thing, to know your place in the world. And Lobster Cove, why that’s about as good as it gets, it looks like.”
“Not bad, but not negotiable. See, that’s all going to end with me. My son? The one still at his mama’s breast? When he’s of an age to know his mind, I’m going to make it plain that it’s his mind. His life. His future. And, if he doesn’t want any part of this hot, dirty life? I’m not going to force it on him. Already got that decided—and it’s the only thing I’ve decided for him.”
Henry met Smith’s gaze and saw determination in the stare. He wanted more for his boy than what he’d been offered. An admirable ambition.
“You’ve got one lucky boy there. No one ever cared enough about me to offer me—” He stopped, too stunned to continue. He’d almost told the truth, let the memories out from behind the locked door. Swallowing hard, he finished, “He’s just a lucky child, that’s all.”
Smith didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was low and his eyes bright. “I’m the lucky one. I’ve got my own business. Live in a place I love. More importantly, I’ve got the best woman in the world by my side. A beautiful son, and another babe on the way. What more could a man ask for? What more?”
“Not a thing, I don’t think.” His heart tipped, as each item on the other’s list hammered home the fact that he would most likely never have any of those things. And, he wanted them all. Desperately.
“Hey, we’ve put in a good day’s work. Those draft horse shoes were the last thing that needed to be done before tomorrow. Let’s get cleaned up, and take an hour of rest that doesn’t have to wait until Sunday.”
“That sounds great.”
He put his tools on the wrought-iron hangers beside the fire pit, took his apron off, and hung that as well. He didn’t need to be coaxed to enjoy the hour. Once he scrubbed the black off his face and hands, he planned to head to the beach. If h
e was even half as lucky as Smith was, he might find the lovely Miss Sweet walking on the sand or sitting on the boulders.
His needs were simple. Just as the desire to claim his dubious inheritance had kept him moving through the days and years of his life, the longing to see one beautiful young woman kept him working at another man’s shop day after day. And, it kept him from going in search of the fortune he’d always heard was his for the taking—if he dared to take it.
Chapter 8
Mary’s day hadn’t gone well at all. And for once, the busy family bee had shirked her responsibilities, leaving Molly in charge of helping their mother prepare the evening meal. No one had questioned her when she asked to be relieved of her share of the household tasks, and she hadn’t offered an explanation.
She had even gone as far as to say she did not expect to be home in time for dinner, thus there was no sense setting a place for her at the table. There had been two sets of female eyebrows raised at the declaration, but neither her mother nor sister said one word. It was a good thing because she did not believe in falsehoods but could not tell the truth. Not to her family, anyhow. It was a horrible secret she carried, one that would break the female hearts she held so dear.
The beach was deserted, save for a lone fisherman near the scrub at the far end of the sand. He stood waist-high in the water, just at the point where the land made a bend, leaving sand behind for brambly overgrowth and stubby pine scrub. It was the part of the shore that few ventured into, although there were enough tales about treasure washed there from wrecks hidden in the briars to make some brave souls chance scraped legs in hopeful search.
She had never been adventurous enough to risk the scrubby stretch, so it did not matter that the man stood at that end. With a note of his location quickly stored in memory, Mary turned and walked toward the boulders.
Living all one’s life in a small, sheltered village had many advantages. Knowing everyone, being part of a community that relied upon its own in both good times and bad, sharing a history with others who could trace their ancestry back to the first settlers on the spot.
Sharing and keeping secrets. Many secrets. Some noble. Some scurrilous. A few downright despicable. Still, they kept their secrets.
The MacDonnall family had occupied the house beside the Sweet home for three generations. Brynn and Frank had been wholly incompatible. He, a hard, harsh, drinking man who treated his wife miserably. She, a woman with children to feed who lived through more blackened eyes and broken bones—all at the hand of her husband—than any woman should ever be forced to endure. The miserable Frank had been found dead one morning, his skull caved in and the one man who had been his drinking partner the evening before mysteriously gone from town. Brynn had never cried over her husband’s death and went on to live out her years in quiet peace, surrounded by her growing brood.
James, the eldest MacDonnall son, married a gentle woman named Carol. They had three sons and two daughters, just the way Mary’s parents had done. After losing the last son, Carol and Jim went a bit strange in the head. Both, at once, and neither had ever fully recovered the shock of burying a baby. So the other children raised themselves and cared for their parents.
Carol lived still, with her daughters in the house separated from the Sweet house by the same post fence that had always kept one garden from the other. Both men were married and lived just down the street. Neither Beth nor Jane, though, had met anyone able to coax them from their mother’s home.
Kicking the sand with the toe of her boot, Mary squeezed her eyes tightly closed. It was her attempt to staunch the flow of tears she felt approaching. It did not work; the first tears fell hot and fast against her cheeks.
She stopped, allowing herself the luxury of a private cry. Never the type to wallow in despair, the flood stemmed as suddenly as it began. Wiping the backs of her hands against her skin, she sniffed, then took a deep breath. When she was certain there were no more tears to come, Mary bent and undid the buttons at her ankles. Her boots came right off, and her stockings followed. She grabbed her things and began once again to walk.
No one could hear so she gave voice to her thoughts.
“I thought we were friends! Best friends—sisters, almost. How could she have done such a thing without…without—oh, but it is beyond words dreadful that I am not trustworthy enough for her high standards!” She kicked a whelk that lay in the sand and was instantly sorry she had done so. Whelks are not known for their light and airy design, and the moment her big toe hit the sturdy, fist-sized seashell, she realized her mistake. A fit of temper would cost a bruised—if not broken—toe.
“You bastard!” The oath was out of her mouth before it entered her mind. Living with brothers and so near the influence of sailing men, she had picked up a few choice expressions. Mostly, however, she refrained from giving them voice.
Dropping her footwear, she sat with a hard plop on the sand. Tears of pain clouded her vision but she did not need to see her foot to find her toe. Cradling it in a rather unladylike position on her skirts, Mary rocked from side to side, waiting for the pain to subside.
“Damn it all, how could I have been so stupid? Oh, the pain…”
Again, she did not attempt to stem the tears. It was almost better, somehow, to cry from physical ache rather than the sting of betrayal. While her toe throbbed inside the tightly curled fist she could not imagine it hurt half as much as her heart.
Men weren’t the only ones who can break a woman’s heart.
“Damn it—damn it—damn—oh!”
A shadow fell across the sand just beyond where she’d dropped her boots. She looked up, expecting the fisherman to be nearby, but it was not him. She shielded her eyes with one hand, squinting into the sun, and recognized the man before her by the way her insides tilted at the mere sight of him.
Henry squatted, holding his hands loosely between his knees, and gave her a gentle smile. “I see you are in the habit of talking to yourself. And, without the carrots and tomatoes nearby, your language gets rather colorful.”
Heat rose from her chest, up her neck and onto her cheeks.
“I…ah, yes, it would seem that way, wouldn’t it?” Why deny the truth? He had ears, and had apparently been close enough to hear her swearing. “I could say it was a trick of the ocean, a whisper of breeze against sand, but we both know I would be lying. And I will not insult you, for I am sure you detest a liar as thoroughly as I do.”
“Breeze against sand, eh? That’s quite something.”
He dropped his gaze to her injured foot. It occurred to her that the foot was bare, and therefore not fit for public display. There was no helping it, had she even cared. Which she definitely did not.
Remembering her manners, she murmured, “I hope my vulgarity did not offend you.”
“Not at all. And it appears you have every reason to be somewhat unsettled. What happened?” Concern, showing so clearly in his handsome face, almost brought a fresh wave of tears.
“I was careless. It…ah…” She sighed, too upset to even consider any attempt to make herself seem less ridiculous. Jutting her chin to the sand beyond his back, she said, “I kicked that. It, ah, hurt. A lot.”
He reached for the whelk, turning it over in his hand. A low whistle. “I bet it did. Don’t you know these can kill a man? My granddad said once—” He stopped mid-sentence, an incredulous look in his eyes, almost as if his words surprised him. Tossing the seashell to the sand beside them, he asked, “May I see your foot?”
Mary held the affected toe more tightly. She shook her head, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.
“It is not the foot. My toe…I kicked the shell with my toe. I fear it may never be the same again.”
The day had begun so nicely. A warm breeze, blue sky, chores dispensed with before noon…then, the upheaval that sent her to the seashore and ultimately landed her in the rather untidy position she currently occupied.
How can something turn from brilliant to dismal so quickly?
It made no sense.
“I promise I will not hurt you.” She sucked in a fast breath when he placed his warm hand atop hers. His fingers twined between her fingers, loosening the grip on the damaged toe. When she revealed the foot, he sucked in a quick breath of his own. “Oh, my…Mary, I believe you may be right. This poor toe will surely take time to heal.”
Mary. He’d called her by her given name and did not seem to recognize he had done so. But she heard, and did not protest. The word sounded like a caress coming from him, and it hit her that her name never sounded so sweet.
He stuffed the large seashell into his jacket pocket before handing her shoes and stockings to her. Then, he placed his right arm beneath her knees and his left behind her back. Just as she realized what he was going to do, she began to protest but he silenced her with a look.
“I know it is not entirely proper that I hold you this way, but I am not willing to leave you here. It is obvious you cannot walk. We need to get you home. Now, please, stop wiggling. I do not want to drop you.”
What could she do? He held her firmly against his body, and for the first time in her life she knew what it was to be in a man’s arms. His breath tickled her cheek, and even with her shoes and stockings clutched in one hand, her other arm around his neck, and her toe aching worse than she thought any part of her body could ache, the moment was magic. Pure magic.
Chapter 9
Henry was no stranger to public houses although the opportunity to frequent one had not presented itself often. Money—even the coins he earned working late into the night for those who did not mind paying extra—he was required to relinquish to the iron fists of the family. Usually, he paid for their ale and spirits. Sometimes, however, he managed to secret a coin or two for himself. Those, he either saved or on very rare occasions, used as payment for a draught to slake his own thirst.
