Brazing (Forged in Fire #2)

by Lila Felix

  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.

  Chapter Ten

  Tate

  “Tate, Honey, eat something.”

  My grandmother, the sweetest, fiercest, godliest woman I had ever known eyed me over a piece of pecan pie and I felt my stomach churn. I eyed the pie and swallowed back more vomit. I could not survive puking again. I honestly couldn’t. If I puked one more time, I would die. That was just the way of it for me right now.

  My Grams was also one of the most beautiful women I had ever known. She still carried her height but had filled out over the years. I wasn’t one to talk. The women in my family started out shapely. It just got better with age and some sugar. I had her stormy gray eyes and curly hair. Hers had turned white years and years ago, but once upon a time we shared this unfortunate color of fire-engine red.

  She was the most important woman in my life, other than my mama, and she was worried sick about me.

  “Grams, I cannot eat that. I promise you. I can’t even look at it without wanting to gag. Please, put it away. I’ll feel better in a little bit.”

  Her cool hand cupped my jaw and she leaned in to plant a kiss on my forehead. “It doesn’t seem fair that you should be sick, my baby girl. I just don’t know what the good Lord is thinking.”

  I smiled at the waver in her voice. Rarely, and by that, I really meant never did my grandmother question the will of God. I had never heard her complain or vent or even doubt God’s sovereign will for our lives. This woman was as saintly as they came.

  But, on the other hand, I didn’t understand either. I didn’t know why I had to get sick. Again. Or go through these awful treatments. I just wanted it to all be over. For good. But I had to finish out this round first, and then we would decide. Dr. Masters had optimistic expectations for my prognosis, which in turn gave me hope.

  Last time we went through this, I hadn’t been nearly as favored to pull through. But I did. And I had treated every day as a gift since then. And I would continue to treat every day as a gift until the day I actually up and died. That included all these days too.

  It didn’t matter if I felt like the room wouldn’t stop spinning in circles, or the cold sweat I’d been rocking since I drove up here for Thanksgiving break had given me the sexiest pit stains ever.

  What mattered was that I was still alive. I could still drive myself and Blue Beauty up here and spend holidays with my aging grandparents. It mattered that tomorrow I would feel good enough to eat Thanksgiving dinner- hopefully- and that I would be so full, the only pants I’d be able to fit into were my baggiest sweatpants.

  Those were the most important things in life. Not my illness. And not my inability to eat pecan pie tonight.

  I could have the whole damn thing tomorrow if I wanted.

  “I’ll be fine,” I promised her. “I’ll be better by tomorrow. You just wait and see. Save the whole pie for me. I’ll eat every last crumb.” I kissed her cheek and then added, “For breakfast.”

  She sat back on the creaking kitchen chair that had been in this house since before my mother had been born. My grandparents lived in the parsonage that the church my granddaddy pastored paid for. Not much had changed during his long preaching career. The peeling walls displayed cream wall-paper with pretty, faded blue flowers over in swirling patterns. The oak cabinets protested every time you opened one and the matching table had been a fixture in this room since its creation.

  My grandparents’ house was the perfect mixture of nostalgia and comfort. It was exactly what I needed to heal my soul and my aching body.

  That and my grandmother’s homemade chicken noodle soup.

  “If I made you some soup? Would that make you feel better?”

  I nodded. “Please.” I laid my head down on my folded arms and watched my grandmother move around the kitchen. I had never felt this tired before. Actually, I hadn’t known it was possible to feel this utterly exhausted. The weariness seeped into my bones and made a home in my hollowed out soul. I wasn’t sure I could keep fighting this. In moments like this, I wasn’t sure I was strong enough. “Thanks for helping me feel better, Grams. It’s nice to be back here.”

  She shot me a smile over her shoulder. “It’s nice to have you here. And it’s about time. This is your second year at that school, you should have been back home much sooner.”

  “Mm.” I didn’t have an excuse and so I didn’t give her one. The truth was that this town was a little bit hard for me to return to.

  I loved my grandparents, but life here had not been easy. My parents were dirt poor growing up. Like poorer than poor. That left my family as somewhat of a charity case.

  It didn’t help that my granddaddy was a preacher and his congregation felt obligated to reach out to us. There were times when I felt so embarrassed of my family’s lack of wealth, I could still burn from the pain. My blood sizzled beneath my skin just thinking about the pitying looks and covert whispers. And then there were times when other people’s kindness is what got us through the day.

  There were good people in this world. People that made living worth it. People that reminded you humanity wasn’t lost. There were people out there that didn’t look at you like they felt sorry for you. Instead, they met your bashful gaze and promised they understood you. They believed in you.

  They cared about you.

  One woman in particular stood out above everyone else. Bridger’s mom. She had been so good to my family and me. She had sent help and offered support without making us feel useless. An
d she’d somehow made sure we had enough without making us feel lacking.

  I hated that Bridger had to lose her, that any of his family had to lose her. She was beautiful inside and out. More than beautiful. She was breathtaking.

  A knock at the door pulled my attention back to the present. I looked up at Grams and waited for her to announce who she was expecting. She looked just as confused as I did.

  “Probably someone from church,” she mumbled. She started wiping her hands on her apron and I dragged myself to standing.

  “I’ll get it, Grams.”

  “Now sit back down.” I could feel her worrying over me and just her concern gave me the extra energy I needed to make my way to the front door.

  “I’m not a complete invalid,” I called over my shoulder. I walked through the cozy living room and to the paned-glass front door. Two blurry figures stood on the other side of the etched glass. I squinted and tried to make out whoever stood there under the bright porch light.

  No such luck. I couldn’t see.

  I yanked hard on the heavy door and then nearly slammed it back into place.

  Shoot.

  Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.

  Bridger stood on the other side of the door with one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen in real life. She had long dark hair and huge green eyes. Her clothes were a little boyish for her clearly-feminine figure and her broad grin was full of confidence and natural ease.

  Damn it. I hated her on sight.

  I knew it wasn’t fair to her. But I couldn’t help it.

  I also couldn’t take my eyes off her stupidly pretty face. I wasn’t usually this vindictive, but she had somehow managed to capture the white unicorn, aka Bridger Wright, and dragged him over to Preacher’s house, while he had done nothing but avoid me for the last two weeks.

  I’d called him just like I promised I would. I had hoped for some kind of drawn out conversation that led into coffee or dinner or a hot and heavy make out session where we both flirted with second base. Instead, he’d been polite, chivalrous and completely removed.

  I thought he might call again after that. But he hadn’t. I’d let myself get busy with the library job, studying for midterms and then go through an intensified round of treatment so I could take this week off and so I wouldn’t have time to think of him anyway.

  Okay, that was a total lie.

  I’d thought about him constantly. I’d even considered coming clean about my illness, just so he’d have a freaking reason to think about me.

  But nope. Nothing. He even managed to avoid the library.

  During Midterms.

  I wanted to hate him. But instead, I decided to hate the leggy brunette.

  A throat cleared and I stopped imagining myself pushing the harlot backwards off the steep porch. I lifted my eyes and met Bridger’s burning green ones.

  “Hi,” he said simply.

  I cocked a hip and rested my shoulder against the doorjamb. “Hi.”

  “What are you doing here?” At least he sounded as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

  “I thought you knew I planned to come back for Thanksgiving?”

  “I did.” He shot a nervous glance at the brunette who was now grinning like an idiot at me.

  What was she so happy about? Was it that obvious he couldn’t stand me?

  Bridger didn’t say anything else at first and I didn’t know how to move on from this weird greeting. I glanced down and noticed he was holding a plate of something covered in foil and so was the girl.

  “Okay, so if you knew I would be here, why are you acting so surprised to see me?” I should have moved out of the way so they could come inside, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to make him suffer a little bit.

  Bridger cleared his throat again. “I knew you would be here, but I… I forgot you would be here.”

  “That makes absolutely no sense, you idiot.” The brunette had stopped smiling and now stood glaring at Bridger.

  I felt an absolutely irrational need to defend him. “Hey! You don’t need to call him an idiot!” I glanced at him again. “Even if he is an idiot.”

  “Oh, lord,” I thought I heard him mumble under his breath. “Will, go wait in the car.”

  I was getting seriously dysfunctional vibes from these two. If this was the kind of relationship he was looking for, maybe it was a good thing he wasn’t interested in me.

  “I will not wait in the car,” she bit back. “I want to meet your friend.” Her impossibly wide smile was back. She balanced her plate with one hand and extended her other. “Hi, I’m Will.”

  I took it warily. “I’m Tate.”

  “Tate?” She quirked her head and didn’t let go of my hand. In fact, she gripped it tighter.

  I nodded. “Yep. Tate.”

  “I’ve never heard of you, Tate.”

  Well, this couldn’t get any more uncomfortable. “I, uh, I’m sorry?” Shit, did she hate me too? Did she think Bridger had been cheating on her or something?

  Oh, my god, was I a home wrecker?

  I hadn’t even done anything wrong! At least not technically…

  Sure, I’d been kind of pursuing Bridger, but he had never mentioned a girlfriend once. Not once!

  “Tatum, who’s out there? Invite them in already!” Gran’s voice called from the doorway to the kitchen. “Oh, Willa! Hi there! Forgive my granddaughter, she’s lost her manners recently.”

  I stepped back so Willa and Bridger could walk in the house. The name Willa sounded super familiar, but I couldn’t place it and it started to drive me crazy.

  “Do you remember my Tatum?” Grams asked the two visitors. Without waiting for a reply, she continued. “Tate do you remember Bridger Wright from when you used to live here? Or his sister Willa? How far apart are you two anyway? It seems you’re closer to Bridger’s age than Willa’s.”

  “We go to school together,” I blurted awkwardly.

  Sister. She was his sister. Now the name clicked and her striking features stood out familiarly. She was definitely a Wright. The jealousy and irrational rage faded away and I could see all those obvious family attributes she wore so proudly.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bridger echoed. “We go to school together.”

  “Well, isn’t that wonderful!” Grams cooed.

  “I was going to say interesting.” Willa smiled at me with a hint of mischief sparkling in those bright green eyes. I wasn’t sure if I should smile back or run and hide in my bedroom.

  Grams finally spotted the two plates the Wright kids held out to her. “What did you bring, Bridger? Why don’t you haul those into the kitchen for me and we’ll see what Cami came up with this time.”

  The three of them shared an amused smile, but Bridger did as he was told. Willa and I stood awkwardly in the living room for a few beats before either of us braved conversation. I was usually better at small talk than this, but the drugs were still messing with my system and I just didn’t feel like myself tonight.

  “Are you sick?” she asked bluntly.

  I shook my head quickly but couldn’t bring myself to out-and-out lie. “I’m really tired. I had a big week.”

  “Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” Her hands clenched against her stomach and she blushed bright red. “I didn’t mean anything rude.”

  I laughed. “It’s fine. Seriously. I know I look like death. You don’t have to be nice about it.”

  She smiled at me again. “I like you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you busy tomorrow?” She took a step closer to me and dropped her voice. I had the impression she didn’t want Bridger to overhear.

  Which made me instantly curious.

  “I mean, it’s Thanksgiving…”

  “Yeah, but like after,” she whispered. “Are you helping with the church meal?”

  “Oh, of course.” Like my grandparents would let me get out of that. Cancer. Typhoid Fever. Ebola would not stop them from forcing me to spend my evening with the less fortunate in thei
r humble community.

  Not that I was complaining. I was actually looking forward to serving those people.

  And to being on the opposite side of the serving line this time around.

  “Good.” She glanced over my shoulder. “I’ll be there too.”

  “Yay?”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “My brothers are all morons. All of them. Not one of them was blessed with brains. That all fell to me. Luckily they have me and I’m going to help you out.”

  “Oh, boy,” I sighed. “I feel like maybe you’re going to get us into trouble.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I am! It’s going to be so much fun!”

  “For me too?”

  She glanced into the kitchen again and then said sincerely, “I hope so. You like him, don’t you?”

  I bit back a groan. I could lie to this girl, or I could carpe diem the crap out of today. I felt like utter shit. My next treatment was going to be brutal. And my parents had been dropping hints about a visit. I had no reason to be optimistic.

  Except for maybe this one small thing.

  “I do. Like you said, he’s a moron. But I’m starting to think maybe I have a thing for morons.”

  “That is excellent news!” she squealed. “I’m enlisting help. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Good help?”

  “The best.”

  “He’s going to kill you, isn’t he?”

  She laughed like the evil villainess I knew she was. “It’s so worth it.”

  “Willa, now tell Cami that she doesn’t have to put herself out. I just appreciate her company. She doesn’t have to bake for me too.” Grams walked back into the room with Bridger at her side.

  He glanced suspiciously between us and didn’t relax. Willa and I took a step apart and smothered our conspiratorial grins.

  Willa swallowed a laugh. “Cami loves to bake.”

  “Now, no lying, Sugar,” Gran scolded. “But I will say, she’s getting better. The crust on that pie is almost edible.”

  I wondered who Cami was and why she would bother baking inedible pies. Seemed like a waste of time to me, but then again, my mama had me in the kitchen with her ever since I could stand on a chair and help her knead dough. Baking wasn’t something I struggled with.