Winning The Blacksmith's Heart (Mail-Order Brides of Salvation 5)

by Faith Parsons

  Ida imagined the bitter old man spewing his vitriol at Walter as a child. Tears pricked at her eyes. She forced them back. Pitywasn’t what her husband would want to see.Lord, what do I say?

  She couldn’t think of a response that wouldn’t sound trite, or worse, condescending. So she focused on what shedidknow.

  “When I was growing up in the orphanage,” she said, “I would have loved to have a toy like this.”

  He eyed her warily. Maybe she thought she was flattering him.

  “Truly, I mean it.” She decided not to mention that she wouldn’t have been able to keep such a toy for long. The older girls took what they wanted from the younger, and no one cared enough to make sure that gifts—or food, or clothes—were distributed fairly.

  But to have such a lovely thing to play with, even if only for a few hours…she would have carried that happy memory with her for a long time.

  “Can I help you with them? I don’t know anything about carving, but I can mix paints for you. Or sweep up. Or may I at least watch you work?”

  “I don’t want to bore you.”

  “Please?”

  Walter sat on the stool, leaving Ida to watch as he picked up the incomplete toy and a tool she couldn’t have named if she tried. “The first step is to recognize the grain, to work with it rather than against it.”

  Silence broke between them for several seconds as he took the curved end of the tool and shaved a thin curl of wood from the figure. Then he glanced at her again.

  “Are you sure you want to watch this? It’s going to be a while before it looks like anything.”

  Ida shook her head. “I’m curious, husband. Allow me the honor of learning about your work.”

  He smiled at her, and she dared hope that she hadn’t made an irrevocable mess of things, after all.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Ida was cleaning up after a simple breakfast of eggs and toast when someone knocked on the door.

  She moved to answer it, but Walter was closer.

  “Blackwell,” he greeted the visitor, in a tone so neutral that it set off Ida’s warning bells. Whoever Blackwell was, he wasn’t a friend. She took a step sideways to get a peek around Walter’s broad shoulders.

  Blackwell’s matching waistcoat and short-collared coat were the height of fashion, as was his short, slicked-down hair and pointed beard. “I heard about the new wife. I figured that if you have money for a wedding, you have money to pay what you owe.”

  Walter was in debt? He hadn’t mentioned that in any of his letters. How serious was it?

  “Helen made the cakes,” Walter said quietly, “and the Coopers brought the ale and cider. You know business has been light.”

  “Seems like it’s been getting lighter for a while. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re almost two months behind.”

  “I have some things in the works,” Walter said. “I just need a little more time.”

  Blackwell sighed. “Don’t let me down. I stuck my neck out for you on this.”

  “I understand. Thank you.”

  Blackwell shook his head. “Don’t thank me. Just pay. Soon.”

  Walter’s shut the door behind the other man, and paused a moment before turning around to face Ida. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  Too late. But whatever money Walter owed, getting upset about it wouldn’t help them pay off the debt any faster. “What is it that you’re not worrying me about?”

  “I didn’t want to ruin your wedding day. And I thought I’d have the money to pay it off before you found out. I have a plan.”

  “Walter, there’s no point in procrastinating. Just tell me.”

  “I’ve fallen behind on my mortgage.”

  “Our mortgage,” Ida corrected. Almost two months behind, Blackwell had said. But Walter had decided not to mention this in the three letters he’d sent her during that time. “Why? Has business been bad?”

  “Everybody’s buying cheaper factory-made tools and blades from back East. They don’t want to pay for high-quality work when something that’s good enough only costs half as much. I haven’t sold a plow for almost a year.” He was watching her closely. Looking for signs of anger? Panic? Blame?

  Ida had learned from life at the orphanage that none of those things helped. But she did need to know where they stood. “So you’ve no business at all?”

  “People still come to me when their horse throws a shoe. Or a wagon axle breaks. Things they can’t fix themselves.”

  “So what’s your plan?”

  “There’s a shop in Austin that sells higher-quality goods. I’ve made some Barlow knives, decorated so they’re suitable as gifts. Kitchen knives and cleavers, sturdy enough that a butcher could put them to use.”

  “What’s special about Austin? Are people there less interested in factory-made knives?”

  “Times are better there—more people who can afford to pay what their tools are worth. I’ve been focusing on anything that you’d pay more for because you want it to last.”

  It was a good plan. “You could have told me.”

  “I was afraid you’d marry someone else. Starting off your new life in debt isn’t a smart decision.”

  “I didn’t marry you for money. I married you because—“ Because I thought I’d found someone who understood me, in spite of my flaws. “It was my decision to make, smart or not.”

  “I know.” He sighed and raked his hands through his hair. “I’d come to lo—appreciate your courage. Your independent spirit. You didn’t let being an orphan stop you from making a life for yourself.”

  She blushed. Had he stopped himself from saying what she thought he had? “We’re together now. We won’t let a little bit of debt stop us from making a life for ourselves. And our children. But that means you have to tell me everything.”

  “I was going to, this morning. I just wanted to get through the wedding.”

  Get through the wedding. As if he’d known it would be an ordeal. And he hadn’t been wrong. How many other times had Walter endured his father’s drunken outbursts? Had one of those outbursts turned violent? Is that how Walter had gotten the scar on his neck?

  “When do you leave for Austin?”

  “In an hour.”

  “Better eat your eggs, then.”

  Walter’s eyebrows went up. “You’ve already been out to the coop?”

  “I’m still used to the factory schedule. I woke up an hour before dawn.”

  “So my wife is an industrious woman.” He smiled. “You won’t regret marrying me.”

  Forty minutes later, Walter left with a valise containing a change of clothes and what was probably thirty pounds of metal. He carried it like it weighed nothing. She watched as he strode down the street toward the train station.

  When he wasn’t trying to hide the scar on his neck, Walter was a handsome man.

  Once she’d heard the train pull into the station and leave again, Ida sighed.Lord, please let this work for him, she prayed.And please don’t let there be a child until all our debts are paid.

  As long as they were at risk for losing their homes, she didn’t want to bring a child into their lives.

  Shecouldn’tbring a child into that kind of situation. She’d been one of the few in the orphanage whose parents were actually dead—most of the children had the misfortune to be born to parents too poor to raise them. Ida couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow any of her children suffer the same fate she had.

  She had to find a way to help Walter.

  “I can do all things through Christ...” she muttered, reassuring herself as she set about organizing and clearing the kitchen clutter. For the sake of eating breakfast, they’d moved all of Walter’s tools and supplies to one side of the table, but she thought they might be able to squeeze a second worktable into the parlor, so she’d have more space in the kitchen to cook.

  Ida had finished organizing the kitchen and the somewhat bare pantry, and had just started on the parlor when there c
ame another knock on the door.Not another bill collector.Walter had already been humiliated in front of her once that day. She didn’t want to embarrass him behind his back, too.

  She forced herself to answer the door. Helen stood on the other side, with a wide smile that Ida couldn’t help but answer in kind.

  “Good morning!” Helen said cheerily.

  “Morning,” Ida answered. “Can I help you?”

  “Actually, I came over to help you. It isn’t easy, being the new face in a small town.”

  Ida shrugged. It wasn’t her first time—not her first time in a new place, and not the first time her future had depended on the kindness of another. Between the orphanage and the factory, she’d had her share of fresh starts. Not that repetition made them any less nerve-wracking.

  I can do all things through Christ...

  “Is that trash?” Helen asked.

  Ida looked down at the stack of catalogs in her hands. She’d noticed that several of them looked especially dog-eared when it came to the toy section, and wondered if Walter might look at them for inspiration. Or was he checking out the competition, maybe?

  “I don’t know, I thought I should ask Walter when he gets home. I’m trying to sort everything first, so I can at least take care of all the dust.”

  “Walter left? The morning after your wedding?”

  Was that concern for Ida or glee at the prospect of juicy gossip? She wasn’t sure. Memories of another Helen with a wicked tongue prompted Ida to respond cautiously, just in case she’d misread this Helen. “He had an appointment in Austin today.”

  Helen frowned a little, but as if she understood rather than as if she didn’t. She headed for a part of the room Ida hadn’t touched yet. “I’ll start over here.”

  “Oh! You don’t have to.”

  “I know that,” Helen said patiently, the smile in her voice telling Ida she wasn’t at all like the Helen from the garment factory. “I told you, I came to help.”

  The knot in the pit of Ida’s stomach relaxed. Had God sent her a friend, so soon?

  As they cleaned, Helen’s easy-going manner relaxed Ida. And Helen seemed determined to include her in everything that was happening in town—by the time they’d cleaned the parlor, Ida had been invited to everything from the Ladies’ Social Circle to a cinch tournament to raise money for the needy to the next harvest’s barn dance.

  But that wasn’t what Ida really wanted to talk about. As they retired to the kitchen for a cup of leftover soft cider, she worked her nerve to ask, “How did Walter get the scar on his neck?”

  “That’s not my story to tell,” Helen replied.

  Ida respected Helen a little bit more. Twice now she’d refused to tell Ida something personal about Walter, just in case Walter wanted to tell her himself. But… “He seems so ashamed of it. I’m not sure he’ll tell me.”

  “He will. Eventually.”

  “Does it have something to do with his father?”

  “Everything about Walter has something to do with his father.”

  And she’d stepped right in the middle of it without thinking. The impression she must have made at her own wedding reception… Ida reddened, blinking back the tears of humiliation. “After the way I—the whole town must think—”

  “A woman’s got a right to put her foot down at her own wedding.” Helen patted Ida’s hand. “You were just protecting your family.”

  Your family. The way Helen said it tied Ida’s stomach back up in knots. She’d always wanted a family, but she hadn’t expected it to be like this. Walter had spoken of his childhood as hellish. His anger at his father had been palpable, so intense that it had robbed him of the ability to speak.

  Ida understood that feeling of powerlessness. Mrs. Dumfries, who ran the orphanage where Ida had grown up, was often too entranced in laudanum dreams to intercede when the younger girls were being bullied. It wasn’t so bad when it just meant extra chores, but sometimes it meant pinches so hard they left big bruises on Ida’s arms and legs. Or going hungry because Big Alice had decided that she wanted Ida’s dinner. Or being held down and forced to eat dirt.

  It was only when Ida had a job and a place of her own that she felt safe.

  She wondered if Walter had ever felt safe.

  “Helen, how did Walter’s father become so…” She didn’t want to seem catty or mean-spirited. “Was he always like that?”

  “No, Bill and Margaret lost their second child to scarlet fever—a daughter, only a few months old. Walter wasn’t quite three.”

  How awful. But that didn’t explain— “Why would he blame Walter?”

  “He didn’t, I don’t think. But Margaret blamed him. Bill brought the fever home with him, after a trip to Houston. She refused to speak to him, for the rest of her life. Walter took her side.”

  That explained why Walter’s father had turned to drink.

  Helen continued. “That’s the part of the story everyone knows. You’ll have to hear the rest from Walter.”

  “Thank you.” Helen’s discretion was exactly what Ida needed—enough information to start a conversation with Walter when he came home, but not so much that Walter would think they’d been gossiping behind his back. Dared she hope that Helen would be equally discreet about Ida’s next question?

  She decided to risk asking, even though it might embarrass Walter further. “Is there any work to be found in town?”

  “What are you good at, dear?”

  Ida let out a sigh, grateful that the other woman didn’t ask why. Maybe she was being polite, or maybe she already knew that Walter was in trouble financially.

  “I’ve worked in a factory, sewing shirts and dress bodices, mostly.”

  “Good with a needle?” Helen sipped her tea and paused for a moment. “I hear quilts go for quite a price back East. My friend Abigail is working on one for an auction.”

  “I’ve never made a quilt,” Ida admitted.

  “I’m sure Abigail would love to teach you.”

  When the teapot was empty, Helen took her leave and Ida returned to cleaning. Quilting sounded like fun. How long would it take her to make one she could sell? They were much more complex than shirts. She resolved that she’d learn to make one by Christmas, if not sooner. They just needed to hang on until she could get up to speed.

  She wondered how Walter was faring in Austin.

  Chapter Five

  What was she going to have for dinner? The near-empty cupboards yielded cornmeal, a couple of eggs, salt, and butter, but no sugar, no flour, and no baking soda. Even at the orphanage, they’d usually been able to make bread. Was there so little because Walter seldom cooked for himself? Or because he couldn’t afford more than a few basics?

  She settled on a fried egg for dinner, reserving the last egg in case Walter arrived home hungry. Then she made a list of things she’d buy tomorrow with the few remaining dollars from her last week at the factory. There’d be nothing extravagant, but they could eat frugally for a few weeks, at least.

  She prayed that Walter’s trip to Austin would be successful, and that none of this scrimping would be necessary.

  But when he came through the door close to midnight, she knew from the expression on his face and the tension in his shoulders that his plan hadn’t worked.

  He gave a glum poke to the egg she’d fried for him. “I make the best knives in East Texas, and everyone wants a factory-made blade that’ll break on you in a year or two.”

  “Then we’ll have to think of something else.”

  “I’m not good for anything else.” He glared at the egg, as if it was the egg’s fault that no one wanted his knives. “I’m a terrible husband, Ida.”

  “I’ve got a few dollars—”

  “I’m supposed to be supporting you.”

  “A husband and wife support each other.”

  He still wouldn’t look at her. “Ida, I’m sorry.”

  What could she say that would make him feel better? If she were in his position, what
would make her feel better?

  Nothing, she realized. She would need to sleep on it before she’d be ready to tackle the problem from another direction.

  “I’m not worried, Walter. We’ll think of something.”

  Walter wolfed down his egg, but instead of getting ready for bed, he retreated to his workshop.

  Ida waited a bit, figuring he might prefer some time alone. When she went to check on him later, she found him staring at the wood block he’d been carving yesterday, which was on its way to becoming an intricately-carved train car.

  She sat on the stool beside him, saying nothing.

  Eventually, he spoke. “I should have told you before I brought you out here.”

  “We’ve already discussed this. I understand.”

  “I thought I’d be doing better by now. But I can barely support myself. Never mind…”

  Never mind her. Never mind any children the Lord blessed them with.

  “What must you think of me, Ida?” He shook his head, then whispered slowly, “Now that you’ve met my father, do you wonder what kind of man you married?”

  “I believe in judging people for their own actions,” she said. “You can’t help who your family is. All you can help is what you choose to do, who you choose to be.”

  She picked up a miniature rocking horse from the workbench and placed it in his hands. “You’ve chosen to be a good man, someone who gives of himself to help others. Like these orphans who you’re making toys for.”

  He gave her an incredulous look.

  “We can do all things through Christ which strengthenethus. This is a trial, but it’s something wewillget through. In the meantime, you have more toys to make. I’ll help.”

  He stared at her like he’d never seen her before.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she prayed she hadn’t overstepped. He’d suggested she help earlier, but he hadn’t been upset then. Maybe making the toys was something he found incredibly private and for him alone, and she’d offended him by—

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely, then cleared his throat. “I’d like that. The paints are on the shelf to your left.”

  She found them, and joined him at the workbench. She loved watching him work. He became a different person when he worked. A happier, more confident person.