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

by Faith Parsons

  He started humming, a hymn that Ida recognized from church. My new favorite song.

  It was a shame that factory-machined knives and farm tools were destroying Walter’s art. For he was an artist, no doubt about it. Maybe the shop in Austin had been right to turn down the items he’d brought them, but there had to people out there would appreciate the things Walter created.

  The orphans were definitely going to appreciate them.

  Wait. “Walter. Can I have a few of these toys? There’s someplace I’d like to send them.”

  “To your old orphanage?” he asked. “Of course.”

  She smiled, grateful he’d supplied his own reason so she wouldn’t have to come up with one.

  I knew I would think of something.

  The last of Ida’s factory money restocked the pantry and paid for the postage on a package of toys to be shipped back East. She felt a little bit guilty not telling Walter where they were really going, but it seemed kinder not to get his hopes up. If she was wrong, he’d be none the wiser. And if she was right, he would be pleasantly surprised.

  That was what she told herself.

  As she left the post office, she noticed a figure stumbling across the street, headed for the saloon. Walter’s father. She stomped down the surge of anger that rose at the sight of him. Bad enough that he’d ruined his own life, but unconscionable that he would ruin his child’s. She’d die before she’d let a drunkard spent time around her own children.

  Would Walter’s father want to spend time with his grandchildren? The thought struck horror in her heart. Over her dead body.

  Unless he sobered up.

  Walter leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach. “Delicious.”

  Ida smiled. It had been a simple dinner, a few slices of a ham, roasted sweet potatoes slathered in butter, and collards pan-fried with onions and garlic. Nothing like the traditional Thanksgiving spread—which they couldn’t afford right now. But he’d inhaled it like it was the best thing he’d ever eaten.

  “Ida, I’ve been meaning to…” He cleared his throat. Closed his eyes as if trying to collect his thoughts. Opened them again. “Thank you for staying.”

  “I’m thankful to be here, Walter. When I was at the orphanage, I worried that I would never find a husband. After all, I couldn’t find new parents, when other girls did.”

  “I’m sorry that you were alone.”

  “I wasn’t alone. I was lonely. There’s a difference.”

  He hesitated. “You’re not alone now.”

  Was he asking what she thought he was asking? “I’m not lonely now, either.”

  He smiled. Apparently that was what he’d been hoping to hear. “Tell me about your time in the orphanage.”

  Walter had said he’d gotten the impression from his mother that life in an orphanage was hellish. Did he want to hear a story about how miserable she’d been? It had been hard, but she preferred to focus on the good in her life. The friendships she’d made. How lucky she’d been to find a job that paid her enough to get by. The fact that she’d found him.

  She took a sip of her mulled cider before she answered. “When I was eleven, I snuck out after curfew on Christmas Eve.”

  “Why? Didn’t they celebrate Christmas Eve at the orphanage?”

  “Mrs. Dumfries gave us a sweet for dessert. But it was always horehound, because that was her favorite candy.”

  Walter grinned. “What kind of candy do you like?”

  “I always wanted a candy cane. The first Christmas after I started working in the factory and had my own money, I bought one.”

  “Did you like it?”

  She laughed. “I buy one every year now. It’s my Christmas tradition.”

  “So you snuck out of the orphanage…” He motioned for her to continue.

  “I peeked in windows. I wanted to see how real families celebrated Christmas.”

  He looked a little wistful then. “I would love to know. How do real families celebrate Christmas?”

  She felt a twinge of guilt that she’d made him feel sadder by putting it that way. But she continued.

  “There was one house, where the children had already been put to bed, and the parents were wrapping presents. Red and green paper everywhere, and shiny gold ribbons, and every time they looked at each other, they were sharing this beautiful secret.” She blinked, swiped at the corner of her eye to catch the tear before it could spill down her face. “I knew that no one was going to do that for me. But I thought it would be wonderful to stay up late wrapping presents for my own children.”

  Walter looked down at his hands folded across his stomach. “I would love to do that with you.”

  For a moment, Ida just sat there and basked in the joy his words had called up in her. She imagined them sitting at this very table, wrapping toys that he’d made in his workshop—one for a daughter, and another for a son. Maybe she’d be pregnant with the third.

  She wanted that future more than anything.

  “I do remember one Christmas,” Walter began hesitantly. “Before…when everything was good.”

  Before his baby sister died, she thought. “Tell me the good things you remember.”

  “I had a stocking hanging from the mantel. My mother made it, and she embroidered my name on it.”

  He seemed to be more comfortable talking to his hands, but that was all right. She was amazed he was talking at all.

  “When I woke up on Christmas morning, there was an orange in it. And a stuffed bear. I found out later that my mother had made that too, but at the time, I thought Santa Claus had brought it.”

  “I always wanted a stuffed toy. One of the others girls had a doggie.”

  “He burned it.” Walter’s face went stiff. “Along with all my clothes, my blankets, my toys. After my younger sister died of scarlet fever.”

  She didn’t have to ask who he was.

  It wasn’t unusual to burn anything that could carry the contagion after scarlet fever struck a household. But poor Walter, losing his precious toy and his baby sister in one fell swoop. It had probably seemed horribly unfair to him.

  She retrieved a scrap of brown paper leftover from the parcel she’d sent yesterday and the pencil from her reticule, and placed both on the table before Walter.

  “Will you draw it for me?”

  For the first time since he’d started talking about Christmas, he met her gaze. “Draw the stuffed bear?”

  “Exactly as you remember it.”

  After a moment, he started sketching. He cleared his throat again.

  “You haven’t asked me about my scar.”

  “I thought I’d let you tell me when you’re ready,” Ida said.

  “After my mother died—I was sixteen—I apprenticed myself to a blacksmith in Austin. My father didn’t have anything useful to teach me.”

  His voice remained steady. Apparently, keeping his hands busy made it easier for Walter to talk to her. She would remember that in the future.

  She folded her own hands in her lap and waited for him to tell the rest of the story.

  “I was sharpening a knife I’d made for a customer. One of the other apprentices tripped—“ He winced, ducking his chin as he recounted the memory. “Jed knocked me off my stool. I slashed open my own throat, trying to catch myself as I fell.”

  You were lucky to survive. She bit back the words. Maybe he didn’t feel lucky. She’d always resented Mrs. Dumfries’ insistence that Ida was lucky to be at the orphanage.

  “It took twenty stitches, and months to turn the wound into the scar you see today.”

  “It’s a very fine scar. One of the most distinctive I’ve ever seen.”

  He glanced up from his drawing. Checking to see if she meant to mock him? She kept her expression neutral, so he wouldn’t see pity on her face and come to the wrong conclusion.

  “When I came back to Salvation,” Walter continued, “the first thing my father said to me was that I must be a terrible blacksmith, cutting mysel
f on the tools I was supposed to be making.”

  What demon possessed Walter’s father that he would say such a thing to his son? Was it just the alcohol, or was the man a monster?

  What could she say that wouldn’t make Walter feel worse about what had happened?

  “What your father has done to you is unforgiveable,” Ida said. “But you deserve the peace it would give you to forgive him.”

  Walter sighed. “That would take a miracle.”

  Chapter Six

  Ida forced herself to stop fidgeting as Minister Rowland banged on the door of her father-in-law’s house.

  “Bill, I know you’re in there. Answer the door,” the minister bellowed.

  A faint crash, a metallic fumbling, and the door opened a few inches. Walter’s father squinted out at them, then belched. “G’way.”

  Ida couldn’t stop her nose from wrinkling as the stench of stale spirits, sour sweat and rotten food hit her. This man didn’t deserve to be a part of their family. But…Walter deserved peace. So she held her ground.

  Walter’s father started to close the door, but Minister Rowland was faster. “Thanks for inviting us in, Bill.”

  “Didn’t,” Bill groaned. Then he ran past them and vomited in the street.

  Ida looked to the minister, sure that the horror she was feeling showed on her face.

  He patted her on the arm. “Where angels fear to tread, Ida.”

  Walter. She was doing this for Walter.

  Bill staggered back past them and turned into what had probably once been a parlor. Now, it was…a disaster. Chairs so filthy with dust and who-knew-what-else that she couldn’t tell what color they’d originally been. A rug so old and worn that she could see patches of wooden floorboards through the holes. A rat scurried into the unlit hearth.

  Ida was no stranger to poverty. But even at her worst, she’d never lived in conditions like this. Not in Mrs. Dumfries’ orphanage. Not in the tenement apartment she’d shared with five other women.

  Her heart sank. Walter’s father might be beyond help.

  She had to try.

  The man flopped down into one of the chairs, sending a heavy poof of dust into the air around him. “Whaddya want?”

  Ida cleared her throat and stepped forward. “I have come to apologize.”

  “Apologize?” Walter’s father—Bill—had clearly expected something else.

  “I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you at our wedding reception. I should have given you a chance to apologize to Walter, instead of sending you home immediately.”

  He blinked several times, squinted up at her, then swiveled his head to focus on the minister. “Am I imaginin’ things again?”

  “No, Bill,” Minister Rowland replied. “Your daughter-in-law is here to have words with you, and I’m here to advise.”

  “I don’t need no advice.” Bill wiped sweat from his face with a filthy shirtsleeve. “I’m fine.”

  “Well I’m not fine,” Ida said. “I want your son to be happy. I want our children to have a grandfather. But I’m not letting you anywhere near them as long as you’re going to behave like this.”

  “Don’ you tell me what to do in my own house,” Bill snarled.

  “Ida’s not telling you anything you don’t already know.” Minister Rowland stepped forward drawing Bill’s gaze from Ida. “Whiskey won’t bring your wife and daughter back. And you’re throwing away the only love in your life you’ve got left.”

  “Walter doesn’t love me. He hates me.” Bill put his face in his hands. “I deserve it. Killed his sister.”

  “Scarlet fever killed Walter’s sister,” Ida argued.

  Bill began to sob. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”

  Ida couldn’t believe she was feeling sorry for this man who’d hurt her husband so deeply. But his remorse gave her hope. If he still cared about anything, then perhaps he could find a reason to stop drinking.

  “I know,” she replied gently. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone, Bill.”

  “It’s too late for me,” Walter’s father wailed.

  Minister Rowland squatted next to Bill’s chair so he could look the other man in the eye. “Ida wouldn’t be here if it was to late. I wouldn’t be here if it was too late.”

  “I tried to stop drinkin’ but I can’t.”

  “That place I told you about before,” the minister continued. “The sanitarium in the foothills near Austin. They specialize in helping men like you beat the whiskey demon.”

  “I barely got any money.”

  “The church will sponsor you.”

  Bill drew in a shuddering breath. “What if I can’t quit?”

  “I’m not saying it’ll be easy. There’ll be rules. You’ll have to dry out. But it’s your only hope.”

  “You’ve lost your wife. You’ve lost your daughter. You’re on your way to losing Walter.”

  “I’ve lost them all.”

  “You don’t stand a chance of making peace with Walter if you don’t stop drinking. If you can’t stop for your sake, stop for his. Stop for the sake of your future grandchildren.”

  “Grandchildren?” Bill said, like it was a new word and he wasn’t sure what it meant.”

  “Don’t you think Walter and I are planning to have children? And if you ever want to see them—let alone, be a part of their lives—you’re going to have to stop drinking.”

  “Grandchildren.” Bill blinked. “I never thought…”

  “Of course, grandchildren.” Ida fought to hold her temper.

  Bill looked up at Ida, face wet, eyes swollen. “Walter would never agree to let me see them..”

  “He’s a better man than you think. But you’ll have to prove to both of us that you’ve reformed.”

  Bill stared at her for a minute, throat working like he was trying not to throw up. Then turned to the minister. “When do I start?”

  As Ida walked home, she counted the days until Christmas. Twenty-seven. And they still had three dozen toys to make. Walter was doing most of it, but he trusted her to paint simple things now, like spots on dog figurine. Next year, I’ll have money to buy fabric, and I’ll make rag dolls and stuffed animals while Walter carves and paints.

  She still couldn’t quite believe how well the conversation with Walter’s father had gone. She prayed it was genuine, prayed for the miracle Walter would need to forgive his father. But she was afraid to hope. A man that far gone—would the hope of seeing his grandchildren be enough to bring him back to sobriety?

  For Walter’s sake, she hoped so.

  She found Walter in the workshop, making more toys for the orphans. He’d left a few ready for painting a first coat, and a few others prepped for gluing or assembling the joints, which she still didn’t quite feel confident enough to attempt.

  She stood behind her husband for a moment, watching him insert a tiny axle into the undercarriage of a tiny buggy. She could tell from the looseness of his shoulders and the happy tune he hummed that he was doing the thing he loved most in the world.

  It filled her heart with joy to see him happy.

  She resisted the urge to lay a hand on his shoulder, but she must have made a noise, because without turning around, Walter said, “Want to put the wheels on?”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “That’s perfect,” Helen said, smoothing out the quilt Ida had been working on for the last two weeks. She’d picked up the techniques so quickly that the other women in the Ladies’ Social Circle had been shocked. A small side benefit of having slaved away under Foreman Hill’s watchful eye, Ida thought. As much as she’d disliked the man, he had been on her constantly about the size and evenness of her stitches, and pushed her to sew faster without becoming sloppy.

  She supposed she should thank him for drilling her in a set of skills that would put money on their table. Walter had found just enough repair work to make Blackwell’s latest payment, but there’d been nothing left over for necessities like restocking the pantry. Bet
ween the eggs Walter’s chickens produced and the food Ida had bought with what was left of her factory money, they only had enough left to eat for ten more days. And her stomach had been—well, she wasn’t ready to think about what that might mean. Not yet.

  She bit her lip and tried not to look as anxious as she felt. “How much do you think I can get for it?”

  “The store I send mine to has been paying three dollars and selling them for four-fifty.”

  Three dollars. They could eat on that for another three or four weeks. Minus the cost of the ticket to Austin and back, so closer to three weeks. She hugged Helen. “I’m so glad you suggested quilting.”

  “I’m going up tomorrow to visit a friend,” Helen continued. “Want me to take your quilt for you?”

  “Th-thank you.” Oh, wait. “How much do I owe you for the fabric scraps?”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ve barely got time to quilt right now. You’re doing me a favor, taking some of them off my hands.”

  “But—”

  “A couple more quilts and you’ll be earning enough to buy your own fabric. When you can afford to share, share your scraps with someone else.”

  Ida blinked back tears of gratitude. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “We all need each other sooner or later, Ida. Someday I’ll be thanking you back.”

  Chapter Seven

  The house was different. The caretakers were different. The children were different.

  And yet, there was something about the orphanage in Austin that made Ida feel like she was back in the institution where she’d grown up.

  The children thronged around Walter, who hefted a large burlap sack full of boxed up toys that the Ladies’ Social Group had spent an afternoon wrapping in shiny colored paper and ribbon. Walter and Ida stopped in the headmistress’ office first—the administrator had given them a list of the children and their ages, for the sake of writing the appropriate name on each gift. Unlike Mrs. Dumfries from Ida’s orphanage, Headmistress Wilson seemed to care whether each child received an appropriate gift. The children looked well-fed, too, and while their clothes were patched, they were clean and they fit.