Bribing the Blacksmith

by Amelia C. Adams

  The pretty woman behind the counter looked up when Mariah entered. “Hello there. How can I help you?”

  “Bread,” Mariah said, unable to help herself.

  The woman laughed. “I’m so sorry, but I just sent the last loaf home with the blacksmith. He’s taken in his two little nephews to raise. Can I get you some muffins or another baked good?”

  “No, that’s all right,” Mariah replied, trying to keep her disappointment out of her voice. “I met those two boys on the train earlier today. They certainly are adorable.”

  “Oh? You’ve just arrived? I thought you looked new.” The woman stuck out her hand. “I’m Toria Jackson.”

  “I’m Mariah Redding. I stopped by to see if you knew of any job openings available in town.”

  Toria looked thoughtful. “Right at this exact moment, nothing comes to mind.”

  “Oh.” Mariah leaned on the counter, feeling defeated. No bread, no job . . . no husband . . . She pasted a smile on her face. “I wonder if we might try going about this backwards. What if I were to post on your board with a list of my qualifications? Then someone might see it and contact me about a job.”

  “I don’t see why not.” Toria pulled out a piece of paper. “I’ll leave you to work on that while I help Mrs. Clark.”

  She turned to the woman who had just walked up to the counter, and Mariah scooted down to the end so she wouldn’t be in the way. Now, just what exactly were her qualifications? She could cook and sew, she knew how to keep a house . . . she was qualified to be a wife or a maid. That was about it. She wasn’t clever with numbers or history—she’d be a terrible teacher. She didn’t have many skills with people—she didn’t believe she’d do well working in a shop. Perhaps a dress shop, where she could sit in the back and sew and let the other ladies deal with the public.

  Her list was dismal indeed.

  “Welcome to Creede,” the woman named Mrs. Clark said to Mariah as she passed by, her arms full of packages. Mariah managed to thank her before the door closed, then she turned back to her paper.

  “This is all I have, I’m afraid,” she said at last, handing it to Toria.

  “It’s enough for a start,” Toria replied. She pinned it up on the board above the register. “I’m sure someone will see it and contact you.”

  Mariah nodded, trying to look as optimistic as she knew Toria wanted her to feel. She just hadn’t realized until that moment how ill-equipped she was to take care of herself out in the world. She’d imagined herself married, running a household, and chasing children, not fending for herself and trying to bring in a paycheck.

  As she left the mercantile, she sifted through her options. She could go back home to Kentucky. That would thrill her mother no end, but she couldn’t live in that community any longer. She’d been branded, held up to public ridicule, denounced by the leader of their congregation. No one would believe her over him. Any sort of life she managed to put together for herself would have to be lived in the shadows. It was true that she didn’t want to be out front, but even in those moments when she did want to participate in society, she wouldn’t be allowed to. She might as well live in her mother’s cellar and never see the light of day for all the forgiveness she’d be given.

  She could look for another posting for a mail-order bride. Yes, because that had certainly gone well the first time. How could she ever trust an advertisement again? There was too much at risk. Anyone could place an ad and say anything they wanted in it, and there was no one to regulate the truth of it. She shuddered just thinking about it. No, that would most certainly not suit.

  She looked down the road and saw two women walking toward the blacksmith’s shop, their arms full of bundles. That was curious—who took bundles to a blacksmith’s shop? Shouldn’t they be carrying horseshoes or . . . other things made of metal? She had to be honest and admit that she didn’t actually know. She shrugged and continued on her way back to Mrs. Gladstone’s. She’d try again in earnest the next day. What she wanted most of all was some hot dinner and a bath, and her hostess had promised her both. Then she’d get some sleep and wake up refreshed from her journey, and things wouldn’t look so bleak.

  ***

  John Jackson had delivered the order from the mercantile, and now the kitchen table was stacked high with boxes and cans. Hans looked around, trying to decide where to put everything, but it was becoming increasingly difficult because people kept showing up at his door, just as Toria Jackson had said they would. He was brought stew, pie, cookies, blankets, outgrown clothing that still had a lot of wear in them—or that’s what he was told, as he wouldn’t know that for himself. The women of Creede were doing what they could for him, and he appreciated that a great deal. It was more than he could comprehend, really.

  Penny Crowther from the dry goods store had also come by, bringing a donation of quality material for trousers for the boys. Hans took it, but he couldn’t sew—what was he supposed to do with it? He supposed he could hire someone, and tucked it away with everything else. He knew why Penny was really there and couldn’t wait to send her away. She was very much like her older sister, Benita—so eager to get married that she’d flirt with anything that could grow a beard.

  Jake, one of the cowboys from the Circle C, came by and delivered a straw tick. “Mrs. Clark was over at the mercantile and heard about your boys, and she asked me to bring this to you,” he said. “Putting up two new bodies takes a bit more furniture. She didn’t have an extra bedframe, but she thinks this will help.”

  Hans blinked as he accepted the large and heavy thing. “Thank you,” he said, once again overwhelmed.

  “That’s fresh straw in there, too,” Jake said before leaving.

  Hans grabbed a broom and cleared out his spare room. He was more than a little embarrassed at how much dust he swept up, but no one was there to see it, and the boys were playing with their toy horses in the other room. He wiped down the top of the small dresser he’d placed in there some time before and then laid the straw tick on the floor. A kindly older woman had come by with sheets, like she knew he’d need them, and he got the bed made up and looking rather nice. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt the boys to sleep on the floor until he got a proper frame, not when the tick was so nice and thick.

  He had the boys bring their bags into the spare room and unpack, putting their things in the dresser. They hadn’t come with much, that was for sure. Then he showed them the rest of the house and the forge, giving them all the proper lectures about not touching the hot things. Then he warmed up the food Toria had sent home with them, sliced the bread, and they ate.

  Peter had asked several questions throughout the day, but Preston only looked around with wide eyes, sometimes frightened and sometimes curious. Hans couldn’t remember from any of his sister’s letters if the boy was somehow delayed in his speech, but he was willing to bet that all the grief and the subsequent upheaval hadn’t done him any good at all.

  “Preston, I thought we’d go back to the store tomorrow and buy some candy,” Hans said, trying something he was quite sure would work. “What do you think?”

  The boy just nodded.

  “What kind should we get?” Hans asked.

  Nothing but a shrug.

  “He don’t talk much,” Peter said. “Mostly I talk for him.”

  “But how do you know what he wants you to say?” Hans turned his attention to the older boy.

  “He’s my brother,” Peter said, as though that was the most obvious thing in the world. “We have the same heart.”

  Hans felt his own heart break at that. These poor boys, facing the world with only each other to lean on now, the older one protecting the younger. He vowed in that moment that they would be able to depend on him. He might be completely untrained in how to raise children, but he would do his very best by them, and if nothing else, they would know that he would always be there.

  “I think Preston is very lucky to have you,” Hans said once he was able to speak again.

&n
bsp; Peter shrugged. “God makes brothers so we don’t have ta be alone.”

  Hans studied the table, unable to look up as he finished his meal. If he’d been a better brother, maybe now his sister wouldn’t be dead. Maybe they would have lived nearer each other. Maybe . . .

  But maybes wouldn’t change anything. They’d only make everyone more miserable, and these boys had been through enough misery for a lifetime.

  “Let’s get you ready for bed,” he said after they’d eaten their fill. “What do you usually do when it’s bedtime?”

  Peter looked at him doubtfully. “You don’t know much about kids, do you, Uncle Hans?”

  “I know almost nothing.”

  “Well, I tappose we’ll hafta teach you. First, we hafta put on our nightclothes. Then we clean our teeth.”

  The boys walked him through the process step by step. They were in utter shock to discover that he didn’t have a Bible in the house. “Uncle Hans, you hafta read your Bible every day,” Peter told him solemnly. “You need ta know where to find God if you go lookin’ for Him.”

  Hans felt his cheeks turn red. That was something his mother always used to say, and it sounded like his sister had picked it up. “I’ll see if I can buy a Bible tomorrow,” he promised. He’d meant to buy one, but he’d been so busy setting up the forge and establishing his business that it had slipped his mind. It just went to show that he needed to adjust his priorities, especially if the boys expected to be read to every night. He couldn’t take away something that familiar from them, not knowing it would bring them comfort.

  The boys said their prayers and climbed in. Well, Peter prayed for both of them, but Preston grunted something that might have been “amen” at the end. After standing in the hall for a few minutes, Hans turned and walked into the living room, sinking into the chair nearest the fireplace.

  What had just happened?

  In the space of twelve hours, he’d learned of his sister’s death, been given her children, set up their bedroom, and cleaned their teeth. He’d had lessons about Bible reading, prayer saying, and brothers’ hearts. He felt as though he’d been trampled by a team of horses—his head was killing him, his ribs seemed bruised, and his throat was sore from holding back tears. Maybe now that the boys were in bed and he was alone, it was safe to let loose some of the emotions he’d been stamping down all day, and this horrible pressure would ease.

  “Anna,” he muttered, pressing his hands into his eye sockets. His pretty little sister. He and the boys had something very important in common—now they were left with only each other and no one else in the world.

  Chapter Four

  Mariah stood in the center of Main Street and spun in a slow circle. Sure enough, she had now visited every last open business in Creede, and not one of them had a job she could do. She couldn’t become a miner or a lumberjack or a railroad worker, and the places that would require a female employee weren’t rebuilt yet. Someone, a slimy-looking character named Grady, had invited her to go apply at the saloon, but a man standing nearby, a Mr. Clay, had shouldered his way between them and told Mr. Grady to leave her alone.

  She thought she might go out to Bachelor, the nearest town, and see if there was anything available out there, but there was something about Creede that called to her. It felt like she was supposed to stay here, not go wandering off around the countryside in search of something she might never find. Her purpose, whatever it might be, was here, in this town that seemed to have no use for her. That was certainly a contradiction, but she supposed she’d figure it out.

  “He’s never cared for a child in his life, and now he has two,” a woman’s voice said behind her. She turned to see two ladies walking down the street, their heads bobbing together as they chatted. “I’ve always thought he was a kind man beneath that gruff exterior, so I have to think he’ll be all right, but still.”

  “Did he get what he needed from the mercantile?” the other woman asked.

  “I believe he did, but we can check with Toria.” The first woman clucked her tongue. “He’s going to need all the help he can get.”

  It didn’t take much imagination to know they were talking about the blacksmith. Mariah shook her head. That must be a challenge, taking on two little boys like that.

  “Yes, he is going to need every bit of help he can possibly get,” Mrs. Gladstone said, suddenly showing up at Mariah’s elbow. “And I have the most wonderful idea.”

  Mariah turned to face her hostess. “Oh?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Gladstone looked extremely pleased with herself. Her dress that day was blue, like the forget-me-nots on her wallpaper. Mariah wished she were brave enough to dress in whatever colors she liked best, but when one had expected to marry a pastor, one wore dresses that were a bit more sedate. “You should go work for him.”

  “For the blacksmith?” Mariah was startled. “I don’t know anything about being a blacksmith.”

  Mrs. Gladstone gave her a look of sheer exasperation. “Not in the forge, you silly girl. As his housekeeper and nanny.”

  “Oh.” Mariah chuckled at herself, but then thought about it seriously. Yes, she certainly could handle that work without any trouble whatsoever, and she already cared about the boys. “Do you think he’d want to hire me? He doesn’t seem wealthy enough to bring in help.”

  “All you can do is ask,” the woman replied. “And I’m happy to consider you my guest for as long as you need, and that will keep your expenses down.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t ask that of you,” Mariah exclaimed. “I’m eating all your food—”

  “Hardly,” Mrs. Gladstone said. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, my dear, I’m rather well off.” She leaned in and lowered her voice at the last part. “Let me have a little fun with my money, won’t you? Stay with me, at least for a while, and let me make you a gift of some new clothes while we’re at it. I don’t think you brought nearly enough with you to start afresh.”

  “But . . .” Gracious. This woman was so incredibly generous, it was beyond Mariah’s comprehension. “I can’t possibly pay you back.”

  “Did I say anything about paying me back?” Mrs. Gladstone’s face took on a wistful look. “I never had a daughter, my dear, and one thing I always wanted to do was take a girl shopping and let her choose whatever pretty things she wanted. Give an old woman a few moments of happiness, won’t you?”

  Well, now. She might look innocent, but this old woman certainly knew how to get what she wanted. “If you’re sure.”

  “Quite frankly, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Mrs. Gladstone looped her arm through Mariah’s. “Why don’t you head over to the blacksmith’s shop and speak with Mr. Jensen, and I’ll meet you at the mercantile? I saw some lovely dark purple fabric there the other day that I think would be splendid for a skirt, and . . .”

  Mariah was still laughing a moment later as she approached the forge. She could hear the ringing of a hammer on metal as she entered the building, but it took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the change from the bright sunlight outside to the dim exterior, backlit by a glowing orange fire.

  The man wielding the hammer paused in his work. “Yes? May I help you?”

  Suddenly, she was nervous. He was quite good-looking, even though he wore a thick, heavy apron and sweat was pouring down his face. His arms were well muscled, as she supposed they’d have to be in his line of work, and she’d never been quite so intimidated by a man in her life.

  “Um . . .”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, miss, but I need to pound out this shoe before it cools. Do you mind?”

  “No. Not at all. I can wait.”

  Even though she was a little taken aback by his sharp manner, she watched in fascination as he brought his hammer down over and over again, shaping the metal as it glowed as orange and bright as the fire. At last he took it up with a pair of tongs and submerged it into a bucket of water nearby, steam rising out the top, and then he laid down his tools.
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  “I apologize,” he said, wiping his forehead with his arm. “But I have to strike while the iron is hot, as they say.”

  “I suppose you must,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m sorry for interrupting your work.”

  “It’s not an unwelcome interruption. What can I do for you?”

  She pulled in a breath, her stomach fluttering. She hadn’t been nervous a moment ago out on the street, but now, she was. “My name is Mariah Redding, and I met your two nephews on the train yesterday morning. We got along quite well, and I’m looking for work, and I understand that you’re not accustomed to children, and I thought . . .”

  “Yes?” he prodded when she didn’t continue.

  “I’m obviously intruding,” she said, losing all her nerve. “Never mind.”

  “Wait.”

  She looked back up at him. “Yes?”

  “Are you saying you’d like to work for me?”

  Her tongue felt tied. “I just thought you might need someone to watch the children, maybe some cooking and cleaning.”

  He nodded. “I appreciate the offer, Miss Redding, but we’ll be all right.”

  But . . . She twisted her hands together. “I understand. Have a good afternoon.”

  She escaped from the heat of the forge as quickly as she could and decided to blame the fire for the heat she felt in her cheeks. Why had she become so nervous all of a sudden? It wasn’t like she’d never seen a handsome man before. There were quite a goodly number of them in Kentucky, and Colorado was bound to have its fair share as well.

  She walked down the street and entered the mercantile, finding Mrs. Gladstone back by the fabric. “Here’s the purple,” the woman said, handing her a bolt. “And this yellow would look lovely on you, and I thought this pink would be so becoming.”

  Mariah allowed her hostess to pile her arms full, not really paying attention to what was being said. “I believe I made a horrible fool of myself,” she said when she was able to get a word in at last.

  Mrs. Gladstone looked at her, hands filled with spools of thread. “I don’t know how you could have, my dear.”