Bribing the Blacksmith

by Amelia C. Adams

  Hans felt a sudden wave of panic wash over him. “Where are they? Are they all right?”

  “They’re perfectly all right now, no thanks to you. They’re sitting down at the kitchen table having some cookies, which Mrs. Jackson over at the mercantile brought over as soon as she saw what had happened. Mr. Jensen, you can’t continue on this way. You can’t allow them to run wild while you’re locked away in here, completely oblivious to the world.”

  She was right. He knew she was, and yet, he resented her insinuation that he wasn’t doing his best by the children. “Miss …?”

  “Redding. Mariah Redding. We met before, remember? When I offered to help you, and you turned me down?”

  “I remember who you are—I just couldn’t remember your name. That’s an entirely different thing.” He straightened his stance. “Miss Redding, I don’t like your suppositions and I don’t like your tone. You know nothing about what’s going on here. You don’t know how hard it’s been to do my work and to figure out how to care for these boys. You don’t know my level of commitment, and to charge in here flinging accusations around like . . . like horse manure . . . is unfair. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a horseshoe to finish.”

  He expected her to back down. Most people did when he brought himself to his full height—he wasn’t a small man. She, however, straightened her stance as well and stared him down. She was still far shorter and would only have reached his earlobe if they were standing side by side, but he could see that her inner determination hadn’t been squelched one bit.

  “You have no idea what I do or do not understand, Mr. Jensen. That’s some pretty pungent manure you’re flinging around yourself. What I see is a man who’s overwhelmed with responsibility and is letting things slip through the cracks—or in this case, letting children slip through the door. I also see a man who’s too stubborn to accept the help he’s being offered. I truly hope that for the boys’ sake, if for no other reason, you’ll change your mind. In the meantime, I’ll leave you to fester in your own sense of duty and independence—I’m quite sure it’s enough to keep your ego as well muscled as the rest of you.”

  With that, she spun on her heel and left, leaving Hans so startled, he had nothing to shout out in reply as the door closed.

  ***

  Mariah stood outside the blacksmith shop, pulling in air as quickly as she could without making herself lightheaded. She’d expected the man to be more concerned about his nephews than he was about his pride, but no—she’d been most unpleasantly surprised. She’d never felt so angry in all her life. How dare he . . .? How could he . . .? Breathing alone wasn’t working. She closed her eyes, placing her hand on the doorframe for balance. Of all the infuriating . . .

  When she opened her eyes, she saw Mrs. Gladstone across the street waving to her, then raising her hands to her mouth and pantomiming playing a trumpet. Then she flicked her fingers in a shooing motion toward the blacksmith’s shop. What? She couldn’t possibly mean for Mariah to go back in there. She’d rather . . . she’d rather eat a rattlesnake. With the rattles.

  But as she thought about it, she realized that she had to give it one more try. Just one, and that was for the sake of the boys. If he still wouldn’t listen, she’d have to trust in providence to bring about whatever solution would be best. She just couldn’t erase the frightened looks on the boys’ faces from her mind, and for that matter, the man on horseback had looked plenty frightened himself. It had been a terrible situation all around.

  Mrs. Gladstone was grinning like a Cheshire cat as she waited for Mariah to make up her mind. Mariah shook her head with amusement and turned back to the door. All he could do was yell at her again, and she wasn’t going to allow some man’s temper tantrum frighten her.

  She flung the door open and marched back in. “Mr. Jensen—”

  He turned from the fire, holding the horseshoe between his tongs. He held it up. “Miss Redding, do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to reheat this shoe? Did you know that the man who owns this horse is waiting for me to finish so he can ride to Topaz to conduct some important business, and that he’s about ready to go hire a buggy from Otto Clay because I’m taking so long? Will you kindly be seated and allow me to finish? I’ve just checked on the boys. They’re playing with their horses in the front room and have promised to stay there. Everything is under control if I could just finish this task.”

  Mariah blinked. “All right.” She glanced around and spotted a stool. It wasn’t the most comfortable-looking thing, but she’d make it work.

  She watched as Hans laid the horseshoe back on the anvil and gave it some good whacks with his hammer. The sound reverberated through the forge, making her wince, and she wondered how he ever stood it day in and day out.

  He finished giving the metal the shape he wanted by laying it over the pointed end of the anvil and striking it several times. Then he laid it back on the top and pounded it more, she assumed to make sure it was good and flat. Then he walked over to the horse tied up at the side of the large room and picked up a hind hoof, visually comparing the shoe in his tongs to the hoof he held.

  He plunged the shoe into the water for just a brief second. The metal was still clearly hot when he pulled it out, but it didn’t have the bright orange glow it had a moment before. He laid the shoe on the bottom of the horse’s hoof and gave a satisfied nod, then began hammering the shoe into place. Mariah winced.

  “Doesn’t that hurt the horse?” she asked.

  “Not if it’s done well. It hurts them more to carry a rider without being shod.” He didn’t look at her while he answered, but kept his head bent to his work.

  “How did you get it so close to the right size?”

  “I measured it in my mind.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He glanced up at her. “I looked at the horse’s hoof while I was filing it down before. Then I created the shoe to fit.”

  “But that’s astonishing. Does every blacksmith do that?”

  “Most blacksmiths measure with a ruler. I’m just not most blacksmiths.” He flashed her a grin, which caught her completely off guard, and she sat back and clamped her mouth shut. What on earth . . . the man was actually charming. How was that even possible?

  After the shoe was nailed into place, he took up a file and worked around the edges of the hoof. The rasping sound grated down Mariah’s spine, but she sat still, not wanting him to see just how very much it bothered her. If she went running, he’d never accept her as being a strong, serious woman, and that’s exactly how she had to present herself to him.

  “There,” he said at last, lowering the horse’s leg to the floor and standing up straight. “You can unclench your teeth now, Miss Redding.”

  “I . . . don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  He gave her a look. “Yes, you do. Now, then. You wanted to speak with me yet again. Now that I’m finally finished, what would you like to say?”

  She stood and held her bag in front of her with both hands. “I’d like to apologize for my earlier behavior. I was quarrelsome and rude. You were as well, and I’ll let you apologize in a moment, but right now, it’s my turn.”

  He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt, and she kept on. “We’re both in a bind, Mr. Jensen. You need a helper, and I need to help. If I don’t find some sort of occupation here in Creede, I’ll have to be on my way, and I’ve already traveled so far. I was nearly abducted off the train platform—no, I mean it. You can ask the marshal. I’ve spoken with every business owner in town, and no one will hire me. I’m just looking for a place to be for a while until I get my feet under me. In the meantime, you have two little boys who need constant supervision, and your line of work requires focus and concentration.”

  He gave a nod, which emboldened her to continue. “You mentioned before that you couldn’t afford much by way of wages. I don’t need to ask for much, so you’re in luck. I’m staying with a benefactress who is giving me use of a bedroom as well as
my meals. She insists, and won’t let me repay her. So you see, my living expenses are quite low at the moment, and it’s really the most ideal situation all the way around.”

  Mr. Jensen looked down at the floor, then back up. “Why? Why are you so determined to finagle your way in here and foist your help on me?”

  “Is that what I’m doing? I rather thought I was coming here in your hour of need to make a solid business proposition that would benefit us both.” Charming . . . and stubborn. As stubborn as the way was long.

  “I don’t know, Miss Redding. It just seems like we’d be taking a whole lot more than you’d be getting.”

  Mariah pulled in a breath. She imagined Mrs. Gladstone out there on the sidewalk with her pretend trumpet and had to fight a smile. “I tell you what. Let me give you a sample, as it were, or a trial run. I’ll watch the boys and take care of the house for one day. If, at the end of that one day, you’re dissatisfied with me, you can send me on my way. And in the meantime, you’ll have your larder filled with fresh homemade bread.” She crossed her fingers behind her back—hopefully she’d be able to make bread. Her cooking experiments at Mrs. Gladstone’s had been anything but successful, after all.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Let me get this straight. You’re offering to give me a free day of watching the boys, plus housework, plus bread? For nothing in return?”

  “Nothing until you decide you can’t live without me.” She immediately wished she could crawl into a hole and die. He must think she was so forward! “And offer me a job,” she tacked on the end as quickly as she could, hoping he wouldn’t notice her slip of the tongue.

  “It sounds to me, Miss Redding, as though you’re attempting to bribe me.”

  “Well, is it working?”

  He regarded her for a long moment. “One day. Tomorrow. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Then we’ll see.”

  She grinned. “I agree to those terms, Mr. Jensen. And I promise, you won’t regret it.”

  “I already do, Miss Redding. I already do.”

  Chapter Seven

  When Mariah stepped back outside, it was all she could do not to give a small shout of victory. Mr. Jensen wasn’t using his hammer at the moment to drown out the sound, though, so she stayed quiet.

  Mrs. Gladstone was waiting for her, a smile on her face, and she beamed as Mariah approached. “I trust it went well?”

  Mariah sighed. “That man is the most stubborn, prideful, arrogant human being I’ve ever met.”

  “But he said yes?”

  “He agreed to a trial. I’ll come and take care of things tomorrow, and then he’ll decide.”

  Mrs. Gladstone tucked her arm through Mariah’s. “Good for you. What a marvelous demonstration of your determination.”

  They turned to walk back toward the house. “I thought you weren’t coming into town and that’s why you had me buy your thread,” Mariah commented.

  “Well, I wasn’t planning it, per se, but then I realized I wanted some buttons,” Mrs. Gladstone replied.

  Mariah stopped walking. “You have every button in the world! I’ve seen your sewing room.”

  Mrs. Gladstone chuckled. “All right, you’ve caught me. I wanted to see how you were getting along. An old woman must find her fun where she can.”

  “And so you resorted to trickery and spying? Really, Mrs. Gladstone.” Mariah pretended to disapprove as they continued walking. Truth be told, however, she had the woman to thank for her success. If Mrs. Gladstone hadn’t been there to urge her to go back, she wouldn’t have managed to get a trial run, and for some reason, that opportunity seemed very important—much more important than working at a restaurant or any other business would have been. There was a sense of purpose in this, and she couldn’t wait to see how it all played out.

  ***

  After handing off the horse and collecting his payment, Hans closed down the forge for the night and turned his attention to the house. He had a roast chicken in the icebox, courtesy of another kind neighborhood lady, and that would make a good dinner. He needed to send some clothes home with Fiona, the girl who did his laundry, or he’d be out of anything decent to wear, and he knew the boys needed their things washed too. Oh, and another trip to the mercantile for things like coffee. And the logging chain for Mr. Caruthers that had a broken link. On and on . . . He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Just a bit too much to deal with all at once.

  He entered the house and closed the connecting door to the forge firmly. The boys came running to greet him, and he had to admit, it was rather a nice feeling, being welcomed home when he was used to stillness.

  “Let’s sit down and have a little talk,” he said, leading them both into the front room. “I understand that you went into the street today.”

  Peter nodded. “We wanted some lemon drops, but you said not to come near the fire when you’re working. We know where the store is, so we tried to go.”

  “And what happened?”

  Preston’s eyes filled with tears, but Peter continued on bravely. “We almost got smashed by a horse. But that train lady was there and talked to us.”

  “It’s very, very dangerous to go out by yourselves,” Hans said, wondering how to get this message across. He needed them to understand, but at the same time, he didn’t want to scare them too badly. “What if the horse really had smashed you?”

  “We would have been broken. Like our parents,” Peter said.

  Hans closed his eyes, then opened them again. The child had spoken so calmly, as though there was no emotion attached to his words, and yet, he knew that was far from the truth. “So, you see why it’s important to wait for a grown-up to take you,” he said at last, not sure what else to say.

  Both boys nodded.

  “Now, I have some good news,” he went on. “The train lady, as you call her, came to see me today, and she wants to take care of you boys tomorrow. She says she’ll make us some nice meals. What do you say to that?”

  “Will she take us for lemon drops?” Peter asked.

  “I think we’ll see if you can earn some lemon drops,” Hans replied. After hearing of the boys’ near miss, he’d been torn between immense gratitude for their safety and anger that they hadn’t stayed in the house. That made him alternate between wanting to shower them with treats and paddling their behinds. He wondered if every guardian of small children felt that way, and suspected he wasn’t alone.

  “We like her. She’s nice,” Peter said, and Preston nodded.

  “Good.” Hans hoped he’d like her too. Then he paused. If he did like her, he’d be obligated to keep her on, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He’d lived on his own for a good long time, and it had been hard enough to consider sharing his roof with two small boys. Now to think about taking in someone else—a woman, even, who thought she knew more about his life than he did? She was going to mess everything up—it was impossible for her not to. There were reasons why he hadn’t married yet, and women had to do with every one of those reasons.

  He fed the boys some chicken and the rest of the bread Mrs. Jackson had brought over, and a little digging revealed just enough peach pie remaining for them each to have a slice. He read the boys a bedtime story after being reminded that he’d forgotten to buy a Bible that day—he wasn’t even sure if the stores in town carried them on a regular basis or if he’d have to special order one. What made him chuckle was to hear Peter’s earnest little bedtime prayer. “Please bring us a Bible because Uncle Hans keeps forgetting, and we don’t want him to be a heathen.” Just what had his sister been teaching these boys?

  At last, he climbed into his own bed and stared at the ceiling. He’d survived another day, when he didn’t even think he’d survive one. He must be doing well—although, what could have happened to the boys out there on the street was no laughing matter, and he could hardly give himself points for it. Maybe he could install a high lock on the door that neither of them could reach. That would be a good starting plac
e, along with continued lessons about safety.

  And actually having someone to watch them, a voice said in the back of his mind, the voice that popped up whenever he was being particularly stubborn about something—the voice he really didn’t care to listen to. He’d better learn to listen, though, because it wasn’t just about him anymore.

  It was sure a lot easier when it was.

  ***

  Hans heard a knocking sound on his front door before he’d even pulled his shirt all the way on. He buttoned it as he trotted down the stairs, grumbling. If Miss Redding thought to incur his favor by being so early, she’d find herself mistaken. He wasn’t a morning person, and he didn’t appreciate interruptions to his routine.

  He opened the door with every intention of telling Miss Redding to go away and not come back for another hour, but instead of Miss Redding, Millie Bing stood there, a large basket over her arm.

  “Good morning,” she said brightly. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

  Hans wanted to reply that any time before the sun was fully up was a bad time, but instead, he stepped aside and motioned for her to enter. It wouldn’t do to be impolite to the pastor’s sister.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it over sooner—I’ve been so busy in Bachelor helping Mrs. Dobkins. Her three little ones have had the flu, and with her husband out of town, she needed the extra hands. But I’m here now, and I’ve brought gifts.” She looked around expectantly. “Where are the boys?”

  “Still asleep,” Hans said. And he hoped they’d stay that way for a little while yet.

  “I’ll stop by again later, then, and see if I can catch them. In the meantime, let me give you what I brought so I’m not lugging it around with me all day.” She gave a little laugh and reached into her basket. “Little boys are always in need of clean shirts, so I found some in the donation barrel that should suit well.” She handed them over. “And I know how much little boys need sweets, so I brought you some horehound. And last but not least, I thought this might come in handy.” She pulled out a Bible and set it on top of Hans’s growing pile. “In times of sorrow and in times of celebration, the words of the Lord are always appropriate.”