Bribing the Blacksmith

by Amelia C. Adams

  Hans couldn’t take his eyes off the cover. “Thank you,” he said, clearing his throat. “Peter . . . Peter actually prayed for a Bible last night.”

  “I’m quite positive that the Lord loves hearing the prayer of children,” Millie said. “Not that He listens to the grownups any less, of course, but who could resist such innocent faith?” She walked toward the door. “I’ll stop by again later so I can meet your little nephews. I’ve got several errands to run while we’re in town today and I’d best get on them.”

  “When you come, you’ll find a new arrival here,” Hans said, feeling as though he should give the pastor’s sister a heads-up about the strange woman she was going to discover in his house. “Her name is Miss Redding, she just moved here, and she’s helping me with the boys for the day.”

  “Oh, that’s just wonderful,” Millie said. “I’m delighted to hear there’s yet another woman in town, and what a blessing that she can be of help to you.”

  “Um, yes. A blessing,” Hans replied.

  “Well, you have a good morning.” Millie let herself out through the front door. Hans followed and made sure it was closed snugly, then leaned against it. It was true that there were far more men than women in Creede and he was sure those who lived there would like more companionship, but he was of the opinion that more women weren’t necessarily a good thing.

  Chapter Eight

  “Surprise!” Mrs. Gladstone opened the door to Mariah’s room after a quick knock. “I got it finished!”

  Mariah sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What did you finish?”

  “Your skirt!” The woman held it up, grinning. “Let me tell you, dear, what a relief it is to have a sewing machine after all my years of using a needle and thread. When I was a girl, you weren’t fully dressed unless you had dozens of yards of petticoats, and every one of them were hemmed by hand. Oh, gracious. Hours upon hours of stitching until I thought I’d go mad.”

  Mariah climbed out of bed and touched the fine fabric of the purple skirt Mrs. Gladstone held. “Oh, it’s lovely. You do such beautiful work.”

  “Pish-posh,” she said, although she looked pleased. “It was easy as pie. Now, you’d better get ready for the day, my dear. I have a feeling this one will wear you ragged.”

  “I don’t know if I should wear a new skirt if I’m going to have such a difficult day,” Mariah began, but Mrs. Gladstone waved her off.

  “I made this especially for today. Now, get moving—the cook is making you something special.”

  Mariah washed up and pinned her hair carefully, then put on her new skirt. She couldn’t help it—she twirled around just to see it poof. It was perfect.

  “I love it, Mrs. Gladstone,” she said when she came downstairs.

  “And you look like a dream.” Mrs. Gladstone ushered her over to the table. “Poached eggs with hollandaise sauce, gingered pears, and hot buttered toast. I know you’ll be making breakfast for your new little charges, but you need something on your stomach before you head out on your first day.”

  “Thank you, and thank you to Cook, too. This looks wonderful.” Mariah slid into her chair and spread the napkin across her lap. She hoped she’d be able to eat more than a few bites—it really did smell delicious, but she was nervous for some reason, and her nerves always showed up in her stomach.

  “I’m sending a basket along with you—I always buy more than I need, and you might find some ingredients helpful today.” Mrs. Gladstone bustled around, her skirts swishing as she walked. “You never really can have too much thyme and rosemary, and where did I put that sage?”

  Mariah smiled as she tried a bite of pear. Mrs. Gladstone was doing everything she could to ensure the day went well, but in the end, it all came down to Mariah herself. If she could somehow manage to impress the blacksmith, she’d have a place. And if she didn’t . . . well, she supposed it meant she’d head back to Kentucky. At least there, she knew what kind of life she could plan to have. If she went farther west, she had no guarantees.

  By the time Mrs. Gladstone had finished packing up her basket, Mariah had eaten a reasonable amount and felt that she would keep it down. A glance at the clock told her that she had just enough time to walk to the forge before she’d be late.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gladstone,” she said, picking up the basket as well as the things she’d chosen out to bring. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Good luck, my dear,” her hostess said. “Have a wonderful day.”

  As Mariah walked the short distance to Main Street, she schooled her breathing. She needed to be calm. There was nothing to taking care of small children—she could do this in her sleep. That was exactly right, and it wasn’t the children making her so nervous, she realized. It was a tall, strong blacksmith with eyes that smoldered more than the fire in his forge.

  She gave a few knocks on the door when she arrived, and it flung open to reveal two little boys standing on the other side. “You came! You came!” Peter shouted. “Uncle Hans says we shouldn’t call you the lady from the train anymore, but that you have a real name.”

  “I do have a real name,” she said with a chuckle. “Where is Uncle Hans?”

  “Here,” a deep voice rumbled from behind the door, and her cheeks instantly went hot. If she’d known he could hear her, she wouldn’t have been so familiar with him.

  “I hope I’m not late, Mr. Jensen,” she said, hoping to recover some dignity.

  “Not at all. Have a good day. I’ll be out in the forge.” He moved to go.

  “Wait!” She didn’t know why she called out except that she wasn’t ready for him to leave just yet. She wanted him to stay for a moment, talk to her, maybe have a real conversation with her that wasn’t held over a fire or laced with anger.

  “Yes?” He paused. “What do you need?”

  “Do . . .” She scrambled around in her brain, trying to come up with an excuse to make him stay. “Do the boys have a routine I should know about?”

  “They haven’t been here long enough to establish any sort of routine,” he said. “They’re expecting their breakfast, so that had better come first, I should think.” With that, he disappeared, and a second later, she heard what she assumed was the connecting door to the forge close with a solid thunk.

  Well, that certainly hadn’t gone how she’d hoped. She turned to the boys. At least they were already dressed, so they could skip that part. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes!” Peter shouted, and Preston nodded.

  “Well, I’ve never been inside this house before, so I’ll need you to show me where everything is, all right? In fact, I’m going to need lots and lots of help today.”

  “We helped our mama all the time ’cause bein’ a mama is hard work,” Peter told her.

  She smiled. “Yes, it is, and I’m so glad you helped her. Can you show me where the kitchen is?”

  Peter marched off, glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was following. Preston snuck his little hand into hers and tugged on it, and her heart melted. She allowed him to lead her down the hall to the kitchen, and then she paused and took everything in.

  Well, now.

  It wasn’t the worst kitchen she’d ever seen. It also wasn’t the cleanest or the best made. Everything was constructed of weathered wood, even the walls, and it wouldn’t look truly clean even after a good scrubbing. She wondered what Mr. Jensen would think if she went over everything with some coats of whitewash. Then again, she only had one day here to prove herself—she’d better prioritize or she’d make a terrible impression.

  There was an ice box in the corner, a good stove—she supposed that a blacksmith would take things like that into consideration—and some long working surfaces. This was doable.

  A peek in the icebox revealed a few eggs and some milk. She found flour and baking powder, and within minutes, she was mixing up some flapjacks.

  “Uncle Hans doesn’t know how to make stuff,” Peter informed her. “He opens lots of tins instead.”

  It s
eemed that Mariah was going to learn all Uncle Hans’s secrets whether she wanted to know them or not. “But he has flour and baking powder on hand,” she pointed out.

  “Only ’cause the lady at the store said he had to have some so we wouldn’t die of starvination. What’s starvination?”

  “It means being very hungry, and I think you mean ‘starvation.’” Mariah tested the griddle, then poured some batter on it. “Let’s set the table, all right? Where are the plates kept?”

  Peter pointed to a shelf, and Mariah gathered what she needed. “Oh, dear,” she said, looking at the dishes she held. There was still some residue on them from a greasy meal at some point in the past. “I think we’ll take a moment and wash up some dishes. The two of you look like my perfect dish helpers.”

  She didn’t pour out any more batter until all the dishes she could find in the kitchen had been given a good scrubbing. There weren’t many to find, so that task didn’t take very long. Once she felt comfortable with the state of the dishes, she went ahead and finished cooking up the flapjacks, placing a nice stack before each boy, and asking them to stay put for a moment.

  She drizzled syrup over the top of the third plate she’d prepared, poured some hot coffee into a freshly washed cup, and headed over to the connecting door. There, she paused. She couldn’t hear the sound of hammer on metal, but she couldn’t see what actually was going on, so she’d have to hazard a guess that it was a good time for her to make a food delivery.

  She set down the coffee mug, opened the door, and stepped through. Mr. Jensen was deep in conversation with Mr. Clay, the man who had intervened when that horrible Mr. Grady told her to come apply at the saloon. She thought about retreating, but Mr. Clay saw her and waved her in.

  “I brought Mr. Jensen some breakfast,” she said, balancing both food items. “Are you hungry, Mr. Clay?”

  “No, thank you,” he replied. “My wife made a fine spread this morning. Have you met Sophia?”

  “I haven’t. I’ve only been here a few days, and I’m afraid I’ve only met a few people.”

  “I’ll send Sophia over. She’ll be glad to know of another woman in town.”

  Mr. Jensen made an odd kind of grunting noise that Mariah chose to ignore. “I can have that mended for you by the end of the day, Otto,” he said, and Mr. Clay nodded.

  “Thanks, Hans,” he said. He gave a nod to Mariah, and then he was out the door.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Mariah said, feeling the awkwardness of the situation. “I just have some breakfast for you.”

  He nodded. “Set it there on the table. And next time—if there is a next time—just save me some in the house and I’ll come in and eat when I have a moment.”

  She nodded. That made sense. “I’ll do that with your lunch.”

  He didn’t give another reply, but just bent back to studying the metal hasp Mr. Clay had brought by, and she returned to the kitchen.

  After she cleaned up the breakfast dishes, she walked through the house and took a quick look at all there was to be done. She supposed she should have expected what she saw, but it was still rather sobering to see how a man could survive living on his own. Everything was just a bit dingy. She touched a curtain and noticed the gray—it looked as though the smoke from the forge was discoloring the house. It made her wonder if there was a way to divert the smoke out of the building differently.

  The first thing she could clearly see was a lack of clean clothing. She felt a bit sneaky as she wandered around, looking for evidence that she was right, but she figured it was part of her job. Well, looking around was part of her job—the sneaking part not so much.

  Back down in the kitchen, she looked around for a washtub. How could someone do laundry without a washtub? Perhaps that was part of the problem. She’d use the bathtub instead—she knew how to make do when circumstances weren’t ideal.

  “All right, boys,” she said, clapping her hands together. “We’re going to play treasure hunt. Bring me all the laundry you can find.”

  Chapter Nine

  A lack of a washtub was not the only thing that kept Mariah from leaping right into her task. There didn’t seem to be any laundry soap, either, and an investigation of the backyard revealed no clothesline.

  “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen,” she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Boys, we’re going over to the mercantile.”

  Peter cheered, and Preston looked hopeful. “Have we done enough work to earn some lemon drops?” Peter asked. “Uncle Hans says we hafta earn them.”

  “I think you’ve been very good helpers,” Mariah said. “Let’s get some, and we’ll eat them after lunch, all right?”

  The boys seemed to think that was an acceptable compromise, and off they went. When they stepped out the front door, Mariah made sure she had a tight hold on their hands, and they made it to the store in safety.

  “Well, hello there,” Toria said as they entered. “How are you all today?”

  “We’re here for lemon drops, please,” Peter said importantly.

  “And laundry soap,” Mariah added.

  Toria smiled. “I can help with both.” She helped Mariah locate a box of powered soap, along with a length of rope and some clothespins. “So you found a job, then?” she asked as she put the clothespins in a sack.

  “We’re on a trial basis for today,” Mariah replied. “He’s not entirely convinced that he needs a housekeeper yet.”

  “I’m sure you’ll change his mind after today.” Toria placed everything in a larger sack. “I’ll just put these on Mr. Jensen’s account,” she said with a wink. “And I have it on good authority that someone’s paying his account for him this month, so if there’s anything else you need . . .”

  Mariah turned and glanced around. “I should probably get some coffee—I used up the last this morning. And perhaps more sugar.”

  Toria added those to the ledger. While she was placing the additional items with the first, Mariah overheard a conversation from the next aisle over.

  “I told you, I hate green beans,” a man’s voice said. “They are an abomination to all that is good and holy about vegetables.”

  “There’s nothing good and holy about vegetables. They’re just food!” a woman retorted.

  “That’s Reverend and Mrs. Theodore,” Toria whispered across the counter. “Newlyweds . . . but not under the usual circumstances.”

  “I thought we agreed that we would try acting civilly to each other, at least in public,” the man said.

  “Fine! Just . . . fine. How do you feel about carrots, darling?”

  “Carrots are a much more pleasant vegetable, my dear.”

  The two rounded the aisle and saw Toria and Mariah staring at them. “We’ll take a bag of carrots, please,” the woman said. She was a pretty dark-haired thing, but the expression on her face kept her from being truly beautiful—she looked like she wanted to beat her husband to death with those carrots rather than eating them.

  “Of course,” Toria said. She slid Mariah’s box toward her. “Here you go. The lemon drops are in the small bag on top.”

  “Thank you,” Mariah told her, nodding at the boys to follow her.

  As they left, she heard the woman say, “My lord and master has not yet shared his thoughts about turnips.”

  “I don’t have any thoughts about turnips, my angel.”

  “Those people didn’t sound very nice to each other,” Peter observed as they walked back to the forge. Mariah had them hold on to the sides of her skirts, since her hands were busy carrying the box.

  “They might just be having a hard day,” Mariah replied. She had no idea why the newlyweds were so irate with each other, but she imagined there was a story attached.

  “When my mama and papa had a hard day, sometimes they got grumpy, but they never sounded like that.” Peter jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I thought people were tapposed ta sound in love.”

  “It would be nice if everyone
sounded in love, wouldn’t it?” Mariah carried the box into the house and set it on the table. Gathering up the laundry and preparing to begin the wash had taken quite a lot of the morning. She’d have just enough time to get some clothes soaking before it would be lunch.

  “My mana always sounded in love,” Peter said wistfully. “She sang songs and told us stories.”

  Preston nodded solemnly.

  Mariah looked down at the two little boys. They’d only been in Creede for a couple of short days, and their parents had been killed just before that. These were children who were at the very beginning of their grieving.

  “I tell you what,” she said. “We’re going to start soaking these clothes, and then while I make you lunch, I want you to tell me all your best stories about your mama and papa, all right? I want to know all about them.”

  “Really?” Peter asked.

  “Really,” Mariah replied. “Let’s get to work, and then it’s story time.”

  ***

  Hans knew he was just being stubborn when he left the flapjacks and coffee sit until they were cold. He told himself that he was a very busy man and that he wasn’t going to drop everything he was doing because Miss Redding decided to interrupt him, but truth be told, he wasn’t all that busy. Otto’s repair would take twenty minutes, and he could easily do it after he ate, but no. He was going to prove himself right, so he did the repair and then picked up the food. It was good, even though it was cold, and he wondered what it would have tasted like if he’d eaten it hot.

  He walked over to the livery and took Otto his part, then returned to the forge and looked over the work he had remaining. The link in the chain would take a bit more work, and he’d do that after he brought in more coal and refilled his water buckets. He set about doing the work of maintaining the forge, cleaning ash and making sure he had laid out his tools where they went. After that was done, he decided he could go inside and have some lunch before beginning his larger projects.