Bribing the Blacksmith

by Amelia C. Adams

  When he opened the door to the house, he was hit in the face by a wet shirt that had been strung up across the entryway. “What in the world?” he growled as he pulled it away from his head. “Miss Redding, what’s the meaning of this?”

  Rope had been strung around the kitchen, and wet clothes were pinned all along the length. “Laundry?” he asked, although it seemed like a silly question. He’d ask a better one. “Why is laundry hanging all over the house?”

  Miss Redding turned from the stove. “Well, you don’t seem to have a line outside, and I’m not quite tall enough to tie the rope to the trees or to drive nails into the eaves. Maybe you’d like to take a moment and help me with that before you go back to work.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I don’t have a clothesline because I send my laundry out.”

  “Ah. I wondered. Well, you can continue to do that, or you can keep the laundry here at home and pay me what you were paying your laundress. That might solve one of your budget concerns.”

  He opened his mouth again, ready to argue with her logic, but again, he couldn’t. “I’ll keep that in mind. Where are the boys?”

  “Having a rest upstairs.”

  He blinked. “They take naps?”

  “Oh, no. Not naps. They’re far too old for naps,” she replied. “They have rests. That’s when you lie down and close your eyes, but you don’t have to go to sleep. You just wait until your eyes are ready to open again.”

  He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and regarded her. “Do you have younger siblings, Miss Redding?”

  “No, actually, but I minded several neighborhood children as I was growing up. You learn little tips and tricks the more you do it.” She set a bowl of steaming beef stew in front of him, then a plate of corn bread. Then she sat across from him. “So, what do you say? A clothesline before you head back out there?”

  He took a bite of stew and thought about it while he chewed. “I can do that.”

  “There’s just one thing. It needs to be upwind of your chimneys, please.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “I noticed that your home is a little dingy, and I believe it’s because of the soot from your fire. If we put the clothesline upwind from the chimneys, the clothes would look whiter after they were washed.”

  He set his spoon down. “May I ask, Miss Redding, how I’m to keep the wind from changing direction once the line is hung up?”

  Her eyes grew wide, and she looked at him in astonishment. “I feel so foolish,” she said after a long moment. “Of course you can’t control the direction of the wind.”

  “I’m quite flattered, though, that you believed I could,” he said.

  “I’m not saying I thought you could . . . I just forgot that the wind isn’t always constant.” She was obviously flustered, and he rather liked it on her. She’d been so sure of herself, so dogmatic, that it was nice to see her floundering a bit.

  He decided to take a little pity on her. “I will see if I can find a spot where the house shields the yard from the chimneys somewhat, but there’s no way to protect the laundry from the soot entirely,” he said. “It’s not even possible to get it out of my clothes.”

  “I noticed that,” she replied. “I nearly took the skin off my fingers giving it a try.”

  “You really shouldn’t put that much effort into it. My work clothes will always be stained. I do have nicer things hanging up for church.”

  “I noticed that,” she said, then seemed to regret it instantly. He wasn’t too thrilled to hear it, either.

  “So, you’ve taken stock of the house?”

  “I felt I had to. Laundry needed to be done and I wasn’t sure where you might have tucked all of it, and I had to see to the condition of the bed linens, and—”

  He held up a hand. “I understand, Miss Redding. You were doing what you had to. If I take a small bit of offense at it, that’s on me, not on you. I should understand that you can’t do your job if I’m constantly making it more difficult for you.”

  “Thank you. That’s a much calmer reply than I was expecting.”

  “Because I’ve been gruff?”

  “Because you’ve been gruff.” She nodded toward his food. “Do you like it?”

  “What? Oh.” He took another bite and paid attention to it this time. “Yes, I do. Needs a little salt, though.”

  She pushed the shaker toward him without a word.

  He put some in his bowl, stirred it around, and took another bite. “Perfect.”

  “Excellent. Now you know how much salt you need to add to my cooking to suit your tastes.”

  He coughed. “Excuse me?”

  She gave him a sweet smile. “There should be enough rope left over from what I bought for us to hang up the new line without disturbing this one.”

  “And what does that have to do with salt?”

  “I never said it had anything to do with salt. I was talking about the laundry.”

  “And I was talking about the salt.”

  “Which I can plainly see. Let me know when you’re done eating and then let’s go outside and discuss the clothesline.” She stood up and walked back over to the counter, where she picked up a spoon and began stirring something. It looked like dough, but he couldn’t guess what kind. At the moment, he was a little too irate to care. He pushed his chair back from the table.

  “I’m done,” he announced.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. I’m not quite.” She pulled a muffin tin closer and began putting the mixture into it. “Really, for someone who doesn’t cook, you do have some surprising pans.”

  “Surprising?”

  “Yes. I’ve found muffin pans, bread pans, skillets—who set up this kitchen for you?”

  “Most of it came when I bought the place.”

  “Ah, that explains why some of it needs to be replaced.”

  He pulled in a deep breath. “Well, which is it? First you say my kitchen is surprising, and then you say it needs to be replaced.”

  She slid the muffin tin into the oven, wiped her hands, and smiled at him. “A kitchen can be both surprising and in need of replacement, can’t it?”

  He couldn’t keep up with her verbal games. She was simply too much for him. “Let’s go outside,” he said. Changing the subject entirely was going to be the only way he would survive this conversation.

  Chapter Ten

  After they discussed it for a few minutes, it was decided that the clothesline would go on the north edge of the backyard. Mariah had to compromise and settle for only partial protection from the wind—the way the house was situated didn’t allow for much more than that, and as she looked at the buildings on either side, she realized they were fortunate to have much yard at all. Mr. Jensen strung the line from the eaves on one end and a tree on the other, saying that over the weekend, he’d build a proper clothesline with wooden supports, but this would do in the meantime, and if she would please get the wet clothing out of the house so it wouldn’t slap him in the face any longer, he’d appreciate it.

  She smiled about that as she lifted the muffins out of the tin and put them on a plate. He wasn’t nearly so grumpy as he’d have her believe, but for some reason, it was important to him that he maintain that façade. Why did it matter so much to him? It was as though he was determined to keep that wall up or else. He didn’t think she posed any sort of danger, did he? She wasn’t going to rob him blind or abscond with the children. Just what was he worried about?

  When the boys woke up from their “rest,” she gave them each a muffin, then told them they were going to play the cleaning game. Armed with dust cloths, they marched through the house, claiming each surface in the name of their king as they wiped them down. She got nearly as much dust on her hands, face, and up her nose as she did on her cloth, but today would be the worst of it—from here on out, there would only be regular light dusting to do, and that she could manage. That is, if there was a here on out. She didn’t want to th
ink about the alternative. Now that she was spending time with the boys, she knew just how hard it would be to leave them if this didn’t work out.

  A knock sounded on the door, and she turned to open it. A bright-eyed, simply dressed young woman stood on the porch, a basket over her arm. “You must be the new arrival in town,” she greeted Mariah enthusiastically. “I’m Millie Bing. My brother is Callum Bing, the reverend over in Bachelor.”

  “Oh, hello,” Mariah said, holding the door open so the woman could enter. “I apologize that we’re not quite tidy—we’ve been cleaning all day.”

  “Yes, I can see great improvements already. I was here this morning,” she explained at Mariah’s curious look. “I came to meet the boys, and was told about you as well.” She turned to see Peter and Preston standing side by side, holding their dust rags. “Hello there. You must be the children I came to meet. I’m Millie Bing.”

  “Like bing cherries?” Peter’s eyes grew wide. “We had a bing cherry tree at our house! You hafta be careful not to swallow the pits, though.” Preston nodded his agreement.

  Millie looked concerned. “What happens if you swallow the pits?” she asked.

  Peter crooked his finger at her until she stooped down. “You’ll get a bad tummyache, and you’ll spend all day in the outhouse,” he whispered loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear.

  “Oh, my. I’ll be sure to be careful next time I eat cherries.” Millie turned to Mariah with a wide smile. “Tell me a little bit about yourself. If you have time, that is. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “Truth be told, I’m about ready for a break.” Mariah sent the boys up to their room to play, then invited Millie to have a seat. She was glad that they’d gotten the front room at least a little bit presentable first. “I’ve come here from Kentucky, actually.”

  “I thought I heard something a little different about your accent. Of course, I’m hardly one to speak, am I? My brother and I are Scottish. Seems like folks are coming to the west from everywhere.” Millie lifted her bonnet off her head and placed it on the sofa next to her. “What brought you from Kentucky?”

  Much like she had with Mrs. Gladstone on the train, Mariah found herself telling Millie everything, including the near-abduction and the day she’d spent with the boys. Millie gasped and showed appreciation at all the right spots, making her an excellent listener.

  “And that’s the short of it,” Mariah said at last. She didn’t give Mrs. Gladstone’s name as her benefactress because she knew the kind woman wanted her generosity to remain anonymous, but she did let Millie know that all her wants were being met, and that she didn’t currently stand in need of anything.

  “Well, you’re here now, and I’m glad of it.” Millie patted her hand. “I’d love to take you around and introduce you to everyone. Are you going to be here every day, do you think? I don’t believe Mr. Jensen runs the forge on Sundays.”

  “We haven’t decided yet if I’m staying on here,” Mariah explained. “This is a one-day trial.”

  “Just one day? That hardly seems long enough to test out anything. Wouldn’t a week give you more of an idea?”

  “It was hard enough getting Mr. Jensen to agree to one day,” Mariah said with a chuckle. “If I had asked for a week, he would have laughed me to shame.”

  “What is it with men and their stubbornness?” Millie shook her head. “It seems that they should just accept our innate wisdom and go along with it.”

  “It would certainly make things easier.” Mariah looked down at her hands, then back up. “Are you shocked to hear that I was publicly disavowed by my pastor? As a reverend’s sister, that has to be bothering you.”

  Millie laughed. “If there’s one thing that being a reverend’s sister has taught me, it’s that men of the cloth are still men, and they are prone to making mistakes just like anyone else. I believe you, Mariah. You don’t have the air of a brazen woman about you, and I don’t see the need for anyone here to know about your sad circumstances. You came for a fresh start—embrace it. You can decide from here who you want to be.”

  “That sounds so nice,” Mariah said. “I’m rather inclined to forget I was ever engaged at all. It wasn’t the most pleasant experience.”

  “I don’t believe anyone needs to know. Well, when you’re ready to marry, you might want to tell your prospective husband, but no one else. It’s simply none of their business.”

  “That sounds so freeing.”

  “I hope it is.” Millie stood. “I wish I didn’t have to leave, but Callum will want to head back to Bachelor soon. We come into town every so often to do our shopping and catch up on news, and then we head back before it gets too dark. The road between here and there is a bit treacherous.”

  “I appreciate you taking the time to visit with me,” Mariah said as she walked Millie to the door.

  “I’m so very glad I came. I have a feeling we’ll be good friends, Mariah Redding.” Millie gave her a quick hug, then exited the house and bustled down the street.

  “That lady smells like cookies,” Peter said as he and Preston came down the stairs.

  “Do you like cookies?” Mariah asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Peter said, his eyes almost rolling in delight. “With applesauce and cimmamomon.”

  “I like that kind too,” Maria replied. “We could make some—” She stopped. She shouldn’t say things like that. She was nearly out of time for that day, and she couldn’t promise the boys anything until she’d spoken to Mr. Jensen. “Let’s go check on the clothes,” she said instead, and they went to see if everything they’d hung on the outside line was dry. They carefully put the clothespins back in the sack so they wouldn’t lose any, and they carried in a full basket of clothes that no longer smelled like one hard-working man and two energetic little boys.

  Mariah set the table without saying much, feeling the weight of her emotions descend on her as the sun began to go down. She’d found a vase in one of the cupboards and put a straggly little flower from the backyard in it, trying to make things look nicer by setting that in the middle of the table. When Mr. Jensen came in, she had a roast on the table, along with potatoes and carrots, some bread, and a cherry pie.

  He paused in the doorway. “I only see three plates on the table. Aren’t you eating with us?”

  She shrugged. “It seemed a bit awkward.”

  “Well, I’ll feel even more awkward if you don’t, after all your hard work.”

  Her heart warmed a bit, and she slid into a chair at the end of the table.

  Mr. Jensen ushered the little boys over to wash their hands, which she appreciated, and then they all took their places. He cleared his throat. “Lord, we thank you for this meal and for all our blessings. We thank you for Miss Redding and everything she’s done today. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the others chorused.

  “You did that really good, Uncle Hans,” Peter told him. Then he turned to Mariah. “Uncle Hans didn’t know about prayin’. We teached him, though.”

  “I think you did a fine job with teaching, and your uncle did a fine job with learning,” Mariah said with a smile. It was clear that these boys were pushing Mr. Jensen in all kinds of directions that were new to him.

  Mr. Jensen cleared his throat again. “Let’s just eat, shall we?”

  She nudged the salt shaker his direction, and he took it without comment.

  Throughout the meal, Peter told their uncle everything they’d done that day, from helping to dunk the clothes in soapy water to learning how to wring them out. “That’s the hard part,” Peter said with the voice of experience. “It hurts your hands sooo much, but then they feel better afterwards.”

  Mr. Jensen raised an eyebrow. Mariah was getting rather used to that expression. It meant that he had something to say, and that she probably wasn’t going to like it. She gave him a benign look in return. If he had concerns about his nephews helping with the chores, he was clearly in the wrong and she would explain that to him.

 
; Once the meal was concluded, Mariah washed the dishes and wiped down the table. Then she went to find Mr. Jensen, who was sitting in the front room reading the newspaper, and stood before him with her hands folded demurely.

  “I’ve done everything that we agreed I should do, and then some,” she said. He hadn’t lowered the paper yet, so she gave a delicate cough. “Mr. Jensen?”

  “Hmm?” He peered around the edge of the paper. “Oh, Miss Redding. It’s you.”

  “Yes, it’s me. Were you expecting someone else?”

  “No. I just thought you might be one of the boys.”

  She shook her head. “I wonder that you aren’t losing some of your hearing. Or perhaps you are.”

  “I don’t believe I am. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m done with my tasks for the day.”

  “Ah. Very good.” He moved to raise the paper again, but she snatched it out of his hands.

  “Mr. Jensen, we need to talk. Am I going to keep working for you or not? Are you satisfied with the things I’ve done today?”

  He seemed to think it over. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow and we’ll give it another go?” Then he raised the paper again, leaving her befuddled.

  He wanted another trial day? That hardly seemed fair. “If I return tomorrow, it will be at full wages.”

  “Understood.”

  He said nothing more, and she shook her head. Infuriating man.

  She said goodbye to the boys, told them she’d see them the next day, and walked home in the twilight, wondering what she was going to do about a certain blacksmith.

  ***

  “Are the boys in bed?” Otto asked as he stepped into the house.

  “Just barely. Peter couldn’t stop talking about everything they’d done with Miss Redding all day. Who knew that housework was so exciting?” Hans led the way to the main room, and Otto took the seat by the window that nearly had his name written on it for all the evenings he’d spent there. Those nights had tapered off since Otto had gotten married, but he still came by and checked on his friend, and Hans knew he was always welcome for dinner.