Sparked By Fire (Dorado, Texas Book 4)
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Sparked By Fire
By Linda Carroll-Bradd
Book #4 of the Dorado, Texas series
This is a work of fiction. Names, place, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright ©Linda Carroll-Bradd All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means without express permission from author or publisher.
Published by Inked Figments
Cover artist: Tamra Westberry (writing as Tara West)
Edited by: Shenoa, Lustre Editing www.lustreediting.com
Manufactured in the United States
ISBN: 978-1-940546-11-7
First printing January 2017
This book is copyrighted intellectual property. Purchasing this e-book gives you the right to one copy for your reading enjoyment. The purchase does not grant resale rights, sharing rights (either individual file sharing or sharing through peer-to-peer programs) auction or contest prize rights, or rights of any kind to sell or give away a copy of this book.
Doing so is considered piracy and criminal copyright infringement—an illegal act in violation of U.S. Copyright Law and can be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by a maximum of five years in federal prison in addition to a $250,000 fine.
Please respect Linda Carroll-Bradd’s right to earn a living from her creative endeavors. If you have knowledge of misuse of this e-book, do not hesitate to contact Inked Figments at inkedfigments@gmail.com.
Sparked by Fire, Book #4
Ivey Treadwell, cook at her family’s boarding house, wants to accomplish something big. For now, she satisfies herself with improving on the traditional recipes for the boarders by adding gathered herbs and spices. An incident with a broken pot causes her to see Berg Spengler, the town’s blacksmith, in a new light. Stigmatized for his huge size and blamed for his brother’s injury, Berg has discovered being alone is safer for his heart. But when he sees interest spark in Ivey’s eyes, he decides to take a chance and approach her. The pair discovers an attraction that heats up each time they are alone together. Will Ivey convince Berg his wandering days are over and his home is here with her in Dorado?
Previous books in the Dorado, Texas series
Although each book can be read as a stand-alone story, the world is richer if you meet all the characters (and experience their love story) who might walk through the pages of the current story.
Wandering Home, Book #1
Widow Vevina Bernhard sees mysterious lights at night and believes her Texas ranch Shady Oaks is haunted. She needs protection for herself and her 4-year old son but the town’s sheriff offers no help. On hiatus from his Texas Ranger duties, Kell Hawksen hires on as a farrier at the ranch while keeping an eye out for clues to a stagecoach robber in hopes of collecting the bounty. On Samhain, fire erupts and Vevina and Kell battle both the danger and the depth of their feelings.
AMAZON
Storybook Hero, Book #2
Relocating to Texas has lessened Clari Rochester’s health problems, and she yearns for adventure. And she spots it outside her family’s mercantile when a quiet, but compelling, cowboy rescues a small child. Trevor Driscoll is the type of hero she’s come to admire through her love of books, and the type of man she secretly pens in her dime novels. But they’ve never had a real conversation. Trevor knows the logging accident that left him with only eight fingers limits his options, but he’s learned to manage. Until he rescues a fine lady from a runaway horse, spends the afternoon transporting her to safety, and gets a glimpse of what he’s always wanted. How will he respond to the unique present this special woman bestows?
AMAZON
My Heart Knew, Book #3
From the moment tomboy Maisie Treadwell meets cowboy Dylan MacInnes, the sparks and words fly. To rectify causing his ankle sprain, Maisie is at the mercy of meeting Dylan’s demands. A shared interest in adventure stories draws them closer. Soon, Maisie can’t wait to spend time reading aloud to the recuperating virile man. Until the afternoon she overhears him explaining that his demands were meant to teach her a lesson. Can Dylan find a way to again win her trust?
AMAZON
SPARKED BY FIRE
By
Linda Carroll-Bradd
June 1877
Chapter One
Another day to endure in the world of solitude under his control. Shimmering air danced before his eyes, blurring his view of the street through the wide doorway. Berg Spengler leaned away from the heat blasting from the forge’s glowing coals. He swiped a thick forearm at the perspiration beading his forehead. Summer in central Texas was not his favorite time to be plying his trade. But neither the season nor the temperature had an effect on when horses required shoeing or wheels needed repairing. Dealing with the heat was all part of a blacksmith’s job, and he had no argument over being the sole practitioner for a thirty-mile radius around Dorado.
Hoping to catch a breeze, he untied the strings holding up his leather apron, letting it drop forward, and stepped to the open double doors of the smithy shop. Flittering among the leaves of a nearby mesquite tree were a host of chirping birds, vying to outdo each other for the loudest calls. Wind stirred a dirt devil along the main road through town, and the swirling air cooled his bare arms and torso. A fly buzzed his ear, and he swatted at it with an impatient hand.
Over the breeze came a female voice singing a high, lilting melody. Berg recognized the sweet tones, closing his eyes for a moment to draw them deep inside. He tightened his grip on the wooden door. Miss Ivey’s voice. The same one he listened to from the front porch of the boarding house on Saturday nights—a prime spot to hear the harmonizing songs from her family, the Treadwells. Unable to resist the chance to catch her unawares, he leaned forward and looked along Main Street toward the open prairie for a glimpse of the young lady who’d captured a piece of his heart. Within seconds, Ivey Treadwell moved into view, sauntering along the road with a basket hanging from one arm. Probably she’d been out on the prairie collecting the various greens, pungent herbs, or luscious berries that made the meals she cooked so tasty and different from any other place he’d boarded.
A blue calico bonnet covered the hair Berg knew to be the prettiest shade of brown with hints of copper and gold from spending time in the sunlight. The bonnet’s brim shaded her face but didn’t hide the smile she usually wore. Today, she had on a green blouse with a dark skirt—garments her rounded curves filled out nicely. His favorite was her yellow blouse with tatted lace along the collar that she often wore to Sunday services.
As she drew abreast of the building, Miss Ivey slowed, adjusted the basket handle on her arm, and started to turn her head his way.
He stumbled backward a couple of steps until he blended into the shadows. No need to offend her with the sight of his sweaty and bared skin. His profession might be considered an honest one, but not many women visited his shop or sought the items he created. His customers were mostly men, the gender he was most comfortable being around.
Her steps stopped, and she cocked her head at the open doorway. But she didn’t move closer.
Might she be looking for me? His chest tightened. He’d been hoping for the chance to speak with her alone. With fumbling fingers, he drew up the leather apron thongs and tied them around his neck. From a hook beside the door, he grabbed a chambray shirt and shoved in his arms, dragging the sleeves across his damp skin. Did he have enough time to do up all the buttons? With propriety uppermost in his mind, he fidgeted with fastening a couple. Thre
e long strides brought him into the sunlight, but all he saw was her back about a rod distant as she stepped along the boardwalk toward her family’s boarding house.
Just as well…a woman as fine as Ivey Treadwell wouldn’t have much use for a big brute like him.
***
Two hours later, Ivey was in the midst of finalizing dinner for the family and the regular boarders. With measured steps, she moved in a triangle between the stove, the bin table, and the sideboard—the process of last-minute preparations almost like a dance. A small ham sat on her mama’s best Staffordshire stoneware platter, waiting to be sliced. Wild baby onions she’d dug up on her morning stroll accented baby sweet peas picked from her garden. She eyed the batch of steaming dandelion greens and worried she hadn’t gathered enough. They always wilted so much in volume.
Her mama, Ellen, rushed into the kitchen and looked around at the filled bowls. “Are you about ready? What help do you need?”
“Soon, Mama.” Ivey stopped to brush a strand of hair off her cheek with the back of her hand and gave her mother a smile. “Get Maisie and Lydia to carry these dishes to the dining room. And ring the bell. The biscuits will be ready by the time the table is loaded and the boarders seat themselves.” The word boarder gave her pause. This morning, on her walk back to Dorado, she’d hoped to spot Mister Spengler. Not that she had anything in particular to say, but she liked watching him work and how the metal gave way to the pressure of his relentless hammer. Even from a distance, the rhythmic ringing of metal against metal was a sound that fit in the background of her daily activities.
Once, she’d accompanied her brother, Penn, to the blacksmith shop to inquire about a harness chain that needed mending. The hot air from the glowing fire, the large, quiet-spoken man wielding a huge hammer, and the display of strange tools were elements of a foreign world. Although she’d not spoken a word, she’d been intrigued, peeking at the play of muscles in the blacksmith’s massive arms as he pounded horseshoes into shape while discussing business details with her brother. A row of hanging fire pokers with twisted handles had proved irresistible, and she’d run a finger several times along the curving spirals. What a wonderful talent Mister Spengler had to take slabs of plain metal and create new shapes and forms with sensual curves.
Fingers snapped in the air nearby. “Ivey! I asked if you made gravy.”
She shook her head to dispel the improper thoughts and stepped to the stove. “Of course I am, Mama.” Glancing over her shoulder, she grinned. “And I’m adding a secret ingredient.”
“Oh, Ivey.” Ellen tossed up her hands and then clasped them in front of her waist. “I wish you’d stick to the tried-and-true recipes I always used. And your granny and great-granny back in England used at the family’s inn.” She waved a hand toward the side of the room. “The receipt book is right there on the shelf. Why alter the ingredients after all those years of success?”
As she stirred the ham drippings into the cast-iron sauce pan, Ivey bit her tongue to keep from giving voice to a less-than-nice reply. The well-worn book containing instructions for dishes from sixty or seventy years ago didn’t thrill her. Nor was she enthused by ingredients normally found thousands of miles away. She wanted to create new tastes and make exciting combinations of flavors. Trade routes to more countries since that book was written had expanded the known world. The Othmanns offered new items every month in their mercantile.
This argument wasn’t a new one, and Ivey was tired of having it over the past three months. Holding the duty of head cook should mean she had the choice in how the food was served. Constant worry about keeping the rooms rented and providing hearty meals that everyone liked had added gray to Mama’s auburn hair. Attention to detail was well and good, but Ivey wanted to experiment with new dishes and discover the perfect balance of sweet and buttery, rich and savory. What else did she have to occupy her time? “Mama, no more than five minutes remain until everything is ready.”
“Goodness me.” Eyes wide, Ellen whirled and headed for the doorway. “Maisie, Lydia, time to serve.” She dashed through the living room and out to the veranda to run the metal rod around the triangle announcing meal service was imminent.
The mixing of flour with cold water to thicken the gravy was so oft-repeated, the action didn’t take much thought. Ivey reached for the mortar and pestle in which she’d ground wild mustard pods and roasted peppercorns and lifted the marble bowl to her nose. Such a wonderful smell. She dumped two generous pinches into the bowl of flour and water, mixed until no streaks remained, and then dribbled the thin paste into the boiling drippings while stirring with a metal spoon.
From behind came the hollow sound of boots stamping on the back porch. Then the door squeaked open. “Gotta put some grease on those hinges. Hey, sis.”
“Good day, Penn.” She gave a quick glance over her shoulder at her older brother. The already warm outside air tinged his skin with pink. “Do you know you make the same comment just about every day?”
A second, heavier set of footsteps sounded.
Penn waved a hand toward the doorway. “Come on inside, Spengler. No need to be so formal by using the front door.”
Hearing that the blacksmith was a few feet away made her stomach flutter. Ivey stiffened but kept stirring to avoid causing lumps in the gravy, bracing the pot with a thick wad of toweling. The last frenetic moments before serving a boarding house meal were often not the cook’s most attractive. Why was Penn bringing Mister Spengler through the kitchen?
Her younger sisters, Maisie and Lydia, hurried down the hallway, laughing. “We’re here.”
Without a second’s passing, Ivey glanced around before starting her orders. “Maisie, the biscuits smell ready. Could you please pull out the pan and fill the wicker basket? Lydia, set the ham at Penn’s place and bring back a dish from the sideboard for the greens.” She moved to the side of the oven to allow her younger sister access.
“Sure, Ivey. Good day, Mister Spengler.” Maisie grabbed a thick cotton towel and opened the oven door.
“Ladies.”
The single gruff word was the taciturn man’s usual greeting. But Ivey savored the sound of his deep voice that always held such mystery. No east coast nasal notes thickened his tone, and no Texas drawl stretched out his words. Instead, they were often clipped, and his sentences were always short. She’d never heard anyone else speak like he did.
Penn poured water from the bucket he carried into the metal sink. He grabbed a bar of soap and set to washing his hands. “Sure smells good, Ivey.” He leaned to glance over her shoulder. “But isn’t that gravy a strange color?”
Not in the mood for his teasing, she tossed her head and muttered, “Just like Mama.” Was there no one who appreciated her experimental seasonings? After giving the orangey-brown liquid a final stir, she secured the pad around the pot’s thin bail and lifted. Filling the gravy boat was her last task before heading into the dining room. Two steps across the floor, she felt a jerk, and the pot tipped at a steep angle, making the gravy slosh toward the edge. “Oh, no.”
Mister Spengler stepped close, his leg pressing against the side of her skirts, and reached for the bottom of the pan. “I’ve got it. Let go.”
For a moment, she swayed from the impact of his solid arm against hers. “No, the pot’s too hot.” But her denial was pointless—either she let him take the pot, or the broken bail would drop the pot and all its contents to the floor.
With a muffled grunt, he lifted the pot from her hands and carried it back to the stove, his lips curled in a grimace.
Ivey’s heart lurched. The sight of the hot metal pot in Mister Spengler’s broad hands wrestled a cry from her mouth. “Ahh.” She rushed forward and grabbed onto his sleeve to drag him toward the sink and the water bucket. But her feet skidded. The man hadn’t moved an inch. “Hurry, we must get your hands in cold water.” Again, she tugged hard on his sleeve, but her boots just slipped on the wooden floor.
The mighty oak of a man remained ro
oted in place. “I’m fine.” He looked at her, one dark eyebrow winged upward.
“You can’t be. Blisters must be forming as we waste time talking.” She stepped next to him and reached for his hands, turning them so the palms faced upward. Leaning close, she inspected the surfaces, expecting to see reddened and bubbled skin. Instead, she noticed thick calluses that ran in a bumpy line at the base of his fingers, and scars in irregular patterns marked the surface of his palms.
The man inhaled. “My hands are around heat all day long. Your pot was nowhere near my forge’s temperature.”
Ivey straightened and looked up into Mister Spengler’s brown eyes. As dark as cocoa powder. Staring, she also saw little tan flecks like caramel bits. What he said made sense, but she’d never known of anyone who could touch a pan right off the stove and not get burned.
A throat clearing interrupted. “Is everything all right?”
Mama’s voice. That sound should remind Ivey of a pending task. But, for the life of her, she didn’t know what that was. Rather, she was lost in the sensation of warm skin filling her hands and a twirling in her belly over being this close to the man she’d been having secret thoughts about since the day he settled in Dorado almost a year earlier.
Mister Spengler dropped his hands to his sides. “Yes, ma’am. Pot handle broke, but your gravy is saved.” He dipped his chin toward Ivey, and then stepped across the room and disappeared down the hall.
Ivey shook herself and wished she could fan her face with her apron. But that action would clue Mama into her true feelings. “I’ll get a ladle to fill the gravy boat and be right in, Mama.”
Ellen pressed a hand to her shoulder. “Everyone is seated, and all are waiting on you.”
“Uh huh.” Ivey couldn’t utter any other words as she spooned out the steaming liquid. That man had certainly set her thoughts atwitter. One final glance around the counter and bin table showed that her sisters had been in and out of the room, gathering all the cooked food. So they must have observed their older sister standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding hands with the town’s blacksmith. Letting out a big sigh, she untied her apron strings and smoothed a hand over the front of her green blouse. Gravy boat in hand, she strode down the hall to the dining room and took her regular chair closest to the hallway entrance. “Sorry for the delay, folks. Just a small mishap in the kitchen.”