The Blacksmith’s Bravery

by Susan Page Davis

  “You might as well forget about that. He’s told you more than once he won’t let you.”

  A lanky young man stepped into the aisle beside them. “Morning, Miss Vashti. Or should I say, ‘afternoon’?” Johnny Conway cracked a broad smile at her.

  “I expect it is past noon,” Vashti said absently.

  “You’re one of the stagecoach drivers, aren’t you?” Goldie asked, gazing up at Johnny with her overlarge blue eyes.

  “Yes, ma’am. Have we met before?”

  “Maybe.” Goldie fluttered her lashes. Vashti had scolded her for continuing to flirt with men since they gave up being saloon girls, but the habit seemed ingrained in Goldie. “Ever been to the Spur &

  Saddle?”

  “Well, sure. You’re the gal who plays the pianner.” Johnny’s smile slipped. “I ain’t been there since they changed over—well, you know.” “That’s all right,” Goldie said.

  “You still work there?” Johnny asked.

  “No, I work in the Paragon Emporium now, but I still board at the Spur & Saddle, same as Vashti.”

  “Oh.” Johnny looked from her to Vashti and arched his eyebrows as though he expected something.

  “Her name is Goldie Keller.” Men were always fascinated by Goldie’s china-doll looks. Vashti didn’t mind, so long as they didn’t get fresh with her friend. But Goldie had been around saloons long enough that she knew how to keep most fellows in line.

  “I haven’t seen you in church before,” Goldie said, smiling up at him.

  “Well, I don’t usually stay over Sunday in Fergus. Most weeks I’m over to Murphy.”

  They had reached the door. Vashti turned her back on Johnny and Goldie and shook the pastor’s hand.

  “Good day, Miss Edwards.” Pastor Benton always greeted the girls cheerfully, but it was his wife who soothed Vashti’s heart. Though Vashti smiled at the preacher, she turned eagerly to Apphia.

  “Hello, Mrs. Benton.”

  “Vashti, so good to see you again. You must come visit me this week, if you have a chance.”

  “I’d like that, thank you.”

  “Why don’t you come Tuesday afternoon, if that won’t interfere with your work? I understand you have two jobs now.”

  “I’m putting in a few hours at the Wells Fargo. But I could come over around two thirty.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll have the teakettle on.”

  Vashti stepped out into the sunlight, feeling warm to her toes. Mrs. Benton genuinely cared about the ladies in this town, whether they were rich or poor, refined or crude. Vashti had seen her reach out to women many would consider among the least desirable residents of Fergus. She’d befriended the girls from both saloons back when there were two in town. At the time, Vashti had been jealous of the attention Apphia paid the girls from the Nugget. But now she understood. That was Apphia’s nature: to love them all impartially. Even so, whenever she spent time with the pastor’s wife, Vashti felt almost as if she were Apphia’s only friend and certainly the one she loved best.

  She went down the front steps. Griffin Bane had disappeared, probably going back to the livery or the smithy. She waited while Goldie greeted the Bentons. Johnny Conway didn’t leave her friend’s side. He shook the pastor’s hand, too, and spoke to Apphia. He came down the steps with Goldie.

  “Say, Miss Vashti, why are you so keen on learning to drive?”

  Vashti bristled. “I already know how to drive.”

  He laughed, and it stung a little. “All right, then. Why do you want so badly to drive a stagecoach? Griff told me you’ve been hounding him to hire you to drive.”

  “So?”

  “So, you’re not ready.”

  Vashti held back her retort and gazed up at him. She liked Johnny in a way. He was boyishly handsome and had a fun-loving streak, but he’d be trouble for the woman who lost her heart to him.

  “So how did you get ready?” What she really wanted to know was how he’d convinced Griffin Bane to hire him. Maybe it amounted to the same thing.

  “When I was a kid, my pa put up a rig for me in the barn, so’s I could practice handling the reins without anyone—or any horses—getting hurt.”

  “What kind of a rig?”

  “It’s just a frame with six reins attached like they are on a real hitch. You can pretend to drive for hours at a time, working those lines with your fingers until you can tighten or ease up on any one of the six without affecting the others. That’s what you need to do if you’re going to control all six horses ’t once. You can’t drive them all like you would one horse. They’d learn to take advantage of you worse than a tinhorn gambler.”

  Vashti scowled at him, but what he said made sense. Already her mind was groping for a place where she could have someone make a rig for her. It couldn’t be at the livery—Griff would see it. Besides, she wouldn’t want to be over there for hours on end, practicing.

  Trudy Dooley would let her have it in her barn if she still lived with her brother. But she’d married the sheriff last summer, so she was Mrs. Chapman now and lived out on the sheriff’s ranch. It wasn’t far out of town, but it was too far for Vashti to trot out there every day.

  Augie and Bitsy didn’t have a barn. They had a woodshed, though. She wondered if there’d be room out there. They’d burned all of last winter’s wood, so the shed was pretty nearly empty. But Augie would be filling it soon and ordering a ton of coal, too.

  The pastor and his wife stepped outside. All of the church folks must be finished shaking their hands. The reverend closed the church door, and they turned to walk down the steps together.

  Vashti smiled as another option came to mind. She hurried toward the couple.

  “Mrs. Benton, Reverend—I’ve got a favor to ask.”

  Apphia paused and waited for her to reach them, a smile hovering on her lips. “What is it, Vashti? You know we’ll do anything feasible for you.”

  Vashti wasn’t quite sure what feasible meant, but she knew the Bentons were bighearted when it came to folks in need.

  “You folks have a stable you’re not using.”

  The minister’s eyes widened. “Are you getting a horse, Miss Edwards?”

  Vashti shook her head. “No, sir, that would be nice but too expensive. This is cheaper and easier to clean up after.” Mr. Benton laughed.

  Apphia squeezed her hand. “Well, my dear, you have us on pins and needles. What is it you want to use the stable for?”

  “For a place where I can learn to drive my imaginary stagecoach.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The next day as the coach came in from Reynolds, Vashti stood in front of the Wells Fargo office, ready to make sure the disembarking passengers had their needs met. Sure enough, a couple got out and turned expectantly toward her.

  Too bad—it was nearly time for her to set out for the shooting club’s regular practice. But Mr. Bane had made it clear that directing the passengers to food and lodging and hearing any complaints they might make was part of her job, for which he now grudgingly paid her a dime a day, plus the commission on tickets she sold.

  “May I help you folks?” she asked, remembering belatedly that Griffin had also specified she smile when addressing customers. She tacked on a perfunctory curve of her lips.

  “I think you might be able to.” The man doffed his bowler hat, revealing his balding head. After a quick glance at his companion, Vashti catalogued them as man and wife, in their sixties, probably come to visit grandchildren.

  “Do you need a place to eat lunch? Because the Spur & Saddle, over yonder, has the best food in Fergus.”

  “Thank you, that was to be my first question,” the man said. “The second was where we might find Mrs. Elizabeth Adams.”

  Vashti grinned. “Well, that sure is easy. Turn around.”

  A couple of doors down, Libby was just coming out of the Paragon Emporium with Florence Nash, who clerked for her in the store.

  “Miz Adams,” Vashti called.

  As usual, Libby wor
e a fashionable but modest dress made of good material. The powder blue gown brought out the vivid blue of her eyes, and her golden curls were topped by a matching bonnet. Florence, who was quite pretty, looked almost ordinary next to the lovely lady.

  Libby advanced toward them with a smile. “Yes, Miss Edwards? May I help you?”

  Her well-modulated tones inspired Vashti to speak as smoothly as the emporium’s owner. “Yes, ma’am. These folks would like to see you.”

  Libby looked at the couple, favoring them with a hesitant smile. “Hello. Have you just arrived in Fergus?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The man gestured toward his wife. “We’re the Hamiltons. We’ve corresponded with you.”

  “Why, yes, of course.” Libby’s reserve melted, and she extended her hand, first to the lady and then to the gentleman. “Forgive me. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” She turned to include Florence and Vashti in her explanation. “Ladies, this couple is interested in viewing the emporium with the prospect of buying it.”

  Vashti caught herself so she didn’t let out an unladylike whoop. It was no secret that Libby Adams planned to marry the shy gunsmith, Hiram Dooley, but she couldn’t until she sold her business. No one in Fergus could afford to buy it—with the possible exception of the schoolmarm, Isabel Fennel, who had inherited a large estate from her father. But Isabel enjoyed teaching and had no desire to run a store, thank you, so Mrs. Adams had advertised the emporium in several Eastern newspapers. Goldie had told Vashti all the details she’d learned while stocking shelves in the store.

  “You must be tired.” Libby addressed the lady. “Did you folks come all the way from Boise today?”

  “Yes, we did,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “We were anxious to get here and meet you and see the emporium.”

  “Of course. But you must be hungry.” Libby looked to Mr. Hamilton.

  “Well…”

  “Of course you are. Please allow me to entertain you at our finest restaurant.” Libby looked apologetically at Florence. “My dear, I fear I must let you go to the club without me today. Please make my excuses to Trudy. She will understand.”

  “Yes’m,” said Florence.

  “Let me give you folks a quick look at the emporium before we eat.” Libby turned her head and raised her eyebrows in Vashti’s direction. “Miss Edwards, could you possibly run ahead and see if the Moores can accommodate three late diners? We shall be over in ten minutes.”

  “I surely can.” Vashti gathered her satin skirt and leaped off the boardwalk. She ran across the street.

  When she charged into the dining room, Bitsy was just picking up her husband’s shotgun. Dressed in her red bloomer costume, she looked the part of a sharpshooter.

  “What’s happened?” she asked, eyeing Vashti with trepidation.

  “Nothing bad. There’s a couple off the stagecoach, and they want to buy Miz Adams’s store. She wants to bring them here to eat. Do you have anything left?”

  “Praise the Lord,” Bitsy shouted. “Augie! You hear that?”

  Augie poked his shiny bald head out from the kitchen. “Hear what?”

  “We’ve got customers coming. Is the stew still hot?”

  “Yes, I’ve got it on the back of the stove.”

  “Well, heat up those leftover biscuits, too, and put the chicken pie in the warming oven.” Bitsy stuck the shotgun under the serving counter. “I’ll have to stay here to serve them. Tell Trudy.”

  “Do you want me to stay?” Vashti asked.

  “No, child, you go on. But I need to get out all the luncheon things we put away. We didn’t have a single customer to lunch. I thought today was the first day of our decline and bankruptcy.”

  “That day happened last year, when we got married and closed the bar,” Augie muttered as he shuffled for the kitchen.

  “Don’t pay him any mind.” Bitsy pulled three of the best china plates off a shelf. “Go on now, Vashti. Tell Trudy I’ll be there Thursday, for sure. And you see if you can’t win the prize today.”

  Griffin tore open the envelope as he left the post office on Mayor Peter Nash’s closed-in porch. He felt bad for his sister, Evelyn. Five kids, and no grandparents nearby to help her out. He’d written to her, offering to help in a small way—he could probably send her a few dollars a month if she needed it.

  He pulled the closely written sheet of paper from the envelope and stopped walking to steady it. Squinting down at her spidery writing, he immediately felt a glow of satisfaction. Offering his brotherly generosity had been just the right thing to do. It would help Evelyn and make him feel good.

  My dear brother,

  I cannot thank you enough for your sympathy and your offer to help us. You cannot know how your letter affected me. I confess, I burst into tears as I read it.

  Griffin felt the sting of tears in his own eyes, just knowing the good he’d done.

  Dearest Griffin, I think you are aware that Jacob’s father passed on two years ago and left my late husband his property. Since that time, we have lived a little better than before, and I am happy to say that I do not need financial assistance at this time.

  Griffin frowned over that sentence. If she didn’t need money, what did she need? Just his kind thoughts from three thousand miles away?

  There is a way you can help me immeasurably, however, and that is with my eldest boy, Justin. It grieves me to tell you this, but he has given me great pain this past year. He’s become friends with an undesirable group of youths, and since his father’s passing I’ve not been able to control his behavior at all. He comes and goes as he pleases. I don’t like to mention it, but I fear he stole some money from my reticule last week. Not only that, but he’s taken up smoking. He thinks I don’t know, but the odor clings to him. Dear brother, I fear the worst for my boy, and thus your letter offered a ray of hope to my grieving heart.

  Griffin’s chest tightened and he feared to turn the page.

  I’ve purchased a train ticket for Justin to depart on Wednesday next. He will ride to Salt Lake City, from where he can get the stagecoach up to your territory. I expect he will arrive in Mountain Home, Idaho, about the fifth of October.

  Griffin looked up in a panic. People walked along the main street as though everything was normal. A wagonload of women approached from the north. Shooting practice must be finished. Libby Adams and a middle-aged couple came out of the Spur & Saddle, chatting amicably as they headed across to the Paragon Emporium.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Griffin turned and hurried back to the post office.

  “Peter!” He threw the door open, but the postmaster-mayor was no longer behind the counter. He stepped to the inner door and pounded on it.

  Ellie Nash, Peter’s wife, opened it. “Hello, Mr. Bane. I thought you came for your mail earlier.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, Peter’s out back tending the—”

  “What day is it?”

  “It’s Monday.”

  “No, no, what day of the month?”

  “Oh. Let’s see, I believe it’s the fourth.”

  “October fourth.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Ellie eyed him curiously.

  Griffin ran his hand through his thick beard. He still hadn’t trimmed it. Why on earth hadn’t Evelyn telegraphed him with this news, not to say asked permission to send the boy? He had to get to Mountain Home by tomorrow to meet his nephew, and Mountain Home wasn’t even part of his branch line. He’d have to ride up to Boise and change to the main line there. That or ride a horse across country. But then what would his nephew ride back on?

  “Mr. Bane? Are you all right?”

  “What? Oh. Yes, thank you.” He turned and staggered out the post office door and down the steps. Where would he keep the boy— Justin? He checked the letter to be sure he had the name right. His bed wouldn’t hold both of them. He could give it up for Justin, he supposed. But why should he? Yet there wasn’t room in his small lodging for another bed.

  Could he let the boy sleep
in the loft over the livery? The stage drivers slept there before the boardinghouse opened. But he’d be so far away, Griffin wouldn’t hear him if he cried out in the night. How old was the lad, anyway? Evelyn hadn’t said. She’d mentioned smoking.… He must be at least fifteen.

  Griffin scrunched up his face, recalling the first and last time he’d tried smoking. His father had caught him out behind the barn and tanned his backside but good. He’d been twelve.

  What was his sister doing to him?

  His breath came in quick gasps, and his boots thunked loudly on the boardwalk. When he came even with the Wells Fargo office, Annie Harper had pulled her wagon over and was letting the shooting club ladies climb down. He ducked quickly inside the office and shut the door.

  How could he go to Mountain Home tomorrow? He was still shorthanded. He needed to round up a shotgun messenger for tomorrow’s run to Silver City, and if the man who came in on the Boise stage wouldn’t do it, Griffin would have to do it himself. And what if he did go to Mountain Home? What if he got all the way over there, and Justin didn’t show up? He sat down heavily. There must be a good way to handle this. It occurred to him that he didn’t pray much, but now might be a good time.

  Uh, heavenly Father… uh… I know I don’t talk to You as much as I should. But I’m thankful for… for everything You do for me. And I was wondering… well, could You help me figure out what to do with Evelyn’s boy? It’s too late to tell her not to send him. Uh… thanks.

  A soft knocking sounded on his door, and he jerked his head. “It’s open.”

  The door creaked on its hinges. Vashti Edwards stood there in her usual crinkly finery. He guessed that was all she had to wear—satins and taffetas left over from her saloon days, but no soft cotton housedresses like the ranchers’ wives wore. She was probably being frugal, wearing her old dresses until they wore out, but it was distracting.

  “What do you want?” He pushed himself to his feet, not caring whether he sounded rude. He had a family crisis to deal with.

  “Mr. Bane, I wondered if you’d reconsidered letting me learn to drive the coaches. I’m willing to—”