The Blacksmith’s Bravery (12 page)

“Let up on the near rein,” Griffin said.

Justin looked over at him.

“I said, let him have some slack.”

Justin dropped the other rein.

Griffin sighed. “Good thing that's not a fresh horse, or he'd be halfway to Nampa, and you'd be eating dust.” He walked his new horse over, and the other three mules went with him. He angled the horse so that he could get close to Justin's mule without jostling it.

With a swoop of his long arm, he caught the near rein and held it up for the boy. “Hold on to that loosely, and bend over the other side and get the off rein.”

Finally Justin had both reins again, one on each side of the mule's neck.

“All right, let's move.” Griffin headed his horse toward the road. He looked over his shoulder to make certain Justin followed.

Although the boy continued to hold the reins so slack they looped down below the mule's neck, the mule seemed content to fall in with the others and keep pace. It was going to be a lengthy process to teach his nephew to ride well—but the owner of a livery stable couldn't allow his kin to be so ignorant about animals. Of course, if Justin couldn't stay in the saddle without a struggle, he'd be unlikely to ride off and get himself into trouble. Perhaps there were advantages to not teaching him to ride.

The boy's sour expression stayed in place for the first mile or two. Griff ignored it and set a steady pace, jogging along. It was as good as he could expect when leading three mules. Justin kept his seat, though he jarred up and down in the saddle. That boy was going to be sore come tomorrow.

Finally Griffin called out, “The trail gets narrow up ahead. You go ahead of me.”

Justin looked ahead and then back to him. “What if there's outlaws in those rocks?”

Griffin patted his sidearm. Since he'd ridden to Boise on the stage, he hadn't packed a long gun, but he had worn his pistol. He'd had the same thought as Justin, but he wasn't about to tell the boy that.

“Reckon there won't be. If there are, I've got my Colt, and it won't be much longer until the stage comes along behind us.”

Justin hesitated, his eyes squinted into slits. After a moment, he gritted his teeth and turned forward. “Come on, mule. Get up!”

Griffin smiled. That was progress.

Vashti entered the emporium, carefully holding her basket level. In it,
she carried four of Augie Moore's famous cinnamon buns wrapped in clean napkins—two for Griffin and two for his nephew. They'd be hungry when they got off the stagecoach from Boise. She intended to wait at the office and greet them when the stage came in, but first she had business to tend to with Libby Adams.

“Good afternoon, Vashti,” Libby called from the hardware section of the store. “Don't you look pretty!”

“Thank you, ma'am.” Vashti had taken special care in her grooming after she and Bill brought the stage in from Silver City late that morning. She'd bathed and arranged her hair in feminine waves about her face. Then she'd put on her most conservative dress. Even so, when she'd mentally compared her image in the gilt-framed mirror to the way Libby and some of her other friends looked, she knew she'd still missed the bull's-eye when it came to dressing like a lady. The hem of her dress was too short, the fabric too gaudy, and the neck too low—though she'd basted a row of lace along the edge.

“I wondered if I could have a moment of your time.” Vashti looked about the dim interior of the store. A couple of women shopped among the groceries; Mrs. Walker was engrossed in yard goods, assisted by Florence Nash; and it appeared that Goldie and Libby were sorting out nails and bolts.

“Of course.” Libby touched Goldie's shoulder. “Just keep counting each size, dear, and write the totals down as we've been doing.” She smiled and walked toward Vashti. Even her workaday outfit was a soft blue dress with black braid and buttons—a gown any lady could wear proudly to church or on a stroll about town. “How may I help you?”

“I didn't mean to interrupt your work.”

“Think nothing of it. Goldie and I are taking inventory. I'm selling the emporium to the Hamiltons—that couple who came in on the stage the other day. We're counting all the merchandise so we can give them a list of what they're buying.” Libby pushed back a strand of her golden hair.

“That's a big job.”

“Yes, but not too bad. I've kept good records. It shouldn't take us more than a couple of days. They can't move here immediately, but we've signed the paperwork. They'll come back in the spring and
take over the store.” She smiled, and her teeth showed pearly white against her pink lips. Vashti was sure Libby wore discreet cosmetics—never enough to overpower her lovely features. Libby was the most beautiful woman she knew, and she hardly needed enhancements.

Vashti gulped. “Well, ma'am, I wanted to settle up with you on the bill for the clothes you provided for me yesterday, and”—she looked down the aisle toward the yard goods—“well, I wondered if you could help me pick out a pattern for a regular dress.”

“A regular… Oh, I see.” Libby smiled. “The one you have on is very becoming.”

“Thank you, but I know it's too short, and the fabric isn't at all suitable for… well, for most occasions.” Vashti pulled her shoulders back and looked Libby in the eye. “I don't serve drinks anymore, Miz Adams. I want to look like a lady. I want to
be
a lady. Just because I want to drive a stagecoach and Mr. Bane is making me wear pants to do it doesn't mean I shouldn't look nice the rest of the time.”

There. She'd said it. She didn't want to look like a boy when she worked and a floozy when she didn't.

Libby stepped toward the counter. “Why don't you set your basket here? I have several patterns that would suit you, but we also have some very nice ready-made dresses. The winter fashions just came in. There's a green woolen dress with a smart overskirt that I considered keeping myself, but it was a bit too short for me. On you, however…” She leaned back and considered Vashti's attributes. “Yes, I think it would just skim your ankles. Very practical, if it's not too plain for your taste.”

“I'd like to see it.”

They walked the length of the store together. The other women looked up. Emmaline Landry, a regular member of the shooting club, called, “Afternoon, Vashti.”

“Hello, Miz Landry.” What a difference from the way the townspeople used to treat her. Not so long ago, Vashti and the other saloon women used to come to the emporium after hours when none of the regular customers would see them. Now Goldie worked here, and Bitsy and Vashti came to shop whenever it struck their fancy.

Florence left her customer's side and came to join them. “Vashti!

You looked so cute in that vest and hat this morning. If I hadn't known you were a girl—”

“Now, Florence,” Libby said gently, “Miss Edwards wants to look at some more feminine apparel this afternoon.”

“Oh, have you seen the silk and wool shawls that came in? I told Mother she and I both have to have one.”

“Yes, one of those might go well with the green woolen dress.” Libby paused before a rack of dresses, skirts, and coats. She pulled out the dress in question and held it up for Vashti to see.

“That's… that's beautiful, ma'am. How… how much?”

Libby flipped the little pasteboard tag that dangled from the cuff of the gathered sleeve. “Three dollars and fifteen cents.”

“Try it on, Vashti,” Florence said. “I'll bet it will fit you perfectly.”

“Is there time before the Silver City stage comes in?” Vashti glanced anxiously toward the front window. “I want to be out front when Mr. Bane gets here with his nephew.”

“Perhaps not,” Libby said. “You can come back later and try it.”

Vashti nodded, disappointed. She wanted to make the best possible impression on Griffin. To her way of thinking, the buns would help, and she would tell him how smoothly everything went on the Silver City run. Bill would confirm what she told him, but she wanted to be the one to tell him first. “I was hoping…”

“What were you hoping, my dear?” Libby's smile left no doubt of her affection and empathy for Vashti.

“The last time he saw me, I was decked out like a boy. I wanted him to see me as a woman—a neat, professional woman. But my clothes…”

“What about your clothes?” Florence asked.

“They're not like yours and Mrs. Adams's. Not suitable for business. Like when I sell stage tickets.” She glanced across the store toward where her friend was still diligently counting screws and nails. “Even Goldie. Since she started working here, she's bought regular clothes, and she looks fine. We were always trying to catch attention in the old days, but now I just want to look
nice.”

Libby smiled and squeezed her arm. “You come back after the stagecoach comes in, and we'll talk.”

“Thanks.” Vashti started to leave but turned back. “Oh, and I almost forgot. I owe you for the boy clothes. I want to settle up with you for those.”

Libby spread her delicate fingers. “Mr. Bane told me to put them on his account.”

Vashti opened her mouth. For years she'd turned down men's offers to buy her fancy things—laces and ribbons and silk petticoats—knowing they'd want more than a pretty thank-you in return. Now a man was buying her clothes, but they were thick work boots and a leather vest.

“It's part of his business expense,” Libby said quickly.

Vashti gulped and nodded. “All right. I'll come back later.”

“Don't forget your basket.”

“Thank you!” She grabbed the gathering basket with the buns in it and hurried outside and down the boardwalk to stand before the office door. A man walked across the street from the Fennel House.

“Ticket to Dewey.”

Vashti went inside and made out his ticket. She took his money and put it in the cash box Griffin kept in his desk drawer. The man watched her, unblinking, the whole time, and she cringed as she handed him the ticket. If only she were wearing that green dress. She rose and stepped toward the door, wondering what she'd do if he didn't move.

“You're all set for your ride to Dewey, sir. Excuse me.”

He stepped back, and she exhaled. She went out again to wait for the stagecoach. Peter Nash came out of the post office. He usually met the Boise coach to claim the town's sack of mail. His presence put Vashti more at ease.

“Hello, Mayor,” she called. The traveling man took a few steps down the boardwalk and leaned against the office wall.

“Good afternoon, Miss Edwards. How did your run to Silver City go?”

“Just fine.”

Mr. Nash smiled and chatted pleasantly with her. Soon she heard the stage coming. Johnny Conway, the regular driver on the Boise run, didn't blow a horn when he came into town. He just ran the
horses like a pack of demented wolves were after them. Griffin didn't like that. Come to think of it, why was Johnny racing the team like that with the boss inside the coach? Vashti peered down the street, trying to see through the cloud of dust that approached with the stage.

Johnny pulled up with his usual showmanship—yelling to the team to whoa and stopping them on a dime—if there'd been a dime lying in the street, that is. Vashti shook her head and scowled at him. He looked down and grinned at her, touching his whip to his hat brim.

“Afternoon, Miss Edwards. Don't you look fine?”

“Where's the boss?” Vashti had already noticed that Lenny Tucker, one of the regular messengers, rode the box with Johnny, and none of the faces she could see through the coach window had her boss's exuberant beard and shaggy head of hair.

“He didn't take the stage back.”

“What?” Vashti stepped closer to the coach. Lenny jumped down on the other side and hustled around to open the door. “Where is he?”

“He told the station agent in Boise he was buying some stock for the line and driving it home.”

“Oh.” Vashti sagged and let out a big sigh. So much for the buns and careful toilette.

“We passed him an hour out of town,” Johnny said.

She straightened. “So he'll be here soon?”

“Soon enough.”

“Is his nephew with him?”

“Yup.”

“What's he like?”

Johnny shrugged. “He's a kid.”

Lenny set a sack of mail on the walk. “There you go, Mayor.”

“Thanks, Lenny.” Mr. Nash hefted the sack and swung it over his shoulder. “I guess a few folks in Fergus will be getting mail today.” He ambled off up the street.

Two passengers got out and headed for the Nugget.

“We've got three more sacks of mail to go on to the mining towns,” Lenny said.

Vashti looked into the coach and counted the sacks. “All right, go switch out the team.”

“All set, Johnny,” Lenny said moments later as he climbed back up on the box.