The Blacksmith’s Bravery (23 page)

Augie's big hands fumbled with the ribbon and brown paper on her package. She almost warned him to be careful but held her tongue. She'd wrapped it carefully to prevent an accident.

“Well, there.” Augie's smile spread across his face as he gazed down at the new butcher knife. “I can't wait to cut up a few chickens. This looks like a mighty fine blade. Thank you, missy.”

Vashti hugged herself, pleased with the pleasure she'd brought those she loved.

“Here's what we got you. It ain't much, but I hope you like it.” Bitsy placed a package in her hands.

Vashti opened it and stared down at a pair of silk stockings folded on top of a book.

“My own Bible.” She fingered the black leather cover and smiled at them. “Thank you both.”

“That was Augie's idea,” Bitsy said. “I got the stockings.”

“I needed a new pair desperately.”

Goldie, who had the comfort of regular wages, pushed another parcel into her hands. “Open mine.”

Vashti tore the paper off the squishy package and laughed. Inside was a boy's woolen cap with earflaps.

“That's in case you get to ride the stagecoach this winter. I didn't want you to freeze your ears. But look inside.”

Vashti turned the cap over and tugged at the wad inside it. Out came a pair of kitten-soft leather gloves. “Oh! Thank you!”

She and the Moores settled back to watch Goldie open her gift from them. Vashti thought she'd never had such a cozy, contented Christmas. Not since her parents had died, anyhow.

Her thoughts drifted to Griffin and Justin. Were they having a good time today? Trudy had told her after the last shooting club meeting that she and Ethan had invited them to the ranch for the day. Would they have asked Griffin if his nephew wasn't living with him, or if Griffin wasn't renting the Dooleys' old house? How had Griffin spent his past Christmases, anyway? It made her sad to think he'd been alone in that grubby little room behind the smithy.

Things had changed for the better this year—for both of them. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

“Who's ready for dried apple pie?” Augie asked.

Vashti realized she'd hardly heard a word as Goldie opened her gift of a Bible and stockings like hers. She jumped up. “I'll help you, Augie.”

Only one thing could make this day more perfect. That would be Griffin forgiving her part in the stagecoach upset and looking on her as a capable driver. More than ever, she determined to keep up her practice and be ready to step into a driving job in the spring. If he would only look at her with a smile in those big brown eyes.

“What are you sighing over?” Augie asked as he opened the pie safe.

“Nothing. Just Christmas. You and Bitsy are awfully good to me and Goldie.”

“You've done as much for us as we have for you. We won't ever have any kids, so you girls kind of fill a gap there. For Bitsy especially.” He shrugged. “She'd be terrible sad if you was to leave. That's not to say she wouldn't want you to find matrimonial happiness of your own, you understand. She'd love some grandchildren one day.”

Vashti smiled and reached for her apron. “If that happens, I won't go far. I promise.”
Maybe no farther than two blocks up the street.
She shoved that thought aside. Griffin was still mad at her. He'd never look at her as marriageable. With a shock, she realized she almost wished he would. But would she rather he saw her as a sweetheart or as a potential driver? That would be a difficult choice.

CHAPTER 15

O
n the last Sunday in February, Griffin and Justin had an invitation to dine with the Reverend and Mrs. Phineas Benton after services. Griffin trimmed his beard and sponged the worst spots off his good shirt that morning. He eyed Justin critically as the boy combed his hair back with water.

They'd lived in Hiram's old house for two months. Griffin liked having a solid roof over their heads and space to put their stuff—though he didn't like having to heat such a big house. It took far too much coal, in his opinion. They hardly used the parlor, but they did use the kitchen, and they both had bedrooms. He'd let Justin take the downstairs chamber, which was closer to the stove. Griff slept upstairs by himself, where there were two good-sized rooms and a large landing.

He didn't suppose he would ever have enough furniture to fill the place. Trudy Chapman had given them a table for the kitchen, and Isabel Fennel, whose father used to own the stage line, boardinghouse, and various other concerns, had told him to take a bedstead and two chairs from the Fennel House. Terrence and Rilla Thistle, who ran the boardinghouse for Isabel, weren't too happy. They'd not only lost a steady-paying customer during the slack wintertime, but now they were losing furniture, too. Still, Isabel owned the stuff, so Griffin guessed she had the say-so.

Isabel wasn't so bad. The skinny schoolmarm had scared him to death last year when she'd visited him at the smithy and babbled
on about marriage and such. But nothing had come of it, and now she seemed to fancy Doc Kincaid, so that was all right. Personally, Griffin preferred females a little less bookish. And ones with a little roundness to them.

A certain female with auburn hair came to mind, but he banished the notion. He'd tried not to think any more appreciative thoughts about Vashti. After all, she and Johnny Conway were the two responsible for staving up his Concord coach back before Christmas. When he reminded himself of that, it was easy to stay slightly perturbed with Vashti.

“You ready, Justin? We'd best get over to the church. Don't want to miss Sunday school.”

“Aw, do we have to?”

“Yes, you have to.”

“Mayor Nash is teaching my class about the forty years in the wilderness. It's more boring than dry corn bread.”

“Well, just you wait until you get into Judges. Then things will perk up.” Griff grabbed Justin's hat off a hook near the back door. “Put those earflaps down. It's cold this morning.”

Justin had been pretty good about going to church ever since Griffin had moved him out of the boardinghouse. He didn't complain much, and he seemed to like Pastor Benton. Too bad Peter Nash's lessons fell on the dry side. The truth was, Griffin had only started attending Sunday school himself since Justin came. Prior to having a youngster in the house, he'd gone to morning worship only. But he couldn't send the boy off alone when the pastor taught a perfectly good class for grown-ups. So they went each week, and Griff had picked up quite a few tidbits from the study of Proverbs that he hadn't known before. Like the verse that said getting into someone else's fight when you shouldn't was like grabbing a dog by the ears. He liked that one. He'd picked a few fights in his day.

Someone had shoveled the sidewalk all the way from the Spur & Saddle at the south end of town to the Nugget on the north end. Snow was heaped between the walk and the street. The wind whistled cold and sharp up from the prairie, and Griffin leaned into it until they got around the corner, where several houses shielded them.

“Do you think it was wrong to put all the Indians on the reservations?” Justin asked as they trudged along.

“What put that notion into your head?”

Justin shrugged. “Pastor Benton said last week that we're supposed to be kind to folks, no matter what color they are.”

All sorts of thoughts zipped through Griffin's mind—how his father had fought in the War Between the States; what the outcome of that meant to all the slaves; and the more recent Indian conflicts. Ethan Chapman had served in the Bannock War, and Griffin had gone with a group of men to help when Silver City was attacked. How could he tell Justin it was wrong to fight the Indians? Was it?

“I don't know,” he said. He didn't suppose that answer would satisfy a fifteen-year-old boy.

But Justin only nodded, frowning. A few steps later, he said, “I don't know, either. Ma used to be kind to the black washerwoman that came to do laundry for us, and she let her bring her little girl with her. But them Injuns…”

“You didn't see any Indians on your way here, did you?” Griffin asked.

“A few at Fort Laramie. And we passed some on the road.”

“Well, some folks say we ought to get rid of them all, but I can't agree with that.”

“You can't?” Justin asked.

“No. They're people, same as us. Some of 'em steal. But then, some white men do, too.” He really should have sent Justin to school this winter. Then Isabel could answer these prickly questions.

“You know any Injuns?” Justin asked.

Griffin nodded. “A few. And they're Indians, not Injuns. Blackfeet, Snake… I know several, as a matter of fact.”

“Any of them good?”

“Yes. One of them used to scout for the army. Probably some other Indians think he's bad because he helped us. But I've talked to him several times, and he seems like a decent person. Doesn't believe like we do, but he actually bought a horse off me once—didn't try to steal it.”

“So he was an exception.”

“I didn't say that. But some folks think all Indians are thieves.”

They'd reached the church, and Griffin was glad. He hoped Justin would forget the issue and not bring it up later. Did all parents go through this?

During the worship service, Justin fidgeted a lot. The boy hadn't said much about Sunday school, but he kept swiveling his head to look at other people. Across the aisle, the Nash boys sat with Tollie Harper. Ben and Silas Nash were close to Justin's age, and Tollie was a few years younger. Justin had asked once if he could sit with the boys. Griff had almost let him go, but then he envisioned the mischief he'd have gotten into at that age—and remembered why Evelyn had sent Justin out here in the first place—and he'd told him, “You stick with me.”

Griffin tried to set a good example for the boy by paying close attention to the sermon. That was kind of hard, since Vashti and Goldie sat right in front of them, along with Augie and Bitsy Moore. Vashti wore a very modest green dress that came right up to her neck. He thought it must be new this winter—he wasn't sure. But she looked nice from his vantage point, with her auburn hair wound up on the back of her head, above the high collar. He could just glimpse a little white strip of skin at the nape of her neck. A tiny brown mole contrasted with the whiteness of her flesh. Did she even know it was there?

Justin stared at him, and Griffin jerked his eyes straight ahead and squared his shoulders. The pastor was talking about why Jesus had to die on the cross. Griffin determined to pay close attention in case Justin asked any questions later. Pastor Benton had a way of explaining things. Within fifteen seconds, he'd forgotten all about the little mole on the back of Vashti's neck. Almost.

That afternoon, after a delicious dinner of ham, cornpone, and carrots, Pastor Benton invited Griffin into the parlor with him. Somehow or other, Mrs. Benton had cajoled Justin into helping her wash the dishes—something he griped about at home. Griffin was glad to have a few minutes of respite from the boy's constant surveillance. Besides, as long as Apphia kept him in the kitchen, Justin couldn't bring up controversial topics.

“What did you think of the message this morning?” the pastor asked.

“Oh, you did fine, Preacher.” Griffin sipped his coffee.

“No, I don't mean my delivery. I mean, what did you think of the sermon itself?”

Griffin swallowed and set his cup down on a bitty little table that sat between their chairs. “Well, I…”

“Yes?” The minister leaned forward eagerly.

“It's a subject I've wondered about before.”

“How so?”

“Well, you said nothing we do can get us to heaven—that it was all Christ's doing.”

“That's right.”

Griffin shook his head. “My ma used to tell me to be good. You know, don't lie, don't steal, do my chores well. If I didn't, she said I wouldn't go to heaven.”