by Becky Lower
She set the shoes back on the shelf and picked up a pair of black work shoes instead. “What I’m wondering about is why these shoes are so unforgiving whereas these...” She pointed to the pumps. “...are so soft. How is the leather cured to make them so pliable?”
Mr. Yoder stood from the cobbler’s bench and took the work shoes from her. “It’s not merely the curing process that makes the leather hard or soft. It’s the type of leather used. These are made from the hide of cows, the toughest leather around.” He motioned to the embroidered pumps. “Those are lamb’s hide, the softest and most delicate of all animal skins. They will wear out quickly if worn every day, which is why they are crafted into shoes that will only be worn a few times a year.”
Libby nodded, running a finger over the lambskin shoes again. “But couldn’t we somehow condition the cow hide to be not so unforgiving?”
Mr. Yoder gave her one of his rare smiles. “Did you develop another blister yesterday?” She nodded.
He lifted one shoulder. “Well, the Indians pound deer brains into their skins to make them soft and then chew on the leather. If you’re willing to use that method, I could find some deer brains for you.”
Libby shuddered. “I’d rather just invest in a heavier pair of stockings.”
Mr. Yoder sat back at his bench again, thinking their discussion was at an end. But Libby wasn’t ready to put the topic to rest yet. “What about some kind of oil instead of deer brains? I have several different products I purchased in England. I could try some of them.”
Mr. Yoder gave her a long, hard stare. “And to what purpose? If you make the leather more delicate, it will wear out faster. Work shoes are worn daily and only replaced annually.”
She dropped the duster and bustled over to where Mr. Yoder sat. “But what if we offered a softer work shoe and priced it a bit below the price of the regular one? If it wears out faster, people will need to replace them more frequently than once a year. So instead of a price of four shillings, we price them at three. Two pairs of soft work shoes would net you six shillings a year, instead of the four you’d get for one regular pair. Would that not make better sense from an accounting standpoint?”
Mr. Yoder rubbed his chin. “I have no wish to gain the reputation of producing inferior shoes. From a practical standpoint, I don’t care for the idea.”
“Will you indulge me just this once? I’ll use some of my oils on a spare piece of cowhide to see if I can soften it up. Then you make it into a pair of work shoes and we’ll see how long they stay on the shelf.” Libby pleaded, fully aware her former penchant for fine footwear was behind her argument. Just because people worked didn’t mean they had to suffer unduly. They had a hard enough life as it was, without harboring blisters on their feet.
Mr. Yoder blew out a breath. “I can tell I won’t get any work out of you today unless I agree to your scheme.” He picked up a portion of a hide and handed it to her. “Take this and do as you wish. But if you ruin it, I’ll dock your pay.”
Libby controlled the grin she could feel forming. Amish or not, she could still get her way with men. All she had to do was present a compelling argument and then let the men feel they had the upper hand. “Yes, sir. But if I can make this work, and you make a pair of comfortable work shoes that sell for three shillings, you’ll give me half.”
“Half?” Mr. Yoder raised an eyebrow. “What about the cost of the leather?”
“What about the cost of my oils? I’d say half is fair.”
Mr. Yoder ran his hand over his eyes. “Since it’s my leather and my craftsmanship and you are only invested in it with your oil, I’ll agree to give you one third rather than half.”
This time, Libby smiled. Not a grin, but a true smile. Mr. Yoder would soon have his hands full, making comfortable shoes for working folks in Lancaster. Perhaps she could even design some variations on the standard black shoe. Surely, a pretty buckle or a ribbon of color would liven up the days of the women who wore them. Who said work shoes had to be boring?
That night, she took her precious scrap of leather to her room and rubbed oil into it. Perhaps she should use deer brains, too, if the Indians used them. She dropped more of her oil onto the skin and worked it into the leather. If nothing else, her fingers would be soft. And she wouldn’t have to brood about Indians, or Hawk.
An hour later, the hide had become saturated with oil. Her fingers were dewy soft. And her thoughts had been with Hawk all the time.
“Winter’s coming, Hawk, which means a slowdown in the war.” She whispered as she stood at the window, reluctant to climb into her cold bed. “At least I hope so. Stay safe, my love.”
She took down her hair from its bun and ran her fingers through it, comparing the silky texture of her hair to the texture of Hawk’s. Her hair was almost like corn silk, but his was of a stronger texture. Like the man himself. She removed her gown and donned her night rail with an accompanying sigh. No good would come from wasting time thinking about him. About his tawny skin, his well-formed muscles, his long, beautiful hair.
She’d attend the Amish meeting on Sunday, being held in Mr. Yoder’s barn this time, and hope to attract the eye of some young Amish man. Having already been to several of these meetings, she was familiar with the routine. But she hadn’t spared a glance at the men in attendance. This Sunday would be different, though. She desperately needed to put Hawk into her past.
Although she hadn’t been able to comprehend a word of the sermons spoken in the Pennsylvania Dutch language, it comforted her to attend a religious service, even if it took place in a barn. Perhaps the fact it was held in a barn was the reason she tolerated it, enjoyed it. She had not been in an English church in years, but somehow, being in a barn, listening to a language she didn’t know, with plain people who asked no questions about her background, she was at peace for the first time in ages.
Except for her thoughts about Hawk.
• ♥ •
Each night, Libby worked more of her oils into the cowhide, and each morning, checked its pliability. After two weeks, she compared it to the hide from her own work boots and deemed it ready. Her stomach fluttered as she packed it into her little basket along with some food for her midday meal. If Mr. Yoder approved, and fashioned a pair of shoes from it, and someone bought them and came back for more, she might have a new profession. Instead of buying fancy footwear, she could create them. And she could become a woman of substance in the newly formed United States.
Still, it was a mighty big if.
She took a deep breath before she entered the cobbler shop. Mr. Yoder was the key to her future. For reassurance, she fingered the leather in her basket.
It was ready. As was she.
She opened the door, surprised to find three ladies already there. It was as if they had advance knowledge of the shipment that had arrived just yesterday from England. Libby mentally smacked her forehead. Of course, they had advance knowledge. Their husbands were all British officers. They would have made their wives aware of the goods aboard ship so they could have first pick of the footwear. The other women, who had married men of lesser rank, would only be able to purchase what these ladies had deemed second-rate goods. Libby quickly tucked her basket into the back room and put a smile on her face. Her discussion with Mr. Yoder would have to wait.
“Good morning, ladies,” Libby approached the trio and picked up a brocaded shoe, running her fingers over its delicacy. “These are lovely, are they not?”
One lady picked up the matching shoe and replied, “I love the way the pink in the brocade gets highlighted by the pink heel and the ribbon. These are splendid. If they are my size, I’ll take them.”
Libby noticed one of the other ladies in the group bit her lip and frowned. Guessing that the lady who claimed the shoes was married to the highest-ranking man, and the other ladies had to fall in line behind her, Libby glanced around at the remaining selection. Nothing on the shelves came anywhere close in quality. “While Mr. Yoder helps you try
these on, I’ll just take a quick look in the back and see if there is anything else available.”
From the depths of the box in the storeroom, Libby tugged out another fine pair of shoes. Instead of pink and green, these were a creamy color with a crosshatch pattern on the fabric. The heel was a pale yellow, and the jewel-encrusted buckle across the front elevated them from ordinary to beautiful. These would do fine. She held them behind her back as she reentered the main shop area.
The lady who had tried on the pink and green shoes clutched them possessively. “I will take these, Mr. Yoder. Once again, you have the finest shoes in the village. I can’t wait until the next ball so I may wear them.”
Libby wandered over to the second lady, the one who had coveted the pink and green shoes. “I found another pair in the back room you might like.” She held up the creamy shoes for the lady’s inspection and caught her intake of breath.
“These are beautiful.” The lady purred her satisfaction. “Look, Abigail. Aren’t these lovely?” She turned to the lady who had bought the pink and green shoes.
Libby had to hide her smile as Abigail flinched. The third lady selected a pair from what remained, and the trio left the shop.
“Well done, Mrs. Booker.” Silas Yoder patted her on the back. “Since our shelves are already depleted, why don’t you finish emptying out the boxes from England? Surely, those three will let everyone else know there are new shoes in stock.”
“Yes, sir.” She re-entered the storeroom and cast a glance at her basket. Her conversation with Mr. Yoder would have to wait a bit longer. But it would take place before the day ended.
As it happened, they were busy all day. Finally, Mr. Yoder sat at his cobbler’s bench and sighed heavily. “I enjoy the days when we’re busy, but they do wear me out.” He glanced at her. “Thankfully, I have you to help. I don’t know what I would have done without you today. You’ve made a valued customer in Mrs. Williams, and her cream-colored shoes will quickly soil so she’ll return here for more. And you know Abigail Smith will be returning tomorrow to go through every last pair of the shipment that just arrived, so what occurred today will not happen again. You certainly do have a knack for sales.”
“Thank you, Mr. Yoder. If you can spare one more minute, I have done my best with the leather you gave me. It’s now ready for you to create a fine pair of work shoes.” Libby spread the leather over the bench for the cobbler to inspect.
He ran his fingers over the leather before he picked it up and played with it for a few minutes. Then he caught her gaze. “Nicely done, Mrs. Booker. I’ll cut this up in the morning and begin working on the shoes. We’ll see if your idea has merit.”
Libby released the breath she’d been holding. “Would you be willing to listen to my other ideas? Just because they’re work shoes doesn’t mean they have to be plain.”
Mr. Yoder bristled and stood. “Those who will buy these shoes are plain people, Mrs. Booker. There is no need to make them fancy.”
Libby ran her hand over the tan leather. “I’m not asking to add the same embellishments you select for the English ladies who visit the shop. Just a little something, perhaps a buckle instead of a strip of rawhide to fasten them to your feet.”
Mr. Yoder growled. “A buckle would make you happy?”
Libby controlled her impulse to smile. “For this pair, yes.”
The cobbler waved his hand through the air. “Then, go pick out some buckles. But if these shoes don’t sell within a few weeks, you must buy them from me.”
“I will do so, with pleasure, if they sit here longer than two weeks. But I have a feeling they won’t be here longer than two days.” She strode to the area where he kept his buckles and trim, allowing the grin she’d kept hidden from him to emerge. They would sell the shoes within a few days of putting them on the shelf, she was certain. And then, she and Mr. Yoder could collaborate on another pair. She’d wear him down slowly, adding more than buckles as they proceeded down the path of their partnership. Perhaps her new profession could be that of a shoe designer instead of a courtesan.
She selected a pair of buckles for her first endeavor and placed them next to the soft hide. “Yes. These will be perfect.” He growled his assent and pulled out his shoe pattern, readying himself for the morning.
If she was totally off in her assessment of the needs and wants of the working woman, she would at least have a comfortable pair of work shoes. But she had no doubt they would sell, and quickly. And then, Mr. Yoder would listen to her other ideas. She understood men. You had to present them with a kernel of an idea and then wait for them to accept it as one of their own. Once they became blinded by their own brilliance, they would move heaven and earth to implement the idea. Mr. Yoder would soon be relying on her for design ideas. She would become a sponge and allow him to teach her his methods. Then, they could talk about a partnership.
Libby had big plans. And for the first time since she arrived in America, her plans did not revolve around a burly half-breed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Hawk became increasingly agitated as October came and went. His restless nights were impacting his ability to stay awake during the day. Which meant he was getting less and less done, and what little he did get done was inferior. His horseshoes came out crooked, his stables were dirty, and people began to notice. Even his articles in the Gazette didn’t have the same fire they had in the past. Battles were taking place in New Jersey and near Philadelphia, and each time he got wind of a new battle, he feared for Libby. His instinct told him she was somewhere near Philadelphia, but in actuality, she could be anywhere. Could have totally left blatant and erroneous clues as to her whereabouts in order to confound anyone who might try to follow her. For all he knew, she could be in New Jersey, directly in the line of fire.
When he discovered there were 2,000 more British troops on their way to America, his fear for her grew to the point he could no longer get any sleep, at night or during the day. It was almost certain at least one of those 2,000 would have knowledge of her previous occupation. She would never be safe. He needed to visit his tribe, his mother. She would advise him on what to do.
He put Jeremiah in charge of the horses in the stable and left in the early morning. Frost covered the ground, and he could smell snow in the air. Hopefully, only a dusting would occur until he returned to Boston. Hawk and his sturdy horse made quick work of the miles between Boston and Maine, and he arrived at the camp, spying his mother before he jumped off his horse.
“Nika!” He grabbed her in a bear hug.
“Nicanol! Hello, my son. Twice in one season you come to see your mother?”
“Ya. I have need of your advice.” Hawk dropped his gaze to the dirt.
His mother placed her hands on her ample hips. “We will eat something and talk. Come to my teepee.”
They entered the warm shelter and Hawk sat cross-legged on the ground. He waited patiently as his mother filled a plate for both of them. His mother’s good cooking had always had a calming effect on him. Today, though, he doubted even a plate of Little Wren’s food would ease his anxiety.
His mother chewed the deer meat slowly as she stared at him. He could not even meet her gaze.
“So, your woman left you.”
Hawk raised his head. It was not even a question. He marveled again how his mother could cut right to the heart of his problems.
“Ya, Nika. She is gone. I do not know where she is.”
Little Wren took a bite of bread and stared at him. “You could find her. If you were not so afraid.”
Hawk bristled. “I am not afraid of her. She is a kind, gentle soul.”
“No, nicanol. She is not a gentle soul. She is full of fire, just as you are. Yet, you are afraid.”
Hawk expelled air in a whoosh. “Oui, Nika. But I am not afraid for the reason you think.”
“Then why do you not tell me what the real reason is?”
Hawk took a deep breath in. He had come here for advice. But in order
to get it, he would have to tell the whole story. And if Little Wren was told about Libby’s past, would she be accepting of her, should Hawk find her and convince her to be his mate? He steadied himself, taking in short puffs of air. “The name she goes by is Liberty Wexford, but neither of those names are hers.”
His mother grinned. “Hawk was not the name your father and I gave to you, either.”
Hawk rolled his shoulders. Her names were the least of it. “When she lived in England, her profession was that of a paid companion.”
His mother blinked. And took another bite of meat. Chewed, agonizingly slow. Stared into the fire. Then, she swallowed and returned her gaze to him, searing him, as if the heat from the fire became one with her eyes. “Do you have any idea why she had to take that path?”
Hawk met her stare but flinched as if he could feel her heat. “Non, Nika. I refused to listen.”
“But her past is not the true reason you are hesitating. You fear she will not be happy with you, since you have only known three women.” Little Wren chuckled.
“How do you know there have been three?” His mother continued to confound him.
“Am I wrong?”
Hawk shook his head. “She haunts me nightly. I fear for her safety. She is all alone in this world.”
Little Wren set her empty plate down. Stared into the flames once again. When she tore her gaze from the flames and pivoted toward Hawk, her gaze softened. “You are more than enough man for her. She had no choice in how she made her way in England. But she has a choice now. She is a strong, capable woman, and is the only woman good enough to be by your side through your life’s journey.”
Hawk swallowed, hard. “So, I should find her?”
His mother laughed, a soft, tinkling sound that had given him peace in his childhood. It gave him peace now. “Ya, nicanol. Go find her. Before it is too late.”
• ♥ •
As Libby predicted, her soft work shoes sold within a few days. Not only were they softer than the other work shoes in the shop, but they also had a bit of flair to them. And every woman, whether or not they were plain, appreciated a bit of style.