Bribing the Blacksmith (Cowboys and Angels Book 9)

by Amelia C. Adams

  Mrs. Gladstone looked at her, hands filled with spools of thread. “I don’t know how you could have, my dear.”

  “I bumbled around like a schoolgirl, Mrs. Gladstone. My tongue wouldn’t work, and I felt lightheaded, and he probably thinks I’m a complete nincompoop.”

  The woman laughed. “You found him handsome, did you?”

  Mariah’s cheeks felt warm again, but this time, she wasn’t standing near a fire and couldn’t place the blame there. “Yes, I did.”

  “I think that’s wonderful. We all need something nice to look at from time to time, don’t we?” She smiled and tucked some money into Mariah’s hand. “Go up front and pay. I need to step over to the dry goods store for a moment, and I’ll meet you out front.”

  “All right,” Mariah said, watching the woman bustle out the door.

  Toria Jackson was only too happy to help Mariah with her purchases. “Oh, you chose lovely colors for your complexion,” she said as she picked up the pink.

  “I never really know what I should wear,” Mariah said, embarrassed to admit this. It seemed that every woman should know something so basic about herself.

  “You did very well today.” Within minutes, the fabric was cut and wrapped, and the total was given. Mariah almost gasped when she heard the amount, but it was less than what she held in her hand, so she passed the money across the counter and tried not to feel guilty. She’d discuss it with Mrs. Gladstone later and see what she could do about the expense.

  ***

  When Hans entered the house portion of the forge a few minutes later, he was greeted by two little boys and their toy horses. “Was that the lady from the train?” Peter asked. “I seed her through the window.”

  “She said she met you on the train, yes,” Hans replied.

  “She was nice. Why was she here?”

  Hans needed a cold drink. Breathing the hot air in the forge dried his throat out something awful. He walked into the kitchen, took a swig from the jar of water he kept in the icebox, and turned back to the boys. “Oh, she thought she might work here, but I told her we were getting along fine.”

  “I liked her,” Peter said. “She told us stories and let us draw.”

  “That was very nice of her.” Hans took another few swallows, then refilled the jar from the bucket in the corner and put it back in the icebox.

  “And she’s pretty,” Peter went on.

  “Yes, she’s very pretty.” Hans couldn’t deny that. He’d have to be completely blind not to notice her flushed cheeks and her sparkling eyes. But he didn’t need a housekeeper or a cook or any of it—he couldn’t afford it, and he could manage just fine. He’d figure it out. “Now, what should we have for dinner? Mrs. Clay brought over some chicken and dumplings, and Mrs, Jackson made roast.” See? Dinner wasn’t a problem at all. What might be a problem, though, was in a week or two when the good women of Creede decided that they’d done enough and the meals stopped coming in. Then he might be in trouble.

  He’d worry about that when it happened, though.

  Chapter Five

  “I suppose there could be any number of jobs in Denver,” Mariah said as she studied the plate before her. Roast chicken, potatoes, fluffy rolls—it looked delicious. “I can see about getting a Denver newspaper. There are sure to be some advertisements.”

  Mrs. Gladstone shook her head. “I know it seems hopeless right now, my dear, but I wouldn’t give up just yet. Didn’t you say you felt there was some sort of purpose for you in Creede?”

  “I did, but I could be mistaken. How can I tell the difference between real intuition and just flights of fancy? If I was supposed to be here, wouldn’t I have found whatever it is I’m meant to do?”

  Mrs. Gladstone swallowed the bite she’d taken. “That’s rarely how it works. We have to search it out even if it’s meant to be. That’s what gives life meaning—the effort we put into it. Imagine if everything was just handed to us all the time. It would be utterly boring.”

  Mariah thought about that while she chewed. “So, let’s say I stay here in Creede, and I keep looking,” she said at last. “Where do you recommend that I look? I’ve put an ad of sorts on the board at the mercantile, and I’ve walked the entire length of Main Street to speak with all the shopkeepers. It doesn’t take long to say, ‘Sorry, we’re not hiring,’ so I accomplished that task rather quickly. What avenues haven’t I explored? I must be missing something.”

  “I think you’ve already explored the avenue, but the avenue told you no.”

  Mariah lifted an eyebrow. “Beg pardon?”

  “You’ve heard the story of Jericho in the Bible, haven’t you? It was an impenetrable fortress, but the children of Israel had to get around it to reach the promised land?”

  Mariah nodded. “So they were told to march around it and blow their horns. I never understood how blowing their horns could knock down walls.”

  “It wasn’t the horns that did it, my dear. It was an act of God sent as a blessing for their obedience. Goodness, if the walls were so flimsy that some mere trumpets could knock them over, that’s not much of a fortress, is it?” She chuckled. “My point is this—sometimes we have to play a few trumpets in our own lives. March around and remind people we exist.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gladstone, but I don’t understand.” Mariah’s hostess was eccentric, that was for certain.

  “I’d hoped you’d get the idea on your own so you’d feel quite accomplished, but I suppose I can be a little less vague,” Mrs. Gladstone said. She set her fork down and focused her gaze on Mariah. “Take a covered dish over to the restaurant so they can try your cooking. Take a sewing sample over to the tailor or the dressmaker and show them your fine stitching. Prove that you’re the kind of employee they want instead of just telling them. Remind them who you are—be visible. March around their buildings and toot your horn a bit.” She giggled at her own joke. “Don’t give up, Mariah. The best things come after perseverance.”

  “I suppose I could do that,” Mariah said, thinking it over.

  “I’m positive that you can. We’ll worry about that tomorrow, though. For tonight, concentrate on getting a good night’s sleep. You’ve been so eager to find a job that you’ve hardly rested at all—I have a whole library full of books, if you’d care to borrow any, and you could take a pot of tea up with you.”

  That sounded wonderful, and exactly what Mariah needed. After she helped clear the table, she looked over the shelves upon shelves of books available to her and chose out a few, then climbed the stairs to her room. Gertie, the quiet little housemaid, brought her a tray a short time later, and she sat in bed sipping tea and reading exciting stories about love and adventure. Once she had a job, she wouldn’t have this kind of freedom, so she might as well enjoy every second of it while she had the chance.

  ***

  “Uncle Hans! Uncle Hans!”

  At the panicked yell, Hans dropped the horseshoe he was pounding into the water and raced into the house, looking around. “What’s the matter?”

  Peter came around the corner, holding the hand of a sobbing Preston. “He catched his finger in the door,” he said, pointing at his brother’s finger. It was red and white, and Hans could clearly see where the skin had been pinched. “He was just tryin’ to stop it from slamming, and it got catched.”

  Hans took the little finger very carefully and checked it for breaks. He didn’t think there were any, but he wasn’t a doctor—how was he supposed to know? “I think it’ll be fine,” he said, giving the boy a reassuring smile.

  Preston just looked at him and gave another shuddering sob.

  “You don’t know the song, do you?” Peter asked.

  “Um, the song? What song?”

  Peter gave a long sigh. “The make-it-better song. The one Mama always used to sing when we got hurted.”

  “I’m sorry, boys. I don’t know that song.”

  Peter sighed again. “It’s all right. Uncles just don’t know all the mama stuff.” />
  Hans took a seat in a nearby chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “Nope, uncles don’t, do they? But there’s one thing uncles are really good at, and that’s listening. So why don’t you sing me the song, and then I’ll know it?”

  Peter looked doubtful, but Preston nodded. That was encouraging—it was usually Preston who seemed to give him a hard time.

  “Okay, the song goes like this.” He began a warbling, tuneless little song, something Hans couldn’t even begin to follow. He wasn’t even catching all the words. When he was done, Preston gave him a smile.

  “Well done,” Hans said. “Thank you for singing it. I’ll memorize it, and next time, I’ll give it a try, all right? It looks to me like you took care of Preston all by yourself.”

  Peter looked proud of himself. “I did, huh?”

  “You did. Now why don’t you climb up to the table and I’ll cut you some bread and butter.”

  As Hans went back out to the smithy and prepared to heat the shoe again, he shook his head. How was he to manage this? He couldn’t leave the two little boys unsupervised in the house while he tried to work, and he had to complete his orders or he wouldn’t get paid. He simply couldn’t run any later than he already was—finances were scarce, and now he had two boys to care for. He passed his hand down his face, then put the shoe back in the fire. He didn’t even know the special song.

  ***

  “All right, Mrs. Gladstone, tell me what you think.” Mariah set the plate in front of Mrs. Gladstone and stepped back, nervous and excited all at once. She’d spent the morning in the kitchen putting together a few of her best recipes so she could impress the restaurant with her skills, and Mrs. Gladstone would help her decide which ones to present.

  “This does look very nice,” Mrs. Gladstone said, peering down at the pot roast and potatoes. “Did you find everything you needed in the kitchen? Remember, we can always get more if you run out.”

  “I did find everything, thank you.” In fact, Mariah had never seen a kitchen so well stocked. Mrs. Gladstone’s household was very small—just herself, a cook, and a maid. Why did she have so much food on hand all the time? Mariah shrugged to herself. It was none of her business, really, and she was blessed to share in the bounty.

  “Let’s give it a taste.” Mrs. Gladstone picked up her knife and fork and sliced off a bite of meat. She popped it in her mouth and began to chew, and then chewed some more. Mariah watched her with curiosity, and then with concern.

  When the woman finally swallowed, Mariah asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing, dear,” Mrs. Gladstone replied. “It was just a bit . . . tough.”

  “Tough? Really?” Mariah was thoroughly embarrassed. She’d made that dish dozens of times back home in Kentucky, and she really thought it was one of her best.

  “It could be that you’re using a different oven,” Mrs. Gladstone pointed out. “They all have their tricks, you know.”

  “Maybe. What about the potatoes?”

  Mrs. Gladstone took a bite. “They could have used a bit of salt.”

  Mariah closed her eyes. Salt. How could she have forgotten salt? She’d thought she was being so careful . . . but no, now that she thought about it, she’d been thinking about the plot of the book she’d read the night before, and she was distracted. Who wanted to think about things like salt when one could be thinking about the merits of one Sir Everett McAvoy, with his dazzling blue eyes and flowing black locks?

  “Let’s move on to the next dish,” she said, whisking that plate away and replacing it with another. She’d use the rest of the roast and potatoes in a stew—she could at least keep from wasting the food she’d experimented with. “Here are some chicken and dumplings.”

  Which turned out to be little soggy dough balls.

  “Or some steak.”

  Which somewhat approximated shoe leather.

  Mariah sank into the other chair at the table and put her head in her hands. “I don’t understand it, Mrs. Gladstone. I’m a good cook—I really am.”

  “I believe you, dear,” the older woman said, patting her shoulder. “Perhaps you’re not meant for restaurant life just yet, though. I wonder if you should go talk to Julianne Fontaine. She runs a school over in Bachelor, and she might be in need of a schoolroom assistant.”

  “Do you think I’d actually have to teach anything? I’d be a terrible teacher.”

  Mrs. Gladstone leaned back and regarded her. Mariah was getting used to that look. It was a mixture of sheer exasperation and fondness. “Why don’t you head down to the mercantile and pick me up another spool of purple thread? While you’re walking, I’m sure your mind will clear, and we can think of a few more good ideas to try.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gladstone. I do think a walk would be good for me. Oh, and I’ve told Cook I’d take care of the leftovers, so she won’t have to make dinner tonight.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Mrs. Gladstone said, a polite smile on her face.

  Mariah cringed as she tied on her bonnet. She’d made an absolute fool of herself, trying to pass herself off as a good cook—she was just glad that she’d tested the food on Mrs. Gladstone first. It could have been so much more embarrassing than it actually was.

  “Hello there!”

  She heard the voice as soon as she reached the sidewalk, and she shielded her eyes from the spring sun to see Marshal Wheeler striding toward her. “Hello, Marshal. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

  When he reached her side, he pulled off his hat. “Miss Redding, as promised, I’ve done more asking around. As near as we can figure it, the man who tried to abduct you may have been part of a larger group that’s been operating in this area for a little while. Several of our young ladies went missing and were held against their will. They’ve since been rescued, but we haven’t yet caught the men behind it all, and your circumstance might be another phase in their plan.”

  “Do you mean that other girls might be on their way here now, just as I was?” Mariah blinked several times, trying to fathom what all that might mean.

  “Might be. I don’t know that for sure, though.”

  “But . . . what can be done about it?”

  “I’ve spoken with the stationmaster and deputized him. He’ll be on the lookout for any suspicious activity. I’ll also have one of my men on the platform whenever a new train comes in. We’re also looking at ways to put the conductors of the trains on alert and asking them to keep an eye on any ladies traveling alone. They already do, but they can’t be everywhere at once.”

  Mariah shook her head. “That sounds overwhelming, Marshal. How can you possibly track every passenger coming through here? Especially with the way the town is growing?”

  He rocked back on his heels. “Well now, it’s going to be a challenge, but we’ll do what we can.”

  “And I appreciate that. I don’t mean to sound discouraging—I’m just amazed at how complicated and difficult something like this is bound to be. I have every confidence in you and your men, Marshal.”

  “Thank you, Miss Redding, and I’ll be in touch when I have more information.”

  He continued down the street, and Mariah took a moment to center herself. It seemed an utter impossibility that they would ever be able to catch the man who had accosted her, and knowing that he was still out there somewhere made her feel unsafe. She’d managed to push that aside while chatting with Mrs. Gladstone and coming up with ideas for her career, but this was certainly a stark reminder of her reality.

  When she reached the mercantile, she purchased more of the purple thread Mrs. Gladstone had requested, said hello to Toria Jackson, and was told that no one had inquired about her little advertisement. She supposed that was to be expected, the way her luck had been running.

  She left the store and had just gathered up her skirts to step into the road when she heard the whinny of a horse and a man’s angry shouting. She looked up to see Peter and Preston cowering at the street’s edge, a man trying to get
his horse under control, and several aghast onlookers. Without thinking, she marched up to the scene.

  “Excuse me. What has just happened here?”

  The man held his horse’s bridle tightly in one hand and pointed with the other. “Those children just darted out in front of me. I could have killed them both.”

  Mariah turned and bent to speak to the boys. “Are you all right?” They nodded. “What were you doing in the street?”

  “I wanted lemon drops, and that’s where they are,” Peter said, and Preston nodded again.

  “And where is your uncle?” She scanned the crowd, but didn’t see the tall blacksmith anywhere.

  “He’s making shoes for horses,” Peter replied.

  Mariah straightened to her full height and turned back to the man on the horse. “I’m sorry, sir. Are you injured?”

  “No, just startled. And them?”

  “They’re all right too.”

  He gave a nod, touched the brim of his hat, and continued on his way.

  Mariah pressed her lips together. “Well, now. Let’s go see Uncle Hans, all right, boys?”

  Chapter Six

  Hans smoothed out the last jagged edge of the horseshoe and was just about to compare it to the gelding’s hoof when the door to the smithy opened and a young woman walked in. Before he even saw her face, he knew it was the woman from the train, the one the boys liked.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Jensen, but we need to have a talk.”

  He held up the shoe. “Can you give me just a moment, miss?”

  “No, I can’t. I gave you that courtesy before, and now it’s time you gave some courtesy to me.”

  He blinked. She seemed much different than she had on her first visit. She’d been hesitant and unsure, and now she was angry and determined. What had brought this about?

  He plunged the shoe into the bucket, recognizing that if he didn’t turn his attention to her, she wouldn’t go away. “Yes?” he asked once the steam had stopped rising from the water.