“If they helped their mother with housework, maybe it gives them something familiar to hang on to,” Otto suggested.
“Maybe so.” Hans folded up his newspaper and put it on top of the small table next to his chair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so tidy with his paper, but the room was so fresh and clean now, it seemed a shame to dirty it up.
Almost as if reading his thoughts, Otto looked around. “Things have certainly improved in here,” he said.
“Yes, Miss Redding did a good job.”
“And . . . what do you think of her?” Otto prodded when Hans didn’t elaborate.
“She’s thorough and competent.” Hans paused. “She’s also the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met in my life. She’s smart—she can twist a conversation around until you don’t know if it’s coming or going. She kept me hopping every minute I was around her, and that wasn’t even very much because I was in the forge all day, but I was exhausted by the time she left.”
Otto laughed. “That sounds about right.”
“Right? What do you mean?”
Otto crossed one leg over the opposite knee. “I think you should stop considering Miss Redding as merely your housekeeper and start thinking about her as your prospective wife.”
Hans nearly choked. “Excuse me? Wife?”
“That’s what I said.”
Hans leaned back. “How many years have you known me, Otto? And in all that time, how many women have you seen me chase?”
“None, and that’s exactly my point. It’s time, Hans. It’s time.”
Hans shook his head. “It was the right thing for you—Sophia was a godsend in your life. But me?” He laughed without humor. “No. I . . . no.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever understood your aversion to the fairer sex,” Otto replied. “Just what is it about something in a dress that sends you scrambling for the hills?”
Hans shook his head at his friend’s hyperbole. “I’m not averse to them,” he said. “I just don’t see the need for one in my life.”
“And that would be . . . why?”
Hans let out an exasperated sigh. He wasn’t going to get out of this easily, was he? “I was engaged once.”
“You were?” Otto leaned forward, looking eager for a story. “When was this?”
“I was eighteen, and so was she. We’d known each other nearly our whole lives and it was just assumed by everyone, including us, that we’d get married someday. I’d walked her home from school every day since we were ten, and I saved her from the grasshopper that jumped into her lunch pail and I picked her first for games at recess—little things like that. I officially asked her when we were eighteen and she officially said yes, and then Simon Jones moved to town, and that was that.”
“Oh? Who was this fellow?”
Hans shook his head, still irritated. “He was a fast talker and a nice dresser, and Jean took one look at him and was done for. She called off our engagement about a month later and was married to Simon two weeks after that. She told me that she’d always love me, but there was something about Simon that she couldn’t deny.” He could still see her face when she said that, too, apologizing and justifying herself at the same time. “She’d never had a chance to spend time with anyone else and make sure I was the one she really wanted. Maybe if she had, things would have ended up better for us—I don’t know.”
Otto nodded. “So you’re running from a broken heart.”
Hans shifted in his chair. “I was at first. I stayed around home a short time longer, but couldn’t bear the pitying looks of everyone in town, and that’s when I came here and set up on my own. Now I’m not running anymore, but I’m sure not looking to go through that experience again.”
“So, because Jean left you high and dry, you expect that every woman will do the same?”
Hans shrugged. “I’d just rather not take the chance.”
Otto chuckled. “You might not be running anymore, but you’re definitely hiding. Not every woman is a Jean, Hans.”
“And not every woman is a Sophia,” Hans pointed out. “I don’t think true love is as common and easy to find as you’re making it out to be.”
“And I don’t think it’s as complicated and impossible as you’re making it out to be.” Otto stood up and stretched. “It’s getting late and I need to go, but just think about it, would you? She obviously loves the boys, and she’s doing a good job taking care of the house. And you’ve got to admit, she’s awfully pretty.” With a nod, Otto left and pulled the door closed behind him, leaving Hans alone to ponder his words.
Yes, Miss Redding was pretty. No one could deny that for a second. But that didn’t make her wife material. Neither did her passable cooking or her obvious skills with cleaning and organizing. Or the way the boys adored her, or the way she could keep Hans on his toes, or the way he’d genuinely looked forward to coming in from the forge that day because he knew he’d be seeing her . . .
He shook his head and stood up. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Otto was just feeling sentimental because he’d been married recently and obviously felt that meant everyone in the world should also get married. It was a strange phenomenon, one Hans had noticed over and over again—as soon as a person got married, they felt it was their job to marry off everyone else around them. “I’m perfectly fine as I am,” he said aloud, as if that would make the words more true.
As he left the front room, he walked past the shelf where he’d tucked the Bible Millie had given him, and he paused. He’d forgotten to tell the boys he had it, and they’d been so busy talking about Miss Redding that they hadn’t asked about it. He’d show it to them the next day. He rested his hand on the cover for a minute, then climbed up the stairs to find his bed. Prayers were answered—he’d seen enough evidence of that to believe it—but that didn’t mean Miss Redding had been sent to him or was meant to be or any of those other silly things. He was a bachelor and always would be. That’s just how it was.
Chapter Eleven
“I’m flat-out exhausted, but it was a good day,” Mariah said as she sank into the chair in Mrs. Gladstone’s parlor. “The boys are fun to watch over, and we got along well. The house is in rather terrible shape, but we made a dent in it today, and I’ve been asked to come back tomorrow. Just tomorrow, though—he’s making no long-term commitment. I think the silly man believes he’s getting the upper hand with that little mind trick.”
“But he’s not,” Mrs. Gladstone replied.
“Of course he’s not. But I’ll let him think that he is for the time being.” Mariah pulled some pins out of her hair and rubbed her scalp. The tension from the day had built up in her head, and she couldn’t wait to lie down and relax. She couldn’t disappear upstairs before she’d told Mrs. Gladstone all about her day, though. That would be a very rude thing to do to a woman who enjoyed hearing stories as much as her hostess did.
“So, what do you think of our blacksmith?” Mrs. Gladstone asked.
Mariah sighed. How could she even begin to try answering that question? “He’s different,” she said at last. “He’s gruff and he’s stubborn, and yet he’s tender with the boys. He’s actually quite enjoyable to talk to—when he’s not being completely impossible. I think we could work well together if he could stop seeing me as some sort of interloper.”
“Do you have any idea why he feels that way about you?”
“None whatsoever. There’s just this sense that he’s created his own little kingdom and he can’t abide having anyone else in the castle. He’s made an exception for the boys, of course, but I’m not included on that list of elite persons.”
“Is that because of your gender, or because you’re new in town?”
“I really don’t know. Possibly both. It would be rather odd, though, if I were a man offering to work as his housekeeper, so I would think that my gender would be something in my favor.”
“Very true,” Mrs. Gladstone said with a chuckle as she hoisted herself out of her c
hair. “Do you need any dinner?”
“No, thank you. Mr. Jensen insisted that I eat with him and the boys. Thank you, by the way, for the basket you sent with me this morning. I used the cherries to make a pie, and the boys gobbled it right down.”
“I’m so glad,” the woman replied, beaming. “There’s nothing quite so satisfying as feeding hungry people. And speaking of that, if you’re sure you’re not hungry, I’ll tell Cook that she’s done for the night.”
“I’m very well satisfied. Thank you.”
After bidding Mrs. Gladstone goodnight, Mariah climbed the stairs to her room and flung herself across the bed before she’d even bothered to unfasten her shoes. Images floated through her mind—filling the bathtub with soap and showing the boys how to submerge the clothes, watching Preston’s face when he put a lemon drop in his mouth, listening to Peter talk about their mother.
Oh, how her heart ached for those children. Peter had painted the most wonderful picture of a perfect childhood just with his few simple words. She was sure that they had both good days and bad in their family—everyone did—but he and his brother had been truly loved, and to lose that kind of love so harshly must have been a horrible shock. Yet they were soldiering on as best as they could, and she loved them all the more for it.
She sat up and finished taking the pins out of her hair, then grabbed her brush. Mr. Jensen . . . he was everything she’d told Mrs. Gladstone—and more. She hadn’t said a word about how he made her heart beat faster whenever he stepped into the house. Or the way his rare smiles made her cheeks feel hot. She had no right to be reacting to him the way she was, like a sixteen-year-old girl on a picnic with the most handsome boy in school. If she wasn’t careful, she’d start giggling at everything he said, and that would most certainly never do. It was better to keep him at a little bit of arms’ length—he had no intention of being anything more to her than an employer, if that, and she’d be much better off keeping her feelings locked away.
She was afraid, though, that it was already too late.
***
The next morning, Mariah set the next batch of laundry to soak in the tub and put some bread dough out to rise. Then she took off her apron and turned to the boys. “We have about an hour to do anything we want before our next jobs,” she told them. They’d been working so hard, they deserved a break. So did she, for that matter. “Let’s go for a walk.”
They left the house and walked down the street. Mariah wondered if there are any spots in town that would be good for picnics, or if they’d have to drive out of town to find any. She was becoming rather curious about places like Bachelor and Topaz—she’d heard them mentioned and would like to know more about them, but she supposed that going visiting would happen all in good time. For now, the important thing was getting herself established in Creede, and then she could branch out a bit.
She was half listening to Peter tell her about a bird he’d seen on a branch a moment ago when a horse came up alongside them and kept pace with them. She glanced up to see the man who had nearly run over the boys two days before. He tipped his hat and gave her a smile.
“How is everyone today?” he asked.
“Quite well,” she replied. “And yourself?”
“Much the same.” He slid off his horse and took up its bridle, walking next to Mariah. “I’m so glad to run into you. I’ve been feeling foolish ever since the other day—I never introduced myself. My name is Sterling McCormick.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. McCormick. I’m Mariah Redding, and these fine boys are Peter and Preston Smith.”
Mr. McCormick tipped his hat again, and Preston gave a little wave. “A pleasure, Miss Redding. Are you the caretaker for these young men, then?”
“Yes, for the time being. You might say that you helped bring that about.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. After they ran out into the street, I took their uncle to task and pretty much demanded that he hire me.” They both laughed. She liked the sound of his laugh—it was warm and rich. “So yes, I do have you to thank.”
“I’m glad I could be of service,” he said, sounding amused. “More than anything, though, I’m so glad the children are all right.”
She glanced down at them, trotting along on their short little legs. “So am I, Mr. McCormick.”
He paused, bringing his horse to a stop. “Miss Redding, I realize this is quite forward, considering that we’ve only just met, but I’d like to get to know you a bit better. You’ve been on my mind these last few days, and not only because of the boys.”
“I have?” That was flattering and befuddling all at the same time.
“You have. Would you consider riding out with me sometime? We could take the boys along as chaperones, if you’d like. Maybe a picnic?”
She grinned, looking up into his eyes. Oh, those were very nice eyes—brown with flecks of gold. “I was just thinking about a picnic. How did you know?”
“I think there’s something about this nice warm spring weather that inspires picnics in all of us. What do you say? I have tomorrow afternoon free.”
She looked down at the boys. They’d love a picnic—she was sure of it. She couldn’t make any promises on their behalf unless she’d spoken with their uncle, though she could speak on her own behalf. “I’d enjoy that, Mr. McCormick. If the boys aren’t able to come along, I’ll need to arrange another day, but yes, I’m definitely interested.”
“Excellent.” He smiled, and he did seem genuinely pleased that she’d said yes. “Assuming that you’re able to come tomorrow, where shall I pick you up?”
“Well, assuming that I’m able to come, you can pick me up at the small house adjacent to the forge.”
He nodded. “All right, then. I’ll stop by in the morning and you can tell me your plans, and we can go from there. Thank you, Miss Redding. You’ve given me something to look forward to.”
“I think I’ll look forward to it as well,” she replied.
He gave her a slight bow, turned to the boys and did the same, then mounted his horse again and rode off. She hadn’t looked at him much on the day of the incident because her entire focus had been on calming the boys, but she had to say, he was a very good-looking man. She’d say he was around twenty-eight years old, perhaps, with the air of a man who was fully comfortable with himself and his place in the world. He was dressed nicely, but not ostentatiously. She’d guess that he was well off, but that he didn’t do things for show. She liked that in a man.
A tug on her skirt brought her back to the present. “Are we going on a picnic?” Peter asked.
“Yes, we are. We might go with Mr. McCormick, or we might go ourselves—we’ll talk to your uncle and see what he says. Either way, we’re definitely going on one.”
“Hooray,” Peter shouted. “We love picnics. Don’t we, Preston?”
His little brother nodded.
“Let’s turn down this street and head back now,” Mariah said. “It’s almost time to take care of the bread and the laundry.” Plus, she didn’t hesitate to admit to herself, she wanted to talk to Mr. Jensen about the following day. There was something fascinating about Mr. McCormick, and she couldn’t wait to discover what that might be.
A little voice in the back of her head reminded her about the feelings she’d begun to develop for Mr. Jensen, but she reminded that voice that it was best for her not to get involved. Mr. McCormick might be just what she needed to distract herself.
***
Hans scowled at Miss Redding across the lunch table. She’d just asked him if she could take his nephews on a picnic the following day—a picnic, she added casually, being hosted by a Mr. McCormick, the same man who had nearly run the boys down on his horse the other day. Of course, he realized that had been an accident, but he wasn’t at all amused by the fact that the man now wanted to take them on an outing. Was he trying to make an apology of sorts? Would he sooth his guilty conscience and then go away? From the little pink rosy parts on Miss Redding�
�s cheeks, Hans had to think there was something more to it than that, and he wasn’t sure that he liked the idea.
In all honesty, though, he had no reason to tell her no. She didn’t officially work for him—she was still on the ridiculous trial basis that he himself had insisted on, and he didn’t have any right to keep her from enjoying herself. His only real claim was to his nephews, and he couldn’t see that they’d come to any harm. This Mr. McCormick would likely do everything he could to make a good impression on Miss Redding, and that would include treating the boys well.
Hans looked down at his bowl and took a bite of chicken stew. Miss Redding had added more salt to the dish than she had with her cooking the day before, and he hadn’t needed to add any. That was almost disappointing—he’d enjoyed their little salt tug-of-war. He’d enjoyed almost everything about the time he’d spent with her—except for the exasperating parts, of course.
“Mr. Jensen?”
He looked up and realized that she’d been waiting for his answer for quite a while now. “Um, yes, that should be all right,” he said at last.
“I’ll leave you some lunch in the ice box so you won’t miss us too terribly,” she added.
“Thank you.” It wouldn’t be the lunch that he’d miss, though.
He finished his food and thanked her for it, then headed back out to the forge. He had two horses to shoe, and that would keep his hands busy. Unfortunately, the task was so routine that his mind would be free to wander while he worked, and he had no doubt that it would be wandering to Miss Redding and to this Mr. McCormick fellow. He didn’t know why, but the idea of her having a suitor annoyed him to no end.
Chapter Twelve
“Oh, no. Oh, dear.” Mariah had only turned her back for a moment, and in that moment, Preston had decided to be extra helpful by lifting the flour sack off the counter. It had upended, and now the boy and the floor were both coated in white.
Bribing the Blacksmith (Cowboys and Angels Book 9) Page 8