“No pigeons today, Miss Vashti. We’ll get the box inside.”
The shotgun messenger, Cecil Watson, bent to slide the treasure box out from under the seat.
“You’d best wait until Mr. Bane can come open the safe,” Vashti said.
“Naw, he gets mad if we take the strongbox over to the livery. Cecil will have to stay here and guard it until Griff comes.”
Vashti blew out a breath. “All right.” She hurried inside and took her handbag from the hook behind the door. From its depths, she produced the pearl-handled pistol she’d bought the year before when she’d joined the Ladies’ Shooting Club of Fergus.
“What’s that peashooter for?” Cecil gasped out the words between breaths as he lugged the heavy wooden box to the desk.
“Thought I could help protect the box.”
Cecil laughed. “Aw, go on, missy. Nothing so funny as a woman all dolled up and flashing a gun around.”
Vashti scowled at him. “Oh yeah. Very funny.” She turned on her high heels and strode out onto the boardwalk. Johnny was about to drive off to the livery. “Hey, Conway! Wait a second.”
He froze with his whip poised. “What d’ya want?”
“I want to drive.” She shoved the pistol back into her bag and grabbed the handhold on the side of the coach.
“You crazy?” Johnny asked.
“No. It’s only up the street to the livery.”
“No.”
“Pretty please?” She hoisted herself up and plopped into the seat beside him.
Johnny’s eyes narrowed. “I ain’t never let no one else take the reins when I was on duty. Griff Bane would fire me.”
“I’ll give you two bits.”
He hesitated, and she was pretty sure she had him.
“Two bits and a kiss.” His blue eyes glittered.
“Four bits and you keep your lips to home.”
He laughed and handed over the reins. As Vashti took them, her blood rushed eagerly through her veins. At last! She tucked one rein under each pinkie and held the other two on each side together.
“No, no. You’ve got to thread them through your fingers right.” Johnny reached over and pried open her left hand.
“Sorry. I used to drive four.”
“Six is different. A lot different. You’ve got to keep some tension on all of them all the time. Be ready to climb those ribbons if you have to.” He fussed at the leathers until she could feel they were in place.
“Am I ready? It feels like I am.”
“Hold on—”
She was afraid he would change his mind and take the reins back, but he only leaned over and took the brake off. She moved her hands forward a little to put the tiniest slack in the lines and chirruped to the horses. They took off at a trot, and Johnny grabbed the edge of the seat.
“Hey! I said wait.”
“Well, we’re moving now.”
“Yeah. Don’t let ’em put on too much speed or they’ll try to take you right into the barn, coach and all. Unless you want to lose your head, that’s a bad idea.”
They clipped along so fast they were already passing the feed store. The leaders bent around the corner by the smithy and pounded toward home.
“Slow ’em down,” Johnny yelled.
Vashti pulled back on the lines, but it seemed to have no effect. “Lay right down on ’em!”
She put all her weight into her pull, rising up on her heels. “Tighten the near leader’s rein.”
There wasn’t time for her to figure out which ribbon led to the near lead horse’s mouth as and they came abreast of the livery. Johnny reached over and added the strength of his muscular forearm to her tugging and gave a loud, firm “Whoa!”
The six horses stopped so fast the wheelers nearly piled up on the swing horses’ tails.
“Quick,” Johnny said. “Gimme the lines. Bane’s coming.”
As she untangled the reins from her hands, Vashti saw two men coming from the interior of the big barn.
“I’ll come by for the four bits later,” Johnny hissed. “Don’t talk about it.”
“What’s going on here?” Griffin’s bushy dark eyebrows met in a frown over the bridge of his nose.
Vashti felt her face flush. “Hello, Mr. Bane.”
“I said, what’s going on?” Griffin glared at Johnny, who refused to meet his gaze. “Conway, did you let this woman drive my stagecoach?”
Johnny’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Well, uh…”
“I’ve got a mind to fire you, except we’re so shorthanded I can’t. Get down off the box, and get out of my sight.”
Johnny dropped down over the side of the coach, thrust the lines into Griffin’s hands, and disappeared. Vashti craned her neck to see where he went. It appeared he was headed over to the Fennel House for some lunch—that is, if he didn’t detour into the Nugget first.
“Miss Edwards.”
She turned back and found Griffin had climbed up on the step and was eye-to-eye with her.
“Yes, sir?”
“What do you think you’re up to?”
“Please, Mr. Bane, I told you I can drive. Let me learn to handle the six. I know I’d be the best driver you ever had.” She stared into his smoldering dark eyes. For a long moment, neither of them said a word.
At last, Griffin’s beard twitched, and he opened his mouth. “No.” He stepped down and backed up two steps, then turned around. “Come on, Marty. Let’s get the teams switched. Move!”
Vashti sighed. For a moment, she’d thought he was wavering. She gathered her skirts and climbed down on the side away from the barn door. No sense trying to get him to change his mind today. She’d walked a few yards before she remembered the treasure box. Reluctantly she turned back.
“Oh, Mr. Bane?”
He paused in unhitching the off wheeler from the whiffletree. Though he said nothing, his dark eyebrows rose in question.
“Mr. Watson’s up to the office guarding the treasure box because the safe wasn’t open.”
Griffin frowned.
“If you don’t want to give me the combination, you could go over there, and I’ll help Marty switch the teams.”
Griffin laughed. “First you think you can drive, and then you think you can wrangle these critters.”
“Don’t laugh, Griff,” Marty said from the other side of the hitch. “She helped me while you were gone. She knows how to harness a team better’n Ned or Bill does.”
“I doubt that.” Griffin pulled out his pocket watch and scowled at it. “Time I get up there and back, we could have these horses changed.” He looked at Vashti. “Just tell Cecil to stay there until I come.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vashti walked swiftly back to the office. When she walked in, Cecil jumped up off the edge of the desk with his shotgun in his hands. “Where’s Griff? I’m hungry, and the next stage will be ready before I get anything to eat.”
“He’s working with Marty. Shorthanded, as usual.” Vashti looked around. “Any customers wanting tickets?”
“Nope.”
“All right. You stay here, and I’ll run over to the Spur & Saddle and get you something.”
“Mrs. Thistle feeds us.”
“All right, I’ll go to the boardinghouse. Maybe she’ll let me bring you a plate.”
Cecil nodded. “That’d be good. I don’t want to head out on the next leg with an empty belly.”
Vashti hung her handbag behind the door and plodded over to the Fennel House. She was no closer to becoming a driver—in fact, she may have lost ground where Griffin was concerned. Johnny would regret putting the reins in her hands, and while Marty had unexpectedly come to her defense, Griffin hadn’t listened to a word he’d said. It was just as well. She didn’t really want to get her dress all dirty.
By the time she got back to the Wells Fargo stop with Cecil’s plate, the coach was coming around the corner by the smithy. Cecil gulped a few bites and left his dinner half eaten on Griffin’s desk wi
thout so much as a thank-you. Johnny came back from his own dinner and wouldn’t let Vashti catch his eye. It made her boil, but she knew he was trying to get out from under Griffin’s ire. He and Cecil loaded the strongbox and climbed into their seats on the front. As the coach rumbled away, she let her shoulders droop. No tickets sold today. She’d put in more than two hours for nothing. Nothing but the feel of the lines in her hands for less than two minutes.
A heavy step made the boardwalk vibrate. She turned. Griffin stood two paces away.
“Don’t you be thinking you can drive the stage again.”
She gulped and looked away. “No, sir.”
“Good. Because if you try, I’ll fire the driver who lets you. And it’ll be your fault.”
Griffin dashed about his one-room home, the other half of the smithy building. He always intended to get to church in plenty of time, but sometimes he lost track. Even though he had a watch, he couldn’t get used to being at the new sanctuary on the hour. For that matter, he still had trouble making sure the stagecoaches left at precisely the right time.
He wet his comb and slicked down his unruly hair. He’d have to cut it again soon. Someone had mentioned that Augie Moore would cut hair for a dime. Maybe he should get the brawny restaurateur to do it. Augie was a good friend, and he was having a hard time financially, so it would be a good arrangement all around.
By the time he got his hair to lie flat, it was soaked, with drips drenching the collar of his one good shirt. Griffin sighed and tried to pull the comb through his beard. The tangles put the brakes on that plan. He threw the comb down. No time to put on a tie. He grabbed his hat and ran out the door. Why had they built the church two blocks over, anyhow? When the congregation met in the old haberdashery on Main Street, he usually made it on time.
The bell rang out over the town as he hit the boardwalk beside the Fennel House, and he lengthened his steps. Nice thing, that bell. The ladies had campaigned for it and raised money all last winter with bake sales and a quilt raffle. The preacher took three special offerings, and the bell had arrived on one of Oscar Runnels’s freight wagons a month ago. The sound of it made him feel as though he lived in a civilized town.
A few stragglers climbed the church steps as he approached. That made him feel a little better. Of course, he’d never make it to Sunday school, though the preacher encouraged everyone to come out for that an hour earlier than the worship service. Griffin puffed up the steps behind the Nash family. Peter saw him coming and held the door open.
“Thanks,” Griff said.
“Morning, Griff. There’s a letter for you over to the post office. Stop by my house tomorrow, why don’t you?”
Griffin reared back and stared at him. “All right.” Probably from his sister. It had been two or three weeks since he’d received the disturbing telegram. That must be it. She’d most likely written him the details of Jacob’s demise.
He looked over the nearly filled sanctuary before sliding toward his usual pew—second from the back, on the left. In the row ahead of him, the sheriff sat on the aisle, beside his wife. Those two made quite a pair, Griff had to admit. He’d never expected Ethan to get married, but it seemed fitting that the best shot in town had won his heart. Trudy Chapman’s brother, Hiram, the gunsmith, sat in the middle of the row, beside Libby Adams, the emporium’s owner. No doubt they’d tie the knot soon. Romance seemed to have discovered Fergus. Griff shook his head. More and more so-called confirmed bachelors fell to the call of Cupid.
The two girls who worked at the Nugget Saloon slipped in and found seats in the back row. They wore their low-cut satins to church but covered up with their shawls. Seemed nearly everyone in town came to church these days. Griffin supposed that was a good thing.
The folks from the Spur & Saddle had claimed a pew just ahead of the sheriff and his party. That was a case where the last folks you ever expected to see in church had turned to Christ and flipped their lives head over heels. Vashti Edwards and Goldie Keller sat with Bitsy and Augie, and you’d have never thought to look at them that they’d ever been anything but respectable. Bitsy and the girls still had a heavy hand with the rouge and lip color, and they were too frugal to throw out their fancy dresses, but they’d altered them a bit. No one would think they’d been saloon girls for years.
That set Griffin’s mind off on a rabbit trail. A passenger who occasionally rode the line on business had come in from Boise Friday. He’d complimented Griffin on the polite and beautiful young woman who now ran his ticket office. Griffin hadn’t let on about Vashti’s past. If anyone didn’t know, they’d assume she’d always been decent. She didn’t have a hoity-toity Eastern accent like Rose Caplinger, the milliner, but neither did she speak coarsely like the guttersnipes at the Nugget. And Goldie—why, that blond girl at the Spur & Saddle could play the piano like a professional. Last Christmas, she’d played a concert of carols at the church, and the whole town had lauded her. The reverend’s wife was getting up a new collection to buy a piano for the church so they could have Goldie play the hymns every Sunday.
The Reverend Phineas Benton rose to open the service, and Griffin focused his attention on the front of the large room. The first hymn, “Amazing Grace,” helped. Griffin tended to let his mind wander when he was sitting still, listing all the things he needed to do when church was over.
Of course, he never worked at the forge on Sundays. Not since the preacher came. People would hear his hammer and know he worked on the Sabbath. But if he didn’t putter around the livery on Sunday afternoon, some things would never get done. The horses needed to be fed, watered, and groomed. And Wells Fargo and Company had never heard of the no-Sunday-labor rule. The stagecoach schedules must be kept no matter what day of the week.
Everyone around him sat down, and he realized the singing was over. He sat down on his pew.
Preacher Benton gazed out over the congregation. “My fellow believers, this morning we’ll look at Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians and contemplate the virtue of benevolence. Gracious giving where it is perhaps not merited. Of course, if someone we love is in need, we do all we can to help them out. But what of the stranger or, even more, the person we know slightly and do not like? Can you be gracious when you don’t feel like it? My friends, if you see someone unsavory in need, can you meet that need without resentment and bitterness? Ask yourself what Christ would do in this situation. Unto the least of these…”
Griffin tipped back his head and gazed up into the rafters. He dealt with unsavory men all the time. And the good Lord knew he’d been gracious to one of his drivers. He ought to have fired Jules Harding the first time he showed up for work drunk. But Griffin had tossed him in the watering tank behind the livery to sober him up and put him on the box of the stage dripping wet. The second time, he’d turned him away and driven the run to Dewey himself—big mistake. As experienced as he was with horses, Griffin wasn’t much of a hand with a six-horse hitch. But they’d made it through. It wasn’t until time number three that he’d given Jules the boot. That was benevolence, wasn’t it? Giving a man three chances when old Cy Fennel would have cut him loose the first time.
“I submit to you, dear people,” the reverend said, “that sometimes God would have us give our fellow man another chance. Remember the question about forgiveness?”
For some reason, Griffin’s mind drifted to Vashti Edwards. Should he give her a chance at driving coaches? She was no more a stagecoach driver than he was. Less of one, if the truth be told. He’d be foolish to allow a girl who used to drive her daddy’s farm wagon to climb up on the box. The passengers’ lives would be at stake. No, he’d done the right thing to turn her down. And hadn’t he shown grace by letting her work at the office? Of course, he paid her a pittance—and only when she sold tickets. A dim spark of guilt flickered deep in his heart.
Phineas Benton wasn’t through yet. “We’ve all had times when we were down—when another person reached out and gave us a hand. When someone gave us a boost w
e needed but didn’t deserve.”
That was true enough. Griffin liked to think he’d built his own career. He’d been apprenticed to a blacksmith back in Pennsylvania when he was an awkward kid. His master had been tough on him, but he’d shaped Griffin into a competent farrier and ironworker. When his apprenticeship was over, Griffin had stayed on long enough to earn the money to buy his own tools. Then he’d come west. Opportunity lay in the West, he’d heard. The little town of Fergus, Idaho, had given him the chance to build his smithy and run his own business. Five years later when the livery stable owner moved on, Griffin had saved enough to buy him out, so he became one of the town’s most prominent business owners.
But how much of that was due to his own hard work? To hear the preacher tell it, none. It was all God’s doing, and in a way, Griff could see that viewpoint. God could have kept him from succeeding. But the Almighty had blessed him and first made it possible for him to get started and later made him able to buy the livery.
Then there was Isabel Fennel. Her father was once the richest man in town. When Cyrus died, she could have hired anyone she wanted to fulfill the Wells Fargo contract, or she could have simply told Wells Fargo they needed to find a new man to oversee the Fergus branch line. But no. She’d turned to Griffin and offered it to him. He had a lot to be thankful for. But did that mean he should turn around and put a green-as-grass girl who wasn’t strong enough to control a newborn filly on the box to drive six coach horses? Griffin shuddered. “All rise, please, for the benediction.”
As they filed toward the church door, Vashti craned her neck. Griffin wasn’t hard to keep track of—he stood several inches taller than anyone else in the line ahead of her.
Her friend Goldie nudged her. “Who you staring at?”
“Mr. Bane.”
“You’re mooning over your new boss?”
Vashti frowned at her. “No, I most certainly am not.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“Trying to figure out how to make him let me drive the stage.”
The Blacksmith’s Bravery Page 3