“Hmm. But she left the ranch as soon as Justin and I got there yesterday.”
“I could probably tell you who made the biscuits if I tasted one,” Hiram said.
“Now, that’s a thought.” The two single men had eaten biscuits made by nearly every woman in town at church functions and such. Griffin laid back the napkin. “Try one.”
“Thank you.” Hiram took one out.
Griffin reached for one and pulled his hand back. “I’d better not. Don’t want the boy to think I ate a bunch without waiting for him.”
Hiram took a bite and closed his eyes, chewing slowly. Then he took another bite.
“Well?” Griff asked.
“Flaky. I’d say Augie Moore’s, but there’s a heavy touch with the lard. He wouldn’t do that.” Augie was the undisputed best cook in Fergus. Hiram broke off a piece and handed it to Griffin. “Try it. I’m guessing Ellie Nash.”
“Ellie?” Griffin frowned as he took the quarter biscuit. “Why would she—” He stared at Hiram. “No. Oh no.”
Hiram grinned. “I think you’re right.”
“Not the whole shooting club.”
“Why not? They helped redd up Doc Kincaid’s new house and gave him a pound party. Why not you, too?”
“I don’t want all the women in town talking about—” Griffin looked wildly around. How many of them had been in here and seen his… habits? He moaned.
“Eat the biscuit,” Hiram said. “It’s good.”
“Be better with some of that strawberry jam.”
“Jam? You should have said so. That clinches it. Ellie made a bumper batch of strawberry this year. Remember she brought some to the harvest dinner? And Annie Harper makes quilts quicker’n you can shoe a mule.”
Griff looked toward the bed again. “You must be right.”
Hiram laughed. “That’s gotta be it. Trudy mentioned last time I saw her that you were boarding your nephew out and how it was too bad you couldn’t keep him to home.” He slapped Griffin on the back. “Say, I’ve got an idea.”
“What?”
“This place is awfully small for two men.”
“I’ll say. It’s awfully small for me by myself.”
Hiram nodded. “How much are you paying to board him?”
Griff winced. “Twelve dollars a week. Way too much, but Rilla says boys eat a lot.”
“Right. My old house is sitting empty since I moved out to the Fennel ranch this fall. Libby and I—well, we intend to live at the ranch.” His face flushed a little as he mentioned his upcoming nuptials. “When you go to get the lumber, take a look around my house. The back door’s unlocked. You and Justin could stay there, and if you think it’s worth twenty dollars a month…”
“You mean it?”
Again Hiram nodded.
“Say, that’s a good idea. And close to the boardinghouse if we want a hot meal. Close to the jail, too.” At Hiram’s puzzled look, Griffin added, “I think Justin took a shine to Ethan yesterday. I want to encourage him to look on Ethan as a friend.”
“Sounds reasonable. Let me know what you think.”
Griffin put the basket on the table. They walked out into the smithy. Hiram moseyed over to the corner where Griffin kept steel stock. “How’s your new shotgun rider doing?”
“Oh, you know about that?” Griffin asked.
“Whole town knows you hired her.”
“Ah. So far, so good.”
Hiram selected a small scrap of bar stock and carried it and his sack to the forge. Griffin left him as he dumped his ration of coal into the firepot.
On the road to Nampa that afternoon, Vashti wore a warm jacket Libby had provided. It was made of green wool and lined with fleece, and it buttoned up snug under her chin. Vashti had insisted on paying for it herself—she didn’t want to be beholden to a man again, even if Griffin had said he would pay for it. It kept her warm, though light snow fell all around them, deadening the sound of the wheels on the road.
She reminded herself many times not to watch Johnny drive. Her job was to watch the road ahead and the rocks and trees along the sides. It was tempting to sneak glances at his hands, though, especially when they came to a curve or had to cross a stream. She would drive as well as Johnny someday—better!
“What you looking at?” Johnny asked with a sly grin.
“Nothing.” She turned away from him and studied the gulley beside the road.
“Yes, you was. You like looking at me?”
“Not hardly.”
“Huh.”
Vashti felt her face flush. If Johnny noticed, he’d think she liked him.
“The passengers know you’re a girl,” he said a mile later. “I heard ’em talking back at the Democrat station.”
Her heart thudded. “What’d they say?”
“One of’em asked the tender about you, if you was really a girl.”
“Which tender?”
“Jake.”
She scowled and turned her face away again. The swing station was owned by a man everyone said was the only Democrat in the valley. When they’d stopped to change the team, she’d noticed a man called Jake watching her and stayed away from him.
“He told the passenger you used to be a saloon girl,” Johnny said.
“Oh, wonderful.” She exhaled and focused on the road, but tears stung her eyes.
“I reckon you’ll know how to handle him if he tries to get fresh.”
She glared at him. “Be quiet, Johnny.”
He laughed. “What, you think you can get away from the past that easy? Everybody in these parts knows who you are. What you are.”
“And just what do you mean by that?” She felt like smacking him.
“You know.” He shrugged. The horses took the slight flapping of the reins as permission to break into a canter. Johnny jerked to attention. “Here, now! Whoa, boys. Slow down.”
They careened toward a downhill curve. Vashti caught her breath and jammed the butt of the shotgun against her thigh, holding it tight with one hand and grabbing the edge of the seat with the other. She knew better than to say anything at that moment, though she wanted to scream at Johnny.
As they reached the curve, the leaders began to slow, but the swing team hadn’t caught on yet, and they tried to keep running, nudging the leaders’ tails. Johnny tried to hold them steady and work the brake lever, too. Even so, they hit the turn way too fast. As the leaders turned, the coach wheels slid and the whole framework swung wildly to one side.
Vashti gasped as she slid over and slammed against Johnny’s hip.
“Whoa now! Whoa, Rolly! Sam!” He sawed at the reins.
Vashti wanted to tell him to keep his voice even, but she couldn’t breathe.
“Hey!” The muffled cry came from one of the passengers inside the coach.
Before Vashti could grab another breath, the seat fell out from under her and she was falling.
CHAPTER 13
Vashti and Johnny hit the ground in a heap.
With no time to think about injuries or indignities, Vashti sat up.
The coach had tipped over on its side. The terrorized horses dragged it, with the upper wheels spinning wildly, across the snow.
“Whoa, you lummoxes!” She clawed her way to her feet and found the shotgun lying in the snow. She’d lost her hat. “Johnny! You alive?”
Johnny sat up and shook his head. “Oh man!” He was on his feet in a flash and tore off after the horses.
Vashti gulped. There wasn’t a thing she could do—she’d never catch up to him, let alone the horses. She looked around and found her hat a few yards back. After brushing the snow off it, she clamped it on her head and set off. Her hip and elbow smarted where she’d landed on them. A couple of hundred yards away, the horses had come to a halt and stood steaming and shivering. By the time she’d limped to where they’d stopped, Johnny was talking to them and running his hands over their sleek sides and down their legs.
“There, boys. Calm down now. It’s
all right.”
She walked over to the scarlet coach. “Ahoy there, passengers. You in there, gentlemen?”
The door on the top side of the coach cracked open, then swung upward, and a man’s head appeared, minus his hat, with his disheveled hair hanging down about his ears.
“Yes, ma’am. Sir. Uh—” He blinked at her. “Sorry. We’re shook up, but we’re all right.”
Vashti nodded. “Let’s get you out of there, and we’ll see if we can right the coach. I’m sorry you got tossed around like that.”
Johnny unhitched the team and secured them to the only tree within sight. He continued to talk to them and pet them.
When the two passengers stood on firm ground, one of them asked, “What do we do?”
Vashti eyed the overturned coach. Griff wasn’t going to like this.
“I’ll have to see what Johnny says. He has more experience than I do.”
“Oh, is that right?”
Something about the amusement in the man’s gaze made Vashti flush and her blood boil. She turned on her heel and walked over to Johnny. “Whatcha reckon we should do?”
“After the horses are calm, we can hitch them to the coach broadside and let them pull it up onto the wheels again.”
“Sounds like you’ve done this before.”
“What driver hasn’t?”
She let that pass. “What about damage?”
“What about it?” He glared at her. “This ain’t my fault.”
“Oh yeah? Whose fault is it?”
“Ice. There was ice on the road, underneath the snow.”
“Whatever you say, Johnny.”
A few minutes later, they led the horses over to the coach, and Johnny took a coil of rope from the boot. He hitched it to the luggage rack on the top and tied the other end to the evener. Vashti held the leaders’ heads while he worked, speaking softly to the horses.
“So that gal’s got a nighttime job in a saloon, I hear,” one of the passengers said to Johnny, but Vashti had no trouble hearing him.
Her chest tightened, and she clamped her fingers around the bridle straps.
Johnny shook his head. “I don’t know what you’ve been hearing, but Georgie’s all right.”
“She’s a woman, isn’t she?” asked the other passenger. “Hard to tell with that coat she’s wearing.”
Vashti kept her face turned away from them.
“I saw her red hair after you two fell off the coach,” said the first man. “She didn’t get it all up under her hat.”
“Bet she’s a stunner in silk stockings,” said his companion.
“Look, gents,” Johnny said firmly, “Georgie’s a girl, it’s true. But she ain’t that kind of girl. So just leave her alone, you hear?”
Vashti leaned her forehead against Sam’s bony muzzle. “Thank You for Johnny, Lord.” Her tears fell on the horse’s nose, and he snorted. She wiped her face with her sleeve before the next few tears could freeze on her cheek.
Griffin walked around the stage three times, searching out every scratch and scrape. His eyes narrowed when he looked at the cracked door panel and the broken spoke on the off front wheel. They were lucky the coach hadn’t been ruined. Vashti stood perfectly still, waiting for him to explode. Johnny began to fidget. Justin stood in the shadow of the livery doorway, watching in silence.
The third time around, Griff stopped in front of Johnny. He stood six inches taller than the driver and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, most of which was muscle made by hefting iron. He gazed down at Johnny through slits of eyes.
“Want to tell me again what happened?”
Johnny cleared his throat and looked away. “It’s like I told you, boss. We came up on that corner two miles out from Democrat’s, and it was slippery, and the horses got het up.”
“Uh-huh.” Griffin nodded. “You think that road’s too treacherous for us to run any more this season?”
Johnny swallowed. “No, sir, I don’t.”
“Then how are you going to keep this from happening next time, Conway? Answer me that.”
“I… uh…”
“You recall when Cyrus Fennel was your boss.”
It wasn’t a question, but Johnny said, “Yes, sir.”
“What do you suppose he’d do if he were here now?”
Johnny’s face lost its color. He opened his mouth and closed it again.
Griff nodded again. He took two steps and squinted down into
Vashti’s face. “You get hurt?”
She gulped. “No, sir.”
“Good.” His momentary softening was gone. “All right, Georgie-boy, let’s hear your version.”
Vashti’s pulse raced. Surely Griffin wouldn’t punish her. Or would he? She’d never seen him so dangerously quiet.
“We, uh, we left Democrat’s, and everything was fine, but the horses were frisky. The snow and all, you know.”
He nodded.
“We, uh…”
“You what?”
She jumped. “On that downhill, the team started running. Johnny tried to pull them in, but then the wheels slipped, and the stage overset.”
Griff held her gaze for a long moment, his dark eyes simmering. He paced back to Johnny. Each word distinct, he said, “You two will sand down the side of that coach this evening and repaint it. I will do the other repairs. The cost of the materials and my time will be deducted from your wages, Conway.”
Johnny winced. “Yes, boss.”
“And if this happens again while you’re driving, I’ll suspend you for a month of Sundays.” Griffin turned away.
Vashti sneaked a glance at Johnny. His mouth drooped, and he wouldn’t meet her gaze.
An hour later, Vashti knelt in the straw on the barn floor, gently scrubbing at the door panel with a piece of fine sandpaper. Griffin had removed the damaged wheel and taken it over to the smithy. The axle was propped up on a chopping block.
Johnny worked on the body panel below the window. He swore softly.
Vashti cleared her throat and threw him a pointed glance. “Sorry,” he said.
“Swearing doesn’t help.”
Johnny made a face at her. “If you was a boy, it wouldn’t matter.
I’m as bad as that passenger—can’t remember when you’re a girl and when you’re a boy.”
She clenched her fist. “Quit it, Johnny. You’re a good driver. Most of the time, anyway.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But you got sloppy today. We both know it. The whole world knows it.”
“One second. That’s all it took. One second.”
“Yeah, that’s about right. It takes one second for a team of horses to get out of control.”
“Oh, so now you know more about driving than I do.”
She straightened and faced him. “I’m not saying that.”
“Sure sounds like it.” He stood and towered over her, scowling.
Vashti let out a deep breath. “At least the horses didn’t get hurt. Come on. Let’s get this done.”
“You really think I’m a good driver?”
“When you’re not being reckless. And it was slippery on that hill.”
“So it wasn’t entirely my fault.”
She pressed her lips together and went back to rubbing the scrape on the door.
“Thanks for not telling Griff it was my fault,” Johnny said. “He’d have taken your word if you had.”
“I’m not out to get you in trouble.”
“You’re not?”
She shook her head. “You can do that easy enough yourself.” “Ha!” He smiled ruefully. “Thought you wanted my job.”
“I wouldn’t mind it, but I wouldn’t want to do you out of your livelihood.”
He began rubbing the wood again. “Thanks.”
“Well, thank you for setting that passenger in his place.”
“You heard what he said?”
“Every word.” She rubbed harder. She had no reason to feel guilty. God had forgive
n all her past transgressions. He’d sanded away every scratch and repainted her soul a pure, sparkling white.
“You still want a driving rig to practice on?” Johnny asked.
“Bill’s going to make me one.”
Johnny blinked at her. “He is?”
“Yes. He thinks I’m tenacious enough to master the art.”
“I reckon maybe you are.”
Vashti and Apphia Benton watched as Bill Stout threaded the six long reins through the wooden rack he’d constructed in the Bentons’ stable. He gathered the ends and backed up, letting the leathers slide through his hands until he’d reached a wagon seat he’d mounted on two big rounds of a log.
“All right, missy, you come over here and sit on this wagon seat.”
Vashti shot Apphia a smile and walked over to the seat. She eased down and smoothed her full skirt.
“Here you go.” Bill handed her the lines.
She laced them between her fingers and took up the slack.
“It’s got a weight hanging from each line, to keep some tension. If you let off, it will fall down a few inches.” Bill stood back and cocked his head to one side.
Vashti tried to feel each weight through the lines.
“The off leader’s too tight,” Bill said. “Let it out just a hair.” Vashti painstakingly pushed the rein for the imaginary front right horse forward with her thumb.
“Oops,” Bill said. “Now the swing is too loose.”
She frowned in concentration, trying to catch the rein to the middle horse on the right side of her “coach” with her third finger and inch it up.
“Better.” Bill nodded. “You look fine. I should have put the seat up higher, though.”
“Vashti, how did you learn to hold the reins?” Apphia asked. “I’d get confused first thing. And you only have one line for each horse. I don’t see how you can keep them under control.”
Vashti glanced over at her and smiled. “When my daddy was still alive, he used to let me drive his team.”
“Uh-uh.” Bill shook his head. “You relaxed your hands when you spoke to Miz Benton, and you let the reins go slack. Your team just ran away with you and tipped the stage over on its side.”
Vashti frowned and looked down at her hands. Bill was right. She firmed up her wrists and put a light tension on each of the six lines. The one for the near wheeler had slipped, and she worked it up until the rein ran straight from her hand to the rack again, but not too tight.
The Blacksmith’s Bravery Page 13