Blacksmith Brides

by Amanda Barratt

  “Ma’am—”

  “No, no, I refuse to take advantage of your time or your debt to my father.”

  Flynn stiffened. Of course she knew about the debt, knew that her father owned him and this shop. He choked down his pride and managed a tight smile.

  Her smile faded. “I understand you must be busy with—” She waved her hand toward the swage block where the half-formed rifle barrel lay. She grimaced, probably recognizing it for what it was. “Maybe this is a mistake.”

  Charlie looked between them, his expression hopeful.

  “No. Not a mistake. He can watch me.” Flynn squeezed the boy’s shoulder—and glimpsed his father in himself. Thomas Flynn Sr. The morning he had left this very shop for the last time, leaving his son behind with nothing but a squeeze of his shoulder and an order to work hard. “I don’t require any compensation. From you or your father.”

  “Sir, I insist.”

  “Don’t.” He nodded Charlie toward the chair and shoved the rod back into the forge. “It’s not work if for a friend.”

  Esther’s eyes widened. “A friend?”

  “Charlie’s a good one.” He smiled at the boy, who grinned back.

  “Mr. Flynn … my friend.”

  “That’s right.” Flynn nodded at him.

  Esther did not look as pleased. Or perhaps she hadn’t expected the sentiment. “Oh.” She wet her lips and backed to the door. “You be good, Charlie.” She glanced to Flynn but never met his gaze. “I’ll be back within the hour.”

  She slipped away, leaving him with the feeling that maybe Charlie wasn’t the only one in need of a friend.

  Chapter 6

  Flynn laid his hand over the much smaller one, guiding the direction of the hammer. Charlie’s visit had become almost a daily occurrence, usually for a few minutes, an hour at most. Often Esther sat and watched with her son, but sometimes she slipped away to complete one errand or another. At the moment, she stood behind him, just returned from the milliners.

  Despite the work piling up that he needed to attend to, Flynn enjoyed Charlie’s company, found himself smiling more, thinking about the boy. And his mother.

  “Any luck with your hats?” He turned the small piece of brass in Charlie’s hand, yet another spoon he’d been helping the boy with. This would make number three, each one an improvement on the last.

  “Julia is happy, so I suppose shopping was a success.”

  “She was the one who needed a hat?”

  “Hats. Or bonnets in this case. For some reason one is never enough. And no, the bonnets were for my head, but on Julia’s insistence. One for each gown.” Esther groaned, and he suppressed a smile.

  “Gowns and bonnets.” Flynn had to admit the color she’d added to her wardrobe suited her much better than the grays and blacks worn upon her return to Charlottesville, but didn’t dare guess the cost of such things.

  “And ribbons, and gloves, and shoes, and reticules, and …” She sighed and rolled her eyes.

  Flynn looked away. Again, all the reasons to keep his blinders on. He remembered the simple threadbare dress that hung only as far as his mam’s calves. She’d worn the same pair of low boots for as long as he could remember, though the soles had worn through. All money went to feeding the children, not frivolities. “Is there anywhere else you need to go today?”

  An airy gasp sounded from behind him. “Are you trying to be rid of me, Mr. Flynn?”

  No way to answer that honestly without causing offense. Her presence was becoming a distraction he didn’t need. “Charlie wants to stay here a little while longer, so no point in you standing around if you have things you need to take care of.” He directed Charlie to start tapping again.

  “So, my presence here doesn’t disturb you?” He could almost hear the smile in her voice.

  “Why should it disturb me?” Other than how self-conscious he felt with her lingering near. And the growing desire to steal a glance at her.

  “No reason, I guess.” Esther stepped nearer, mere inches from his arm. “That doesn’t look so difficult.”

  Charlie paused to beam up at her. “You like, Mama?”

  “Very much so.” She brushed his bangs from his eyes. “Almost makes me want to try.”

  Flynn coughed. “Try what?”

  She motioned with her head to the half-shaped spoon. “To make something.”

  Flynn was still trying to come up with a tactful protest when Charlie moved out of the way, his spoon in hand, and passed the hammer to his mother.

  “You can … have a turn. My arm tired.”

  Her smile crept higher while her delicate fingers wrapped around the tool’s handle.

  Flynn stared for a long moment before finding his voice. “Be serious, ma’am.”

  Her jaw set. “You don’t think I can? Or should?” The last word held an edge.

  He held up his hands and stepped away. “Be my guest.”

  For the first time, uncertainty flickered in her gaze. “What do I do?”

  He picked up a small slab of iron from his discarded pile, leftovers from other jobs but still useful, and laid it on the anvil. Then handed her a midsized hammer.

  She passed the smaller one to him and stepped to the anvil. “Now I hit it?”

  “Go ahead.”

  She gave a whack. And another. With no effect.

  A chuckle broke from him.

  Brushing a perfect ringlet behind her ear, Esther cocked her arm back to bring her full strength down on the iron. The head of the hammer landed with a loud clank but barely scored the surface. “Really?”

  “Cold iron doesn’t like to bend.” He took his pliers and clamped the tip of the slab before moving to the forge. He showed her where the coals would heat the iron and how to use the bellows to increase the fire’s heat.

  “I imagine you can make about anything from iron.”

  “Within reason.” The alloy hot, he set it on the anvil and stood aside. “Now give it a try.”

  She eagerly stepped up and hammered the slab, which gave way under the force. A giggle bubbled from her. She glanced to him with bright eyes, mirroring her son’s despite the darker color. “I’m doing it.”

  “You are.” He smiled with her while she continued, unable to help himself.

  She hammered this way and that, shaping the iron until it became too cool to form.

  “We should heat it again.” He moved the iron back to the forge, but Esther beat him to the long handle of the bellows and began pumping it up and down. Perspiration glowed on her face, giving vibrancy to the smile that had replaced her usual doleful expression. He had thought her handsome before but was unprepared for the beauty he beheld now.

  Flynn cleared his throat. “Um, that’s good. This fire doesn’t need too much encouragement right now.” He dragged his gaze from her.

  “Can I have another turn?” Charlie moved forward, darting toward the forge.

  Esther lunged forward. “Stay back, Cha—” Her head cracked against the handle of the bellows.

  Pain radiated through Esther’s head from the burning spot the bar had hit. Something clanked on the floor, and a strong hand gripped her arm. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m an idiot. It was in my hands not a minute ago. You would think I’d have stepped around.” She groaned but tried to straighten, making sure Charlie had heeded her warning and was not near the oven.

  Flynn’s hands braced her arms. “Maybe you should lie down a moment.” His fingers brushed across her hairline, making her wince as they met the bump already forming.

  Thankfully, it was only a bump. She’d be fine—as soon as she shook off the feeling of a fire poker to the brain.

  “Stay still.”

  Her thought to argue died under the throb taking up a rhythm with the beat of her heart. She allowed him to lay her down on the firm floor and then closed her eyes. “I’m such a fool.”

  “Accidents happen to the best of us.” Flynn’s voice rumbled from where he sat beside
her.

  Best of us.

  “You are the best, aren’t you?” Somewhere in the back of her aching mind she knew she spoke far too freely. But it was true, wasn’t it? He was honest and hardworking. Industrious. Kind. He was patient and encouraging with Charlie, and even with her. “The very best,” she murmured.

  “Do you want something cool for your head? I think you must have hit it hard.” A hint of amusement lightened his voice.

  Charlie’s came next. “Is Mama all right?”

  She tried to sit up. “Of course, I—”

  Flynn’s arms easily braced her down.

  For which she was grateful. Her head really did hurt. Why not lie here a little longer, on the floor of the smithy? What a spectacle she must be. How ridiculous all this was. Laughter spilled from her.

  “Not quite sure what’s so amusing,” Flynn said easily, a hint of accent rolling off his tongue.

  “Everything. I can’t believe I did that.” Not just bumping her head but working the bellows in the first place. Wielding a hammer and enjoying the whole experience. Feeling alive for the first time in years.

  Moisture pricked her eyes, and she pressed them closed.

  “Give it a moment. The pain’ll pass.” The tenderness in Flynn’s voice brought more tears.

  “It’s not that.” Esther kept her eyes closed as the confession leaked from her, the weariness and loneliness that had been building long before she even met her husband. The expectations of her family and society. Holding her son close since his birth had started severing each of those ties. And now look at her. “Do you ever feel like life is hammering away at you? It heats you up and then starts hammering.” Constant. Pounding her into the ground.

  The crackling of the fire and the shuffle of Charlie’s feet denoted the otherwise silent room. She didn’t want to open her eyes, to face Flynn now that she had unlocked a small part of her soul.

  “Whatever ya’ve come through has made ya strong,” he said softly. Again with that Irish brogue she’d once looked down on. Now, it eased past her defenses—like she wasn’t the only one sharing a bit of herself.

  Esther shook her head. The ache there was quickly fading, unlike the one in her chest. “I’m like that piece of iron. Growing softer.”

  “Only for a short while. Softer doesn’t mean weaker. If iron’s too hard, it breaks under pressure. With the right temperature, ya can take some of that hardness away, temper it, strengthen it.”

  She dared a glance and found not just understanding but acceptance in his eyes.

  He cleared his throat and the accent vanished. “How’s your head?”

  “Better.” And so was her heart somehow.

  “You should lie there a little longer.”

  She crossed her ankles and glanced to make sure her skirts covered them. “I still feel like a fool. And must look it too.”

  He shrugged and leaned back on his hands. Charlie climbed onto his lap, leaning into his chest. Almost enough to give birth to another river of tears, but she held them at bay, allowing the image and the feeling to settle into her heart. “This is strangely comfortable.”

  He chuckled.

  The only thing she would change was the pinch of her corset. Smoke saturated the wood floor beneath her, a pleasant aroma. She could happily lie here for hours and forget the world and their criticisms.

  “Let me know when you want me to help you up.”

  To reduce the risk of making a greater fool of herself, Esther offered her hand and let him pull her to her feet.

  “Why don’t you sit down for a while.” He led her to the chair. “I’ll let Charlie have another go while you rest.”

  “Thank you.” She wasn’t ready for the long walk home. While he worked with her son, she stared at her misshapen piece of iron, cooling on the floor where Flynn had let it fall. She missed the liberation of pounding it into submission, seeing it give to her hand. That and the freedom of speaking her mind. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so honest about her feelings, or felt such acceptance.

  Chapter 7

  The clink of dainty teacups and saucers and the titer-tatter of gossip grated Esther’s nerves. Maybe she was just out of practice mingling with other ladies, submerging herself in society. Up north, she had tried to appease Charles’s need to maintain his place among his peers, to attend dinners, balls, and receptions. She had even gone for herself at the beginning when Charlie was little. But as he grew older, and news of his “condition” leaked to the upper crust of Boston, friends fell away, and it became easier to sit indoors with her boy and her books.

  No wonder her husband had spent more time abroad.

  “Isn’t that fabulous, Esther?”

  She looked to her sister, trying to make her smile appear genuine.

  Her efforts must not have succeeded. Julia gave an exasperated sigh. “Never mind.”

  “I’m sorry. I was thinking of … travel. Europe.” She nodded to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Johnson and their raised brows. “My late husband was very fond of visiting the Continent.”

  “Indeed?” Miss Johnson, niece of the mayor, leaned forward with anticipation raising her delicate features. “I am to take my first tour in another month. Which are your favorite cities to visit? I have insisted on Bath.” A blush crept into her cheeks. “I adore Jane Austen’s novels, and Bath seems quite the romantic location. Have you been?”

  “Uh, no. I did not travel extensively with my husband.” Esther felt her own blush rise up her neck. “But I also enjoy Jane Austen. Wonderful stories.” Stories that had only made her more lonesome for her husband and what they’d never shared. She’d been enamored with him, and he’d been very kind to her when they were first married. But unfortunately, love was hard to find outside of novels. Especially for a widow in her late twenties with a half-grown son.

  The conversation continued with talk of Europe and whether the beginning of hostilities with Washington could hamper travel abroad. Talk of war brought back thoughts of Mr. Flynn and the swing of his hammer against long rifle barrels. She could understand trying to make a living and secure one’s future, but what about his duty to his conscience?

  She shook the thought from her head. So long as he didn’t enlist Charlie to work on the rifles with him, what did it matter to her what he did with his time or talent? He was just a blacksmith, and an Irish one at that. An Irish one with sweat glistening on his brow and a dimple in his cheek. Blue eyes like the ocean on a clear day—and just as much depth. A man strong enough to create beauty out of ordinary iron. And to protect the people for whom he cared.

  “Someone has better things to think of.” Mrs. Hurst chortled, her smirk aimed at Esther.

  “What?”

  “Or was that smile for a someone?” the matron finished.

  “I …” Though they couldn’t read her thoughts or know how far they traveled, heat infused her face.

  “Oh!” Miss Johnson squealed. “Is there someone you fancy here in our blessed little city? I was saying to Auntie that Mr. Long is a perfect candidate for you since he’s a widower for over five years now with no children. It’s not him, is it?”

  “Not Mr. Long.” She’d met the man once briefly after church and could not imagine marrying someone so stiff. Too much like Charles had become. And the way he’d turned up his nose at Charlie … “There’s probably a reason he’s not found another woman to marry him.”

  From the gasps Esther realized she not only vocalized her thought, but no one shared her sentiment.

  “He is one of our most eligible bachelors,” Miss Johnson said. “He’s the choosy one when it comes to selecting a second wife.”

  “Well then, obviously I shan’t do for him.” She lifted her cup to find it already empty.

  “Would you care for more tea?” Mrs. Hurst asked.

  Esther lowered the dainty china with its yellow roses to the end table nearby. “No, thank you. I really should be on my way. But Julia may stay longer if she wishes.”


  “Esther.” Julia’s glower drove spikes into her conscience. She had promised her sister a full hour, and they were a good thirty minutes shy of that, but she’d had enough of this idle chitchat. She wanted to see how Charlie fared with Mr. Flynn. Honestly, she was beginning to prefer his company.

  “I’m sorry.” Esther stood and thanked her hostess before taking her leave. She only made it as far as the hall before their mumbles began.

  “… sorry for the girl. She hasn’t quite recovered from her husband’s passing, has she?”

  “I don’t think it’s that,” Julia replied, an edge to her tone.

  “Ah, that son of hers. What exactly is wrong with the boy?”

  Esther slowed just out of sight, though her brain shouted at her to keep walking, to not listen.

  “Who knows,” Julia said. “From what I understand, he was born this way.”

  “Of course. Such a look about him.”

  “So peculiar,” the younger woman piped in. “I’ve not seen anything like him.”

  “And yet she takes him everywhere with her, not trusting anyone but the blacksmith to watch her precious boy.”

  “The blacksmith!”

  “Mr. Flynn. Charlie likes him.” Julia spat the words.

  Esther could almost hear the lady sniff. “The Irishman? I declare. Though, I suppose the boy might be taught to swing a hammer. There’s not much else he’d be fit for.”

  The clock ticked on the parlor wall, denoting a pause.

  Please, Lord, let them be through. Esther tried to back away, but her feet remained fused to the oak floor.

  Julia’s voice broke the silence. “What I wonder is how she’ll ever find a husband with the boy around.” Her sigh was audible.

  “Besides,” Mrs. Hurst added, “how are they to know all her children won’t be like that?”

  The chair legs scraped as they scooted another inch closer, and Flynn smiled. He finished hammering the mandrel from the newly formed rifle barrel and glanced back to Charlie, who had pulled his chair a full three feet closer since he’d begun.