Blacksmith Brides

by Amanda Barratt

  She managed to narrow the distance between them. “You lost the smithy?”

  “I gave it up.” He stood, but held Charlie to his side.

  “What will you do?”

  One of his shoulders lifted. “Not sure. Hire out to another blacksmith.” He lowered his voice. “I hear Mr. Lincoln has called for more soldiers.”

  She stepped near. “Go north?”

  “I need to make a new start somewhere.”

  “Come north.”

  His blue gaze locked on hers with a look akin to panic. “You’re leaving?”

  Two older women brushed by.

  “The war has come to Virginia,” Esther answered.

  A wagon creaked and moaned as it pulled to a stop in front of the mercantile.

  “And isn’t likely to end any time soon.” Thomas took Esther’s arm and led her and Charlie to the side of the brick building. “I’m sorry for what I said last time.” He mumbled as they moved. His voice was deep and his eyes intense. “I was wrong. About a lot of things. I owe you all my gratitude. For what you did.”

  Thomas released her to reach into the haversack hanging from his shoulder. A long stem. A threesome of leaves. A rose blossom, shaped from iron. “It’s far from perfect.”

  “You made this?” For her?

  “Took some doing without use of my good arm, but I couldn’t leave it alone.”

  She took the rose and opened her mouth to tell him how beautiful she thought it, how much she loved it—loved him—but he was so much nearer now, only a breath away. Enough words, enough burying her feelings and pretending she could get by on her own. Enough worrying about what the rest of the world thought. His lips separated, and she pushed up on her toes to find his with her own.

  Flynn closed his eyes and blocked out the passersby with their expressions of shock and disapproval. He braced Esther’s arms and allowed himself to answer her kiss. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter. Her lips. Her mercy. Her love.

  Thank Thee, Lord. For who else but God above could have forged this moment? Flynn had planned to say goodbye before he left Charlottesville, but he might have been too late—he might have never seen them again. The mere thought constricted his chest with a throbbing ache. He tightened his hold and deepened the kiss.

  At the taste of salt, Flynn glanced to Esther and the tears on her cheeks. He cupped her face and drew back. Words escaped him, so he tipped his forehead to hers and filled his lungs. “Forgive a fool.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “I love ya, Esther.” The words rolled from him, refusing to be kept back. None had ever felt so natural on his tongue.

  Her lips curved. “I can’t forgive that.”

  “Then I’ll be in ya’r debt—I’ll swear to love ya for as long as I’ve breath in me.”

  Her eyelashes lowered, dislodging more tears. “I accept.”

  Her choice of words settled into him, and he eased back. “Ya do?”

  She bit her bottom lip and nodded.

  “Marriage?”

  A smile bloomed in her eyes, while Charlie’s arms squeezed around his middle. Flynn tightened his jaw against the surge of emotion threatening to spill. He gathered them to him, an arm around Charlie while he pressed a kiss to Esther’s temple.

  Family.

  No one could be certain how long they would have together, but he would take whatever God gave them.

  Epilogue

  Massachusetts

  May 1863

  Thomas Flynn thrust the long rod of iron into the forge. Another round of tempering and the barrel would be ready to be set aside with the others due to the gunsmith. He tried not to think about the lives his work might take, no longer able to sit on the sidelines while war ripped the states apart.

  “That one is … very … straight.”

  Thomas glanced back at his son—his dear, precious Charlie—in his wheeled chair watching on. They had almost lost him several times over the past two years, and he had never fully recovered, but by some miracle his heart kept beating.

  “That’s good enough for me.” He smiled at his boy before turning back to work. “Give me a few more minutes, and we’ll head in for dinner.”

  Once the barrel was finished and the fire was banked, Thomas pushed Charlie’s chair out of the barn they’d transformed into his smithy, toward the two-story brick cottage Esther had made their home. She stood on the porch, little Betha on her hip, speaking with an officer in blue. Had the army sent for the rifles already? He’d told them the barrels would not be ready until the end of the week.

  Quickened pace brought him up the path, but conversation faded before he reached them. The officer stepped closer, emotion in eyes to match his uniform.

  “Thomas?” he asked, tentatively.

  Familiarity buzzed in the back of Thomas’s brain. He looked to his wife for an explanation.

  Esther smiled. “I didn’t want to say anything, not until I knew for sure. But that detective we hired found a lead.” She motioned to the young man. “I asked Captain Ewan Flynn to come meet us since he was posted near.”

  The veil of years faded, and Thomas glimpsed his seven-year-old brother in the grown man before him. “Ewan?”

  “’Tis me, though I’d not recognize you but for how you look like our da.”

  Thomas crossed the distance and crushed his brother in an embrace. He’d agreed when Esther suggested a search, but hadn’t expected—hadn’t allowed himself to hope—they’d have success. Too many years separated them. He pulled back but gripped his brother’s uniform. “What of Da and Mam?”

  “Da passed ‘bout ten or twelve years back. Worked himself into a grave, he did. But Mam is well. Lives with Declan and his wife. The three youngest girls are there as well.” Ewan shook his head, brow furrowing. “Guess ya’d not know of lit’l Caitlin. She wasn’t born till after ya left us.”

  Thomas allowed the news to penetrate. A sibling he’d never met. And Da gone. The last sank through him with keen regret. So much he’d wanted to say to the man, to ask him. So much he understood better now.

  Esther moved to stand beside him. “You will stay for dinner, I hope, Captain Flynn.” She smiled. “Ewan. I’m sure there is much you and Thomas would like to discuss. It’s been so long for both of you.”

  Ewan nodded. “I’d like that. I only have today before I return to my posting, but I know the rest of the family will be so glad for a visit.” He grinned at Thomas. “Ya’ve done fine for yarself. Da would be proud. He prayed and talked of ya all the time, saying that now ya’d have a chance at something better than he could offer.”

  Thomas swallowed hard but couldn’t quite press down the regret. All the years he’d hated his da, or considered himself unloved. If only he’d recognized the truth.

  “Da!”

  Little Betha reached out her pudgy arms and wrapped them around Thomas’s neck. Hardly more than a year old and already walking and talking like she’d kissed the blarney stone. Esther’s concerns with her pregnancy had come to naught. Betha was as healthy as they came, a large, happy girl who adored her older brother like nothing else.

  “And ya named this youngster Betha, yar wife says?” Ewan asked.

  “We did.” The name had fit so well—meaning life in Irish.

  “Think Mam will be right happy to know a grandchild carries her name.” He then nodded to Charlie who watched the whole exchange with interest.

  Thomas returned his hand to the chair’s handle. “This is Charles, our eldest.”

  Ewan smiled and saluted the boy, whose grin was ready. Always ready.

  The conversation continued as they made their way into the house, Ewan asking questions and answering in kind. Memories unfurled from the tangles of the past, bringing healing, granting light.

  Esther laid Betha in the center of their bed, as no crib would hold her, and headed down the stairs to find Thomas sitting alone at the table.

  “Ewan’s retired for the night?”

  He
nodded.

  She slipped into the chair beside him and stretched her hand out. There were dishes to wash and a house to tidy, but she wouldn’t allow this moment to pass. He twined his fingers through hers and squeezed.

  “I wish I knew your thoughts, Mr. Flynn.”

  “Just marveling, Mrs. Flynn.”

  She raised her brows and waited.

  “‘I have done what I have done.’”

  The phrase rang with familiarity. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “A wise woman once said those words to me and demanded I make a choice.”

  She shook her head at the memory of that day in the Charlottesville jail. “I was upset.”

  “Understandably so. Ya gave me a gift, and I spurned it.”

  Esther winced and started to stand. “It’s been a long and wonderful evening. What good does it do to rehash the past?”

  Thomas pulled her back down and took both her hands in his. “My da did the same. Gave me a gift and prayed I’d make the most of it. He’s not the only one.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “God gave me His own Son. And it took me how long to fully accept Him?”

  Esther squeezed her husband’s hands, considering the gifts she too had received. Her husband. Her children. She wasn’t aware of the tears until they spilled down her face. She tried to steal a hand back to wipe the moisture away, but Thomas held fast.

  “Charlie?” he said softly.

  She nodded. Another gift from God Himself. One she hadn’t always seen for what it was.

  “We don’t get to choose what life we’re given. Only whether or not to embrace it.”

  She gripped Thomas’s hands and let the tears fall freely. He leaned forward and kissed where each tear ran. One. After. Another.

  They would embrace every day the good Lord gave them, and every child He sent into their arms.

  Angela K. Couch is an award-winning author for her short stories and has been published in several anthologies. She was also semi-finalist in ACFW’s 2015 Genesis Contest with her Colonial romance, The Scarlet Coat, book one of the Hearts at War series that was released by Pelican Book Group in 2017. As a passionate believer in Christ, Angela’s faith permeates the stories she tells. Her martial arts training, experience with horses, and appreciation for good romance sneak in there as well. Visit her at www.angelakcouch.com.

  A MALLEABLE HEART

  by Jennifer Uhlarik

  Dedication

  To Kerry J.

  Girl, you stepped in when I was dealing with some tough stuff. My creative well was dry, and you helped me look past the difficulty to find the story I needed to tell.

  From the bottom of my heart, thank you!

  Love you, my friend!

  Acknowledgments

  To Pegg: Thank you for inviting me to be a part of this cool story collection! It’s one of my favorites so far.

  To the wonderful critique partners who have continued to help me with my stories: Cindy, Michele, Ruth, Sarah, and Shannon—thank you all for your invaluable feedback and encouragement.

  To my family: There were a lot of nights I was an MIA wife and mom while getting this one done. Thank you for your understanding and grace. I love you all!

  To my fabulous editor, Ellen Tarver: Woman, you ROCK! Thanks for helping me make my stories so much better in the end.

  To Becky Germany: Thank you for the continued faith in me and my stories.

  And most of all, to Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior: Thank You for allowing me to touch some small part of the world through these words and stories. May You be magnified in my meager attempts.

  Chapter 1

  Elverton, California—1870

  Leah Guthrie wrapped a wisp of hair around her finger as she stared at the wagon wheel. Broken. Sighing, she looked across the town in the valley down the road.

  “Was it too much to ask that this rickety wagon hold together until I finished my trip, Lord?” At least she’d broken down on a flat spot, rather than on the steep incline.

  The wagon had seen hard use in and around Elverton these last five years. The nagging thought that something would soon go wrong had plagued her, though she’d prayed the fear was unfounded. Unfortunately not.

  And, unfortunately, there was no money for its fixing. She’d already pulled her younger brother and sister from school so they could work while she continued their lessons each evening at home.

  A slow shiver inched up her spine. “All right, Father.” Leah forced her gaze to the tall white steeple peeking over the valley’s treetops. “You’ve allowed this. I trust You have a plan how to pay for it.”

  Leah gave the wisp of hair another twist as she considered options. Her wagon was loaded with her customers’ dirty laundry. She’d needed to collect only three more batches before she could return home and check on Mae. Dare she walk to the blacksmith shop on the far edge of town and risk someone stealing something from the bed? Little else she could do. She must get home, so she gave her big horse, Samson, a pat and descended toward Elverton.

  She was nearly to the bottom of the road when a wagon turned and started the climb. As it drew nearer, neighbors Tom and Grace Peterson came into view. Mr. Peterson slowed his team as he drew alongside.

  “Leah.” He nodded. “Everything all right?”

  She offered the grizzled, salt-and-pepper-haired man a crooked smile. “The wagon wheel broke. I am going to ask the blacksmith for help.”

  “Have you had any dealings with Bo Allen before, darlin’?” Mr. Peterson asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Why don’t you let my Tom go in your stead?” Mrs. Peterson asked. “Once he’s talked to Mr. Allen, we’ll drive you on home.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but …” After Papa’s passing, she’d tried to ask as little of her neighbors as possible. Caring for her younger sisters and brother was her responsibility.

  “Darlin’, Bowdrie Allen’s an ornery cuss,” Mr. Peterson continued. “I’d feel a heap better if I at least went with you.”

  She’d heard the stories—how he argued with customers and even broke a man’s nose during one altercation. Despite her apprehension, she would talk to the reclusive blacksmith herself. “If you really want to help, would you allow me to put the laundry orders I’ve got in your wagon, then wait while I gather the last three?”

  Their reticence obvious, they nodded.

  After going back to her wagon, transferring everything into the Petersons’ wagon, and tying Samson to the back, they descended into Elverton and stopped near the smithy.

  “Thank you both. I’ll be back soon.”

  Long before Leah reached the building, the loud, rhythmic clang of hammer against anvil punctuated the quiet street. Her heart pounded as she reached the wide double doorway and looked inside. The forge’s red glow lit the far side of the room where the blacksmith worked, back to the door. The pungent odors of burning coal and hot metal gave an eerie stench, as if she stood at the gaping maw of Hades itself.

  “Mr. Allen?” she called over the clanging.

  The rhythm didn’t change, nor did Mr. Allen flinch.

  “Pardon me, sir.”

  When no answer came, Leah huffed and stepped inside. “Helloooo?”

  Finally, the cadence stopped. The broad-shouldered man laid the hammer aside and dropped the long, narrow piece he’d been hammering into a bucket. A mighty hiss filled the sudden silence as steam rose around it.

  “Excuse me, Mr. All—”

  “I heard you.” The blacksmith snatched a rag from his back pocket.

  “Then why didn’t you answer?”

  Mopping his face, he turned and approached her. “Didn’t you hear me hammering?”

  Was he joshing? His intense hazel-eyed glare didn’t indicate any humor.

  Leah planted a fist on her hip. “Rather hard to miss that, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I woulda thought …” He ran the cloth over his sweaty blond locks then shove
d the rag into his pocket again. “But you just kept yammerin’, despite all the signs that I was busy just then.”

  Leah’s jaw hinged open, but she quickly snapped it shut. “Forgive me for yammering at you, sir. How would you suggest a potential customer alert you when she arrives and you appear to be busy just then?”

  Mr. Allen stepped past her and rapped soundly on the silvery wooden slats of the door. “She could knock and wait to be acknowledged.”

  Leah’s ire sparked, and she marched to his anvil. “And you, sir, could answer like this.” She picked up his hammer, clanged it twice, and spoke as she turned to face the door. “I’ll be with you in a m—”

  Bowdrie Allen’s solid chest, covered in a tight-fitting gray Henley, blocked her view. She slowly looked up, gaze traveling past his muscled shoulders and blond beard to his stern expression.

  “Give me the hammer.”

  Whether the heat filling her cheeks was from the forge or something else, she wasn’t sure, but she wished to be standing near the door and its nice cross breeze. She passed the tool to its owner.

  “Now, what do you need?” He made no attempt to step away, leaving her pinned between him and the anvil.

  He towered over her, so meeting his eyes required craning her neck at an uncomfortable angle. It was hardly proper to stare at his broad chest. She finally pinned her focus on his Adam’s apple.

  “I have a broken wagon wheel I was hoping you could fix.”

  “Sure—either fix it or replace it. It’ll be ready in five days.”

  “I can’t go that long without my wagon.”

  “You want it sooner, you can pay double, and I’ll put you to the front of the line.”

  “Double?” She gulped. This felt all too familiar. “Please let me pass.”

  He folded his arms, hammer resting against his shoulder. “Do you want me to do the work or not?”

  Overly warm and a bit claustrophobic, she darted a glance to the open floor space beyond. If she could just get there … “Please, Mr. Allen, let me pass.”