The Blacksmith’s Bravery (2 page)

“Mr. Bane, Miss Bitsy sent me for her ticket to Boise.” Vashti halted beside him, panting.

He looked up. “Oh sure. Just a second.” He hammered a final tack into the poster and went inside. “You got the money?”

“Yes.” Vashti stared at the notice he'd posted:

She pulled in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped inside. Griffin sat at the desk, fumbling at the ticket book with his big hands.

“You said she's going through to Boise?”

“That's right. On business. Taking the two o'clock.”

Griffin wrote in the book and tore out the ticket. “Three dollars and six bits.”

Vashti handed over the money Bitsy had given her that morning. “I noticed that poster you put up.”

“Uh-huh.” Griffin gave her the ticket. He put the ticket book in a drawer and, in the process, knocked his pen off the desk. He bent to retrieve it.

“It says you're hiring.”

He sat up and squinted at her. “That's right. I need some more manpower.”

She ignored the
man
part and plunged on. “Mr. Bane, I'd love the chance to drive. I learned how when I was a kid, and I've always been good with horses. I know I could do the job.”

His jaw dropped.

“If you'll give me a chance, I can take the stage through. I know I can, easy as pie.”

Griffin stood and stared down at her with such a thunderous expression that Vashti faltered to a stop and waited.

“You want to
drive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stagecoaches?”

“Yes, sir.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

CHAPTER 2

S
omething must be funny.”

Griffin Bane looked past the saloon girl. Ned Harmon, one of his shotgun messengers for the stage line, stood in the doorway to his office.

His office. Griffin still found it hard to believe he had one. But since the former division manager of the Wells Fargo branch line had died, he'd taken over running the coaches, office and all.

“It's downright balderdash, Ned. This here gal thinks she can drive a stage.”

Ned's eyes narrowed, and he looked Vashti up and down. The girl had enough decency to blush.

“Mr. Bane, I really can drive.” She turned to him, clutching the pasteboard ticket. “I used to drive my daddy's team when I was eight or ten years old. Sometimes I even drove a four-in-hand. I haven't had much chance to work with horses these last ten years or so, but—”

Griffin held up one hand in protest. “Gal, you can't be more than—what?—seventeen? Eighteen?”

Vashti stopped short and eyed him cautiously. A gentleman never asked a woman her age, but Griff had never counted himself a gentleman, and he didn't reckon Ned was one, either.

She clenched her teeth. “I'm twenty-four, and if you two spread that around town, you'll live to regret it, but not much longer.”

Ned howled with laughter. “Maybe you'd best hire her, Griff.”

The blacksmith shook his head. No way was he going to hire a girl,
even if she was older than she looked. He'd be the laughingstock of the Idaho Territory if people saw her driving one of his stagecoaches. Passengers would refuse to ride with her, and the shotgun riders would want to start a flirtation. She was pretty enough, after all. And if they knew she used to work in a saloon…

Nope, he wasn't going to think about that. He put on a firm face and said, “No.”

He strode past her and Ned, ducked his head, and escaped out into the sunlight. Behind him, Ned was still laughing. He was halfway to Walker's Feed when he realized light footsteps pattered after him down the boardwalk. He swung around, and the girl almost plowed into him. She stopped so short, her earrings swayed.

“You followin' me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Well, she had spunk. “I thought you were still working for Bitsy and Augie.”

“I am.”

“Then you don't need a job.”

“Well, sir, it's like this.” She glanced over her shoulder.

Ned had come out of the Wells Fargo office and ambled off across the street toward the boardinghouse. Griffin wondered vaguely what he'd wanted. He'd better not have come to tell him Bill couldn't drive today.

“Bitsy and Augie aren't doing so good,” Vashti said. “This is just between you and me. Bitsy would have a conniption if she knew I'd told anyone. But they're not making nearly the profit they were when they sold liquor. Goldie's started clerking at the emporium, and I figured to look around for another job myself. Miss Bitsy says we're welcome to board with them as long as we want to, but it wouldn't hurt to look for another position. She figures she and Augie can support themselves but not much more than that unless we get more people in this town to patronize the restaurant.”

Griffin frowned. He didn't like to hear his friends were having trouble. “That right? Augie came by the smithy day before yesterday, and he didn't say anything.”

“He wouldn't. They're proud, both of 'em.”

“Reckon that's so. But I can't let a girl drive a stagecoach. It wouldn't be fittin'.”

She sighed. “Please, Mr. Bane. I really do know how to drive.”

“Maybe so, but driving six is a whole lot different from driving two. Or even four. It takes drivers years to master it.”

“Then let me start.”

He shook his head. “I can't. I might find something else for you, though.”

“Well, I can't shoe horses.”

“Could you work at the livery?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose I
could
, but…”

“What? You're too dainty to shovel manure?”

“I wasn't going to say that. I don't know as I'd want to work with Marty Hoffstead. I heard he goes over to the Nugget every night and puts back a few, and when he's got a brick in his hat, he treats those girls over there shamefully.”

“That right?”

“Yes, sir, and I wouldn't make up stuff like that.”

“I don't imagine you would.” Griffin had heard Marty tell some coarse stories, and he'd seen him stagger out of the Nugget on a few occasions, but lately he couldn't be fussy about whom he hired. He scratched his chin through his beard. It was getting long—he ought to trim it, or soon it would be catching sparks from the forge. As if he had time. He didn't even get a minute to work with the colt he'd hoped to start training this fall. “Well, it'd help me some if you could sit in the office for a couple of hours every morning, say ten to noon, when folks want to buy tickets. I'd give you two bits for every ticket you sold.”

“Well… I usually help Bitsy set up for lunch, but if she can spare me—how many tickets do you think I'd sell?”

“Maybe none. Maybe two or three.”

“Hmm.”

He could see she didn't think much of the idea. “You think about it. I've got to make sure the team's ready for the afternoon stage. If you want to try it, come see me later.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked swiftly toward the livery. All he needed was a pretty girl flitting about,
getting in the way. The thought of that little bit of a thing handling a stagecoach made him laugh again. As if she could hold down six horses.

Of course, she was part of that shooting club Trudy Dooley—that is, Trudy Chapman now, since she married the sheriff—had started for the ladies. Unless he misremembered, Vashti had placed pretty well in the shooting match at the last town picnic. If someone could take Ned Harmon's place riding shotgun, then Ned could drive—he wasn't half bad in a pinch, though he needed more finesse to become a really good driver. Why, then Griffin might get by with the drivers he had. Provided Bill recovered from whatever ailed him.

He shook his head. What was he thinking? A girl for a shotgun messenger. He must be mad-brained. He stomped into the stable. Marty was just bringing in the two wheelers. They'd never have the team ready in time. Griffin dashed out back to get the swing horses from the corral.

Loco. That's what he was to even think of hiring a woman for this business. Crackbrained.

The next day, Vashti served lunch to three patrons. Bitsy wouldn't be back until the following afternoon, but there was barely enough work to keep Vashti busy, even though Augie had cooked a scrumptious roast beef dinner. The restaurant business was mighty slow now that the days were getting shorter. People were trying to get things ready for the coming winter and not thinking about eating in town.

When Oscar Runnels, Doc Kincaid, and Parnell Oxley had finished their meals and sauntered out of the Spur & Saddle, Vashti whisked their dishes into the kitchen and had them washed, dried, and put away before Augie had covered the stew pot and put the leftover lemon meringue in the pie safe. Augie walked over to the corner shelf where he and Bitsy kept the cash box. He opened the cover and stared down into it.

“Things are getting tight, aren't they?” Vashti asked.

“A mite.” Augie slapped the lid shut. “We've been through hard times before.”

“Still, you have to buy enough food for twenty, in case they come, and if nobody shows up, it goes to waste.”

“Mrs. Thistle wants four pies for the boardinghouse.” Augie pulled his sifter out of the flour barrel. “Guess I'll get started.”

The boardinghouse down the street, owned by schoolmarm Isabel Fennel, was feeding more people than the Spur & Saddle. Terrence and Rilla Thistle, who ran the place, could count on their boarders. The stagecoach drivers and messengers usually slept and ate at the Fennel House, and sometimes passengers from the stagecoaches did, too. A few would wander out in the evening for dinner at the Spur & Saddle, but most of the Moores' customers were townsfolk who wanted a change of pace. Some of them probably came to help Augie and Bitsy. The Sunday chicken dinner was still the big event of the week at the Spur & Saddle, but that didn't generate enough to support the Moores and their two hired girls.

“I'm going out for a minute.” Vashti took off her apron and hung it up. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I don't think so.”

Augie sounded so glum that Vashti reached the decision she'd been chewing on for twenty-four hours. She'd take Griff Bane up on his offer and sit in his office two hours a day. If she sold eight tickets a week, she could give Bitsy two dollars for her board. And she could still help out at the supper hour, when the Spur & Saddle generally got more traffic than at noon. That would square what she should be paying for her room. Right now, she was living for free with the Moores, but her friend Goldie had started paying them every week for room and board when she began working at the Paragon Emporium. Vashti hoped in time she could do the same.

She went up to her room and put on a hat and shawl. She didn't want Griffin to think she wasn't proper enough to deal with his customers. Since she'd trusted in Christ, she'd stopped serving drinks to cowboys and poker players. Bitsy's decision last summer to turn her saloon into a family restaurant had made that part easy. Vashti felt cleaner now—almost decent again. But she knew some folks still pegged her as a barmaid. As a last thought, she wiped off most of the lip rouge she'd put on that morning.