Winning The Blacksmith's Heart (Mail-Order Brides of Salvation 5) Read online

  Her mouth and throat instantly felt dry. She’d come to be his bride, but she’d only just met him. For some reason, she hadn’t realized that she’d be walking from the train station to the church, without so much as a conversation over supper to get to know him better.

  Rebekah left her family to marry Isaac without even meeting the man, she reminded herself. She’d come here to marry Walter. There was no point in procrastinating. She squared her shoulders. “I’m ready.”

  When they entered the church, Ida had to clench her jaw shut to keep her mouth from falling open. The small clapboard building was almost full of people. She glanced at Walter, who was waving to a man in workday clothes that nevertheless looked spotlessly clean. None of these people knew her, they were all here for Walter.

  He must be a good man if he had this many friends. Joy flooded her. She practically floated down the aisle on his arm.

  A mere hour later, Ida stood with a ring on her finger and a husband beside her who introduced her to the long line of smiling, chattering people who’d attended her wedding. Everyone seemed eager to welcome her and wish her well. But she felt so overwhelmed, she doubted she’d remember any of their names tomorrow.

  After everyone had been greeted, Walter led her into the reception hall. Almost immediately, a woman Ida didn’t recognize—probably the only person in town she hadn’t met yet—placed a plate of cake in her hands.

  Ida thanked the woman and took a bite. Sweet, with a hint of vanilla and buttery frosting that melted on her tongue. Her head steadied. It was the best cake she’d ever tasted.

  For some reason, Walter wasn’t having any. “Are you not hungry?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t care for cake.”

  “Oh.” Did he not approve of her eating it? Suddenly self-conscious, Ida looked for somewhere to put hers aside.

  “Please enjoy it,” Walter said. “Helen made it for you.”

  Her mouth soured.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked.

  Ida smiled sheepishly, mortified that she hadn’t hidden her reaction to the name. “I’m sorry. There was a girl named Helen at the factory where I worked, and she looked down on me.”

  “Well, I won’t hold that against you if you don’t hold it against me,” said the woman who’d handed her the plate.

  Oh no, her first words to this woman, and Ida had probably hurt her feelings. Not the way she wanted to start her new life. She blushed and began to stammer an apology.

  The woman tsked. “Let me take her over to sit down, Walter. Your new bride looks apt to pass out. When did you last eat, Ida?”

  Yesterday afternoon. The food on the train was outrageously expensive, and she hadn’t had much left after paying for the hansom ride to get herself and her luggage to the train station at the start of her journey. She’d wanted to keep a few dollars in reserve, just in case.

  “It’s very good cake,” she said, taking another bite and smiling at Helen. “Mine are never fluffy like this.”

  The other woman’s smiled and took Ida by the arm, helping her over to some benches against the wall. “Walter’s a good man, but he’s always been a bit awkward around women. He probably doesn’t know quite what to do with you yet.”

  “That’s all right. I’m a little shy myself.” Ida couldn’t help but appreciate Helen’s attempt to reassure her. Of course it would be awkward at first. Four months of correspondence wasn’t enough to really get to know a person the way a husband and a wife got to know each other. It would take time for them to be comfortable together.

  Once Ida was seated, Helen settled in beside her. “If you like the cake, I’ll make a copy of the recipe for you.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate it, but...” She bit her lip, realizing who she hadn’t seen around—who she’d have to learn to please, too, to keep her husband happy. “Walter said he didn’t care for cake. Do his parents have some sort of objection to sweets?”

  “His mother died years ago, bless her soul. His father...doesn’t care for much of anything, so far as I know.”

  A stomach that touchy would be difficult to feed. Ida tried not to feel daunted at the prospect of learning to cook for a finicky father-in-law.

  “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me,” she muttered.

  “If there’s anything you need, dear, anything at all, you let me know.” Helen patted her hand. “I know how hard it is to come to a strange place and not know anyone.”

  Ida went hot. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Or to give the impression that she’d been made to feel unwelcome.

  “I—thank you.” Flustered, she stood and shook out her skirts. “I should check on Walter. Thank you for the cake.”

  She hurried through the crowd, catching sight of him in the far corner of the room, talking to two other men. Should she interrupt? Would it be interrupting? She wasn’t sure. He seemed so reserved, she couldn’t guess what he was thinking. She hoped that would change over time.

  As she reached Walter’s side, another man whose name Ida couldn’t remember rushed up.

  “The kegs are here. Help me bring them in?”

  Walter frowned. “There should only be one.”

  “John and Edie weren’t going to let you go thirsty on your wedding day. They sent soft cider, just for you. And John said to tell you no, you aren’t paying them for it. It’s his wedding present. You know they’d would be here themselves if he didn’t have to man the shop and she didn’t have two children sick at home.”

  How nice, Ida thought. So why does Walter look upset?

  But Walter and the other man were already headed out the door. Ida stared after them, unsure what she’d missed.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  Ida turned, recognizing Helen’s voice. “Why would Walter go thirsty at his own wedding?”

  “The second keg.” Helen nodded as if this was obvious. “You can’t have a wedding without beer. But Walter doesn’t drink alcohol.”

  “At all?” Ida had known a woman who avoided spirits, but she’d never met a man who didn’t drink beer. Was he a member of the temperance movement? He didn’t seem preachy enough. And he’d never mentioned any such thing in his letters. Wouldn’t he have wanted to know her thoughts on that before he married her? “Are you saying Walter is a teetotaler?”

  “He’s not a temperate, and he doesn’t mind others drinking it.”

  “Then why?”

  “That’s for him to explain, dear.”

  Once the kegs had been brought in, several of the men began filling cups and passing them out.

  “Which would you prefer?” Helen asked.

  Ida thought for a moment, and asked for a cup of soft cider. Helen returned with a cup in each hand and handed one to Ida.

  Walter appeared at her side as she took her first sip. “Do you not like beer?”

  “I feel like something milder today.” She was glad she’d chosen the tart, crisp apple juice, perfect for washing away the sweetness still clinging to her tongue. “Delicious.”

  He glanced at Helen, then ducked his chin, flushing. “Helen, you told her?”

  Helen shook her head and walked away.

  Ida tried to hide her consternation. She hated that he thought they’d been gossiping behind his back. “Helen told me you prefer soft cider, and I decided that if you think it’s better than beer, I’d try it.”

  Walter stared at her for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure she was telling the truth. Then he nodded and took a swig from his own cup.

  An old man’s voice rang out over the chatter of the crowd.

  “You call this awedding?”

  Walter froze.

  “The drinks are late, and then when they come, it isn’t even proper spirits to ‘maketh glad the heart of man’! That’s Walter for you, folks—good for nothing but making everyonemiserable.”

  A hush fell over the room, everyone’s attention on either Walter or the old man. But no one said a word.

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nbsp; Ida’s temper flared. How dare this man insult Walter at his own wedding? Why didn’t Walter say something? Her new husband stood statue-still, eyes locked on the intruder. He looked furious. But he said nothing. He wasn’t going to defend himself?

  Maybe it was because the man was older. But he must be here with someone, mustn’t he? A son or a daughter would calm him down?

  The old man thrust his cup in Walter’s direction and harrumphed. “Miserable, I say.”

  If Walter wasn’t going to say anything, then she would. After all, it was her wedding too.

  “The only ‘miserable’ person here is you, sir.” Ida barreled her way through the crowd to confront the boor. “And if the drinks are not to your taste, you’re welcome to leave.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Walter was watching her, a look of astonishment on his face. Why didn’t he say something?

  Ida stopped before the keg, face-to-face with the man who’d complained. Bushy unkempt gray hair, puffy face, and his clothes looked like he’d slept in them for weeks. The cup of beer wobbled in his hand, and he reeked of far stronger spirits than beer. Dear Lord, did he have no family at all to care for him? To take the bottle away from him and put him to bed, as Helen at the factory had talked about doing with her own father? Suddenly, she felt sorry for the old man.

  “Gohome. Rest. You’ve already had enough to drink.”

  The old man straightened, anger twisting his face. “You don’t know who—”

  “I don’t care who you are,” she interrupted, speaking calmly but firmly. “If you’re going to behave like this, you don’t belong here. Go home.”

  He glared at her. Ida kept her back straight as she met his gaze, letting him see that she wouldn’t be swayed by anger or pity.

  The old man gave a bobbing nod, then stumbled away. The silent crowd parted to let him through. As he passed Walter, who still seemed frozen, the old man slowed and jabbed a finger in the air.

  “You,” he said, “are a very bad son.”

  Ida’s stomach plummeted. She’d just kicked her new father-in-law out of their wedding reception.

  Chapter Three

  Although the party continued after Walter’s father departed, the celebration was more subdued, and Walter was polite but distant until the last guest had left.

  Not even married for a day, and she’d already made a huge mistake, Ida thought. But it wasn’t until the walk home that she had the opportunity to speak with her new husband alone.

  “Please forgive me, I should have let you handle your father,” she blurted as soon as the horses started moving.

  “It’s not your fault my father’s a drunk.”

  At least she understood Walter’s aversion to beer now. And why he hadn’t once mentioned his father in his letters.

  She was itching to ask him a million questions, but was afraid that would distance him even more. If she were in his shoes, she’d feel furious. Humiliated. Horrified. So she kept quiet and waited for him to figure out what to say.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Walter finally said, staring straight ahead, as if he found the dusty street fascinating. “I was hoping there’d be time to settle you in before I had to explain.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who—” Her first words to her new father-in-law had been a scolding. She grimaced. Not that the man hadn’t deserved it. But still… “Is he always like that?”

  Walter didn’t answer or even look at her, just kept walking with his chin tucked to shield the scar. Brooding. Well, maybe she deserved it. Even if she’d been right to send her father-in-law home, she’d done it in the worst possible way. What must Walter think of her now?

  Had Walter’s father disapproved of his son marrying a mail-order bride? Was it possible that she was the reason he’d skipped the ceremony and come drunk to the reception? Probably not, she decided. If she was the problem, he would have addressed her rather than Walter.

  Ida felt so horribly awkward. She had no idea what to say.

  The silence weighed on her the rest of the way to her new home, which turned out to be a modest brick two-story. Walter hesitated on the front porch, then opened the door. She thought he’d say something then, but he just held the door open for her.

  It didn’t matter that he didn’t carry her over the threshold, she told herself. That was a silly superstition.

  But she couldn’t help feel that it was a sign. A sign that she’d ruined everything.

  She stepped inside Walter’s house. The first thing she noticed was that every horizontal surface seemed to serve as a workspace for some project she couldn’t quite fathom. Tools whose purpose she couldn’t identify and seemingly-random shapes stamped from sheet metal littered the kitchen counter. The kitchen table held several bowls containing assortments of screws, nuts, bolts and nails, along with a pile of wood pieces that had been shaped and sanded into cylinders, crescents, and blocks. The parlor—if one could call it that, given the absence of typical parlor furniture like couches, settees and tables—contained nothing but a rough-hewn workbench containing wires of different thicknesses and several different types of pliers.

  For a moment, Ida thought she’d quit her job at one factory only to move into another.

  On the bright side, the place had been dusted recently, and there were no dirty dishes or soiled clothes in sight. So even if he had turned his home into an extension of his workshop, his habits tended toward tidiness.

  And she’d lived in far worse, at the orphanage, where she’d been crammed into a single bedroom with eleven other girls and only four beds to share. Compared to that, Walter’s house was a mansion.

  She pasted on a smile and turned to him. “I like it. It looks like a blacksmith’s house.”

  But he didn’t smile back. “Would you like to see the yard? The chicken coop’s out there. You’ll always have fresh eggs. And herbs.”

  “Wonderful,” Ida replied, deciding that this was not the time to tell him that she’d never cared for chickens and or tended an herb garden. Perhaps Helen could give her some tips.

  Walter grabbed a small burlap sack near the kitchen door and gestured for Ida to go outside.

  The yard was small but neat. Several chickens clustered in the far corner and eyed her suspiciously.

  Walter bent down on one knee, making cooing and clucking noises. In moments, he was surrounded by chickens. He plunged one hand into the sack he was carrying and held out his cupped hand. Corn and seeds, Ida realized. Chicken feed.

  The chickens lunged forward greedily and began pecking food from his hand, shoving each other out of the way to get to the seeds.

  He looked up at her, and for the first time since her outburst at the reception, his expression softened. “Want to feed them?”

  “Yes.” Moving slowly to avoid scaring the birds, she positioned herself beside him and scooped up a handful of feed. Tentatively, she held her hand out to the chickens.

  The white hen was the first to notice Ida’s offering. Ida held her breath as the creature cocked her delicate head to the side, then bobbed it up and down as she tried to decide whether it would be safe to eat the food that Ida held.

  Finally, the chicken decided to risk it. Her head dipped forward as she lunged for a big fat kernel of corn. Ida gasped, flinching and spilling the seeds on the ground. The chickens all dove for the newly-scattered food.

  Walter laughed. “I did the same thing when I was boy.”

  Ida thought that laugh was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. “I’ll be braver next time.”

  He sobered and ducked his chin again, as if he’d thought she was staring at it. Had she been? She didn’t think so.

  She pointed to the metal-walled shack in the far corner. “Is that your workshop?”

  He nodded and led her inside. It was dim, and smelled of metal and smoke and rancid oil. A huge brick hearth dominated the room. Two worktables, one standing height and one sitting height. An anvil, and a hu
ge hammer propped up against it. Tools hanging from the walls, leaning in the corners, and scattered across both tables. Dozens of bowls and jars lined up along the side-wall counter. It seemed cluttered to her, but not disorganized.

  Her time in the factory had taught her to be careful of implements that might be less secure than they looked, so she made sure not to bump into anything as she moved through the aisles.

  A tiny third workbench in the dark corner near the door caught her eye, surrounded by sawdust and splashes of paint. She stepped closer and saw several dozen small carved figures were lined up to one side of it, and another one partially-assembled. They were incredibly realistic, painted to look like the real thing. A toy soldier. A ballerina, delicately balanced on one toe. A horse wearing a miniature leather bridle and saddle that looked like fairy-made versions of the real thing. Better than any factory-created toy she’d ever seen.

  She’d have given anything as a child to play with that ballerina. Without thinking, she reached for it.

  “Careful,” he said anxiously. “The paint should be dry, but…”

  “I didn’t know you made toys too.”

  “I get wood scraps from the Brady brothers. They’re carpenters.” Walter crossed his arms over his chest. “The man who runs the general store donated the paints. And the rest is bits of wire or fabric that wouldn’t be good for anything else anyway.”

  Was he worried that she disapproved of the expense? “I think they’re wonderful.”

  He moved closer to her, his movements suddenly loose and free. Pleasure crossed his face. “I take them to the orphanage in Austin on Christmas Eve.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Ever since…” Walter looked away, clearly uncomfortable.

  She’d opened her mouth and the wrong thing had come out. Again. “I’m sorry. I—”

  “I do it to honor my mother,” he said quietly. “She stayed with my father because she didn’t want me to end up in an orphanage. Said that would be worse. If those kids are more miserable than I was...they must truly be in hell.”