The Blacksmith’s Bravery Read Free Page B

critical eye over the work she had done. “It appears I am.” He nodded at her grudgingly. “Thank you, missy.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. Do you expect Mr. Bane back today?”
    â€œNope. Not until the stage comes in tomorrow. I’ve got to get up to the office and see if anyone wants tickets for the two o’clock. When the next coach comes in, someone has to be there to meet the passengers. Then the driver will bring the coach around here to switch the teams, so I’ll have to run back over here….” He pushed his hat back and sighed. “Best get going.”
    â€œI can tend the office,” Vashti said.
    Marty’s brow furrowed.
    â€œI can,” she said. “Mr. Bane offered me a position to sell tickets for him. That’s why I came here this afternoon. Wanted to tell him I’d do it. So if you want, I can start now. Give me the key, and I’ll open the office and meet the incoming coach.”
    â€œYou know how to make out the tickets?”
    â€œWell…” She gritted her teeth. “Not especially, but it can’t be too hard.”
    Marty shook his head. “Griff’s got a table telling the prices for all the stops. It changes every now and again, and Wells Fargo sends him a new one. You have to look up the destination and put the price on the ticket.”
    â€œI can do that.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œSure as sunup.”
    Still he hesitated. “I’d best go over there with you. Griff didn’t say nothing to me about a gal getting to have the key to the office. I’ll unlock for you. Most likely there won’t be any tickets sold, anyhow. We hardly get any passengers going out on Thursday.”

    At a quarter past ten the next morning, the stagecoach rattled up Fergus’s main street. Driver Bill Stout flourished his cowhide whip, and the horses obliged by stepping along smartly. On the box nextto Bill, Griffin dug in his pocket for the watch that had once been Cyrus Fennel’s.
    Griff squinted down at the hands. It always took him a minute to work it out. He’d learned to tell time as a kid but hadn’t practiced in more than twenty years. After Cyrus died, his daughter gave Griff the watch when he took over her father’s Wells Fargo contract.
    The coach was late. He’d known that since before they pulled out of the stop at Dewey. Bill was a good driver, but last night’s rain had left the roads a little sloppy, so the delay had increased.
    If he was figuring the time right, they were twenty minutes late. Griff sighed and closed the watchcase. Could be worse. Of course, if Cy Fennel were alive, he’d threaten to fire Bill for being late.
    They pulled up hard in front of the office. Griff climbed down carefully to open the door for the three passengers—a rancher’s wife returning home and two miners coming into town to dispose of their meager findings. Ned Harmon would have jumped down from the box like a monkey, but Griff was too big and too old—yes, he was feeling his age after hours of jolting along on the hard box—to do that.
    When he reached the ground and turned around, a vision in blue satin skirts stood on the boardwalk. Vashti Edwards again, complete with a ridiculous feathered bonnet that must have come from that Caplinger woman’s millinery shop. She may have quit wearing knee-high skirts and plunging bodices, but she hadn’t parked her vanity at the church door when she found her faith, had she?
    â€œMorning, Mr. Bane,” she said. “I hope you had a nice trip down from Silver City.”
    He grunted and turned to open the door. Mrs. Tinen grabbed his hand, gingerly climbed down, and stepped toward the rear of the coach to claim her bags. That was the messenger’s job, too. Griff waited while the two miners eased down to earth; then he shut the door and shuffled around to the back. Bill had climbed over the top of the coach and