The Blacksmith’s Bravery Read Online Free PDF

“Where’s Griff? I’m hungry, and the next stage will be ready before I get anything to eat.”
    â€œHe’s working with Marty. Shorthanded, as usual.” Vashti looked around. “Any customers wanting tickets?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œAll right. You stay here, and I’ll run over to the Spur & Saddle and get you something.”
    â€œMrs. Thistle feeds us.”
    â€œAll right, I’ll go to the boardinghouse. Maybe she’ll let me bring you a plate.”
    Cecil nodded. “That’d be good. I don’t want to head out on the next leg with an empty belly.”
    Vashti hung her handbag behind the door and plodded over to the Fennel House. She was no closer to becoming a driver—in fact, she may have lost ground where Griffin was concerned. Johnny would regret putting the reins in her hands, and while Marty had unexpectedly come to her defense, Griffin hadn’t listened to a word he’d said. It was just as well. She didn’t really want to get her dress all dirty.
    By the time she got back to the Wells Fargo stop with Cecil’s plate, the coach was coming around the corner by the smithy. Cecil gulped a few bites and left his dinner half eaten on Griffin’s desk without so much as a thank-you. Johnny came back from his own dinner and wouldn’t let Vashti catch his eye. It made her boil, but she knew he was trying to get out from under Griffin’s ire. He and Cecil loaded the strongbox and climbed into their seats on the front. As the coach rumbled away, she let her shoulders droop. No tickets sold today. She’d put in more than two hours for nothing. Nothing but the feel of the lines in her hands for less than two minutes.
    A heavy step made the boardwalk vibrate. She turned. Griffin stood two paces away.
    â€œDon’t you be thinking you can drive the stage again.”
    She gulped and looked away. “No, sir.”
    â€œGood. Because if you try, I’ll fire the driver who lets you. And it’ll be your fault.”

    Griffin dashed about his one-room home, the other half of the smithybuilding. He always intended to get to church in plenty of time, but sometimes he lost track. Even though he had a watch, he couldn’t get used to being at the new sanctuary on the hour. For that matter, he still had trouble making sure the stagecoaches left at precisely the right time.
    He wet his comb and slicked down his unruly hair. He’d have to cut it again soon. Someone had mentioned that Augie Moore would cut hair for a dime. Maybe he should get the brawny restaurateur to do it. Augie was a good friend, and he was having a hard time financially, so it would be a good arrangement all around.
    By the time he got his hair to lie flat, it was soaked, with drips drenching the collar of his one good shirt. Griffin sighed and tried to pull the comb through his beard. The tangles put the brakes on that plan. He threw the comb down. No time to put on a tie. He grabbed his hat and ran out the door. Why had they built the church two blocks over, anyhow? When the congregation met in the old haberdashery on Main Street, he usually made it on time.
    The bell rang out over the town as he hit the boardwalk beside the Fennel House, and he lengthened his steps. Nice thing, that bell. The ladies had campaigned for it and raised money all last winter with bake sales and a quilt raffle. The preacher took three special offerings, and the bell had arrived on one of Oscar Runnels’s freight wagons a month ago. The sound of it made him feel as though he lived in a civilized town.
    A few stragglers climbed the church steps as he approached. That made him feel a little better. Of course, he’d never make it to Sunday school, though the preacher encouraged everyone to come out for that an hour earlier than the worship service. Griffin puffed up the steps behind the Nash family. Peter saw him coming and held the door open.
    â€œThanks,” Griff