When everyone else rose for the benediction, Miz Betsy stayed seated.
Other folks started to leave, but still, she sat there. Towering over her felt rude. Ty couldn’t very well shove his way into the stream of folks ambling down the aisle, though. Big as he was, he worried about bumping into someone. He barely heard Miz Betsy’s whisper, “Karl, my boot needs tying.”
Karl bobbed his towhead and knelt at her feet. A second later, he held up a bedraggled length of string. “It broke, Sis. I’m sorry.”
She sighed softly. “These things happen. We’d best be on our way. Pa will be hungry.”
Sis. Pa. That answered that question. Ty felt a surge of delight. She wasn’t taken … yet.
The church was close to empty. A few folks stayed to visit here and there. Ty left the woman and her kids behind. As he met the preacher at the doorway, he heard an uneven footstep. The slight clump and drag bothered him. Betsy would likely rub a blister on her heel if she didn’t knot the ends of the lacing string back together and tie up her shoe.
He and the preacher both turned toward her at the same time. When she’d walked up to the church with the smaller girl perched on her hip, Ty hadn’t given it a thought—but now that the little one lay draped across Betsy’s arms, he realized she was a fair burden for a petite woman to carry.
When he reached out for her toddler, Betsy gave him a startled look. “I’ll tote her for you, Miss.”
“Now isn’t that nice,” Pastor Tidewell said. “Betsy, this is Tyson Walker. He’s the blacksmith we’ve all been waiting for. Mr. Walker, this is Betsy Larkin. You’ll be seeing a fair bit of her and her kin. Their farm is the first one on the edge of town, so that makes you neighbors. Being here all on your own, you’re fortunate to have friendly folk so close by.”
Betsy clung to her sister and dipped her head as she murmured, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Walker.”
“Likewise, Miss Larkin. Here. Let me help you.” He gently took the child from her arms.
Miss Larkin’s smile could light a forest at midnight. “If you could hold her just a moment, I’d dearly appreciate it.” She turned her attention back to the parson. “Pastor Tidewell, that message touched me deeply. I surely do appreciate your Bible learnin’.”
“Thank you, Betsy.”
Ty watched her take off her gloves. She’d bleached them white as could be. Compared to the red, dry skin on her hands, they looked whiter still. Unaware of his scrutiny, she tucked the gloves into her sash, stooped, and modestly lifted her mud-splattered hem just enough to tend to matters. She started to mess with the string she used to lace up what was obviously a man’s boot. A boot far too big for someone her size.
His eyes narrowed. Her gown wasn’t supposed to be slate blue. Time, sun, and daily wear and tear faded the fabric … but they hadn’t managed to leech a single dab of this woman’s zest for life. He tried to be subtle as he studied the children. They were all clean. Hair combed, slicked, and faces scrubbed pink as could be. They stayed in a huddle beside her, and he reckoned all of them probably felt cowed by his hulking size. To his dismay, kids often feared him.
Miss Larkin didn’t quite manage to quell her sigh. She straightened a tad, took off her hat, and pulled a washed-out looking blue ribbon from it. As she used the ribbon to bind the ankle of her boot tight, Ty stared at her. The thick, golden braids she’d looped around her head looked like ripened wheat sheaves.
“If a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her.” First Corinthians 11:15 sang in his mind. Indeed, the verse applied more to this woman than to any he’d ever seen. He wanted to reach out, touch her plaits, and test their softness. Certainly, a woman who had such a tender heart and gentle voice would have hair soft as spring rain. Instead, he disciplined himself to divert his attention to the tiny girl in his arms. “How old is this little dumpling?”
“She’s three,” said the other girl. “I’m Marie. I’m five. Karl is eight, and Will is six and a half.” Without even blinking, she continued, “Betsy is nineteen. She’s the oldest.”
Ty winked at her. “Thank you, Marie. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m afraid if I bow to you as I ought, I’ll drop your baby sister.”
Giggles spilled out of the little girl. Her big sister rose and smiled at him. She gently reminded Marie, “Thank the gentleman for his respects.”
Marie dipped a surprisingly dainty curtsey. “Thank you, Sir.”
“And thank you for holding Greta.” Betsy closed the distance between them and made a basket with her arms to receive her youngest sibling.
Ty eased little Greta a bit closer to his heart. He liked holding her. She was soft and sweet-smelling, and the way she nestled close to him in her sleep made him feel glad for his strength instead of clumsy from his size. He tried to keep his voice soft to allow her to slumber on. “You lead the way, Miss Larkin. I’ll tote her to your wagon.”
“We rode the mare,” Karl griped. “Betsy didn’t want us to get muddy.”
“Washing muddy clothes is hard work,” Ty said in a man-to-man whisper out of the side of his mouth. “She and your mama already—”
“We don’t got a ma.”
“We don’t have a mother,” Betsy corrected her brother in an even tone. “But we’ll see her at the banqueting table in heaven some day.”
“Speaking of food,” Karl said, “I’m powerful hungry, Betsy. What’re you fixin’ to have for supper?”
“She put a roast in a pot over the fire before we left,” Marie reported, “and there’s peach cobbler for dessert.”
Ty’s mouth watered. He’d not eaten breakfast, so the mention of food caught his attention.
Miss Larkin looked at him, then at the minister. “Pastor, you and your wife and Mr. Walker are welcome to our table. There’s gracious plenty.”
The pastor chuckled. “Edna ordered me to come home for Sunday supper today. She doesn’t want the trout I caught yesterday smelling up the place. Mr. Walker looks like a man who appreciates a good meal.” The pastor smiled at the blacksmith. “You’re in for a mighty fine treat. Betsy can cook like a dream.”
Before Ty could say a word, Karl yanked on his brother’s brown, woolen, broad-fall pants. “C’mon, Will. If we don’t drag Sis outta here, she’s going to start jabbering with everyone ’bout quilts and sewing again, and I’m too powerful hungry to last through that.”
A fetching blush tinted Miss Larkin’s cheeks. She let out a self-conscious laugh. “You don’t look like you’re languishing, Karl.”
Karl tilted his face toward Ty. “Sir, I spent all mornin’ smelling something good baking. Matter of fact, that was ’bout all I could set my mind on for most of the service.”
“Karl!”
Karl ignored his big sister’s chide. “So if you’d take pity on me and head toward our farm, Betsy would race right after you. She keeps an eagle eye on our Greta.”
Ty watched as embarrassment and resignation warred over Miss Larkin’s pretty face, then shot her a bolstering grin. “Would you rather I ignore him, or shall I threaten to eat his slice of dessert for not attending to the pastor’s words?”
Karl let out an outraged yelp as his sisters and brother laughed. Betsy turned to lead her tribe outside. Ty stepped alongside her. Most women shied away when he came close. They’d let their heads drop back and stare way up at him like he was evil old Goliath, come back to life. Miss Larkin didn’t. She busied herself hanging onto Will’s shirtsleeve and calling to Karl not to step into the mud.
Karl climbed atop a stone and flung himself over the horse’s back, then sat up. His independent spirit was fun to behold, but Ty wondered if Betsy sometimes got a bit weary, trying to keep up with him. She cupped her hands around Will’s middle and got ready to heft him upward.
“Whoa there.” Ty frowned at her. “You’re not aiming to hoist a strapping young man like Will, are you?” He temporarily passed little Greta over, lifted Will onto the mare, and then looked down at Marie. “Come here, Smidgen,” he said as he peeled off his blue, store-bought suit coat.
“Smidgen?”
“Yes, Smidgen. You’re just a little dab of a gal. I think you’re just the right size for a piggyback ride.” He draped the coat over the hitching post, effortlessly slung Marie onto his back, and settled her hands on his suspenders so she couldn’t choke him. He picked up his coat again and reached over to rob Betsy of little Greta.
“Oh, my! They’re too much for you to carry!”
He ignored her protest. As he enveloped the toddler in the folds of his coat and smoothly stole her away, he said, “I don’t think you have any call to fret, Miss.”
“Nope, you don’t need to worry none,” Karl agreed as he eyed Ty with undisguised interest. “He’s pert’ near big enough to drag a plow himself, Betsy.”
“Karl! Mr. Walker is not a horse!” She looked at Ty with apology shimmering in the brown depths of her eyes. “Please forgive him. He’s liable to let any half-baked thought flee from his lips.”
Marie shimmied up his back a bit more, peered over his shoulder, and rubbed her soft cheek against his. The action held a catlike affection that warmed his heart. “Karl’s wrong. You’re not big as a horse; you’re big as a mountain! I can see forever and a mile from up here!”
“Oh, mercy,” Miss Larkin moaned.
Ty chuckled. “You needn’t worry, Miss Larkin. It’s no secret I’m a big fellow.”
“Which Miss Larkin are you talkin’ to?” Marie asked with all of the gravity a self-important child could muster.
“Now that is a knotty problem.” Ty craned his head a bit so he could wink at her. “There are three of you.”
“Greta’s a baby still. Nobody calls her Miss Larkin yet.”
“Nobody calls you Miss Larkin, either,” Will tattled from horseback.
Betsy unhitched the mare and started to walk. “Nobody’s going to eat supper if we listen to your silliness.”
Ty paced along slowly, careful to keep his stride short to measure hers. “You might be a smidgen, Marie, but you’re still a young lady. What say I call you Miss Marie and call your big sister Miss Larkin?”
“Don’t think you ought to do that,” Will said. A frown twisted his face. “Makes Sis sound like an old maid.”
Ty studied Betsy for a long moment. Until now, she’d been modest enough not to stare at him, but she’d met his eyes. Suddenly, her lashes dropped, and she looked as if she’d rather be dancing barefoot on hot ingots than subjected to his scrutiny. He softened his voice, “No one would ever believe she’s an old maid. There must be a dozen bucks coming to your door, wanting to court such a fine-looking, God-fearing young woman.”
“Nope.” Karl shook his head and had to shove a lock of white-blond hair off his forehead. “Sis feeds ’em and sends ’em packing.”
Marie clutched his suspenders tighter. “She’s feeding you, but you don’t have to go packin’. We like you.”
Ty chuckled. “I surely do think I’m going to like being your neighbor. Since I’m the blacksmith, you can bet I’m not going to pack up and leave. The anvil is too heavy to move!”
Though he teased lightheartedly with the children, Ty noticed how Betsy kept silent. Her reserve intrigued him. Why had she sent other men packing? She didn’t seem angry or standoffish. Maybe she was a tad on the shy side. With her sister and brothers acting like chatterboxes, she probably didn’t get much privacy or peace.
The mare knew her way home. Once they reached the yard, the boys rode her into the barn. Betsy led Ty to the freshly chinked log cabin. He took care to scrape the mud off his boots before he ducked under the lintel and inside.
She watched as he knelt on the blue rag rug between the hearth and trestle table, then coaxed Marie to slide off his back. Not many men were this tolerant of her rambunctious siblings, yet he’d handled them as if they were his favorite little cousins. For such a giant of a man, he managed to keep his bass voice at a quiet rumble. The sound of his deep, soft words made Betsy feel strangely warm inside. So did the way he tenderly looked down at Greta.
“Do you want this little snippet to wake up for supper, or shall I put her to bed?”
“She’ll nap awhile longer. I’ll take her—”
He shook his head. “No, Miss Larkin. You just tell me where to lay her down.”
His dark, wavy hair looked like it needed a trim. Betsy silently scolded herself for thinking anything so personal about a stranger and led him over to the far side of the cabin. She pulled back the thick, green wool blanket that partitioned off the small bedroom she shared with her sisters. For a moment, she wondered what he thought of her home. Though bigger than most log cabins, it wasn’t fancy in the least. Farming and frills didn’t go together.
A smile broke across his face. “Karl mentioned something about you and quilting. I can see why. That piece you have on the bed is handsome as can be.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at the Star of Bethlehem she’d pieced out of several shades of blue and green in hopes it would brighten the dim space. “I just finished it last May.”
He carefully lowered Greta into the center of the bed the three sisters shared, then smoothed a few curls away from her forehead before he stepped back.
Betsy’s heart melted. His gentleness disarmed her. He might be big, but a softness in his hazel eyes and something about the way he took care to leash his strength left Betsy feeling she could rely on him. She silently unhooked Greta’s little shoes, gave them each a small twist to help them come off more easily, then took away his coat and covered her with a well-worn, pink-and-white-striped, flannel blanket. Greta wiggled onto her side and popped her thumb into her mouth.
“She’s darling,” the blacksmith murmured as he slipped the coat back up to cover his brawny shoulders. “All of them are. You take mighty good care of them. Someday, your husband will be glad of all of your experience with children.”
Straightening up and ignoring the twinge in her heart, Betsy shook her head. “There won’t be a husband, Mr. Walker. My family needs me.”