The next morning, Ty stoked the fire and couldn’t get Betsy’s words out of his head. There won’t be a husband…. What a terrible thing for her to believe. Shouldn’t a young woman with a heart as sweet as hers dream of falling in love? My family needs me. She’d said the words so simply, so calmly—as if it were a fact no one ought to question; but there’d been something in her eyes that made him wonder if she’d been hurt by a foolish local buck who told her he didn’t need her. A woman deserved to be needed and loved … and Betsy Larkin is some woman.
Ty turned back to his anvil to examine the horseshoe. He planned to shape the next one just a shade wider. He’d slipped into the Larkin’s barn last night and pried the shoe off their mare. He’d noticed she was nodding down—a sure sign something was wrong with one of her hind legs. He suspected the problem lay with the mare’s shoe. The least he could do was make a new one—especially after he’d spent all Sunday afternoon at the Larkin table, eating the finest, most flavorful roast he’d ever tasted.
“Excuse me.”
Ty set down the shoe as he pivoted around. His pulse sped up. “Miss Larkin! How nice to see you this morning.”
Morning sun slanted in through the wide-open double doors and bathed her in a golden glow. The heightened color in her cheeks made her freckles disappear, and the nut-brown color of her homespun dress made her eyes look even more enchanting. She stared at the anvil. “Excuse me, Mr. Walker, but I need to ask if … that,” she jutted her chin toward the horseshoe, “belongs to me.”
“Of course it doesn’t.” He leaned casually against a rough wood workbench and grinned. “You’re a lady. That shoe belongs on a horse.”
Her eyes widened, and she gave him a disbelieving laugh. “I see you’re a clever man with words. Does that shoe belong to Jenny?”
He lifted a shoulder negligently. “Used to. It was loose and a tad on the small side. I figured since I was just starting up the fire in here today to get a feel for things, we’d do each other a favor—I’d fix up Jenny, and it would allow me a simple task so I could become accustomed to my shop.”
“I’ll tell Pa so he—”
“No need for that.” He waved a hand at the cobwebs and scattered tools left in disarray by the untimely death of the previous blacksmith. “You can see I need to put things in order, and the morning’s chilly. I’d have fired up the forge, anyway.”
“I’ll send Karl over after school to help you clean a bit. He might be on the small side, but he’s a good worker. I’ll expect you tonight for supper, too.”
Ty adjusted his leather apron. “Miss Larkin, am I to figure you and I are starting a habit of swapping howdies and favors?”
“Pa and I have a rule. We won’t be beholden to anyone.”
“I live by the same standard. Wonderful as Sunday supper tasted yesterday, I’d best put you on notice: I’m going to search for things to do for your farm every now and then since you counter my labors with meals.” He waggled his brows playfully. “In fact, lovely Miss Larkin, I have a confession to make.”
“Oh?”
“I’m all thumbs when it comes to fixin’ vittles, so I just might start making everything from doorknobs to shutter dogs to earn me a place at your supper table.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Mr. Walker, you’re getting the short end of the deal on that—especially since we also have a policy that there’s always an open place at our table.”
Karl and Mr. Walker arrived about a half hour sooner than Betsy anticipated. She had a length of wool laid across the table and was trying to figure out how to get dresses for both girls and a skirt for herself out of it. No matter which way she worked it, she lacked fabric.
“Hey, Sunshine,” her new neighbor said, “why are you wearing clouds?”
Sunshine? No one ever called her anything other than Betsy or Sis. The way he rumbled the sobriquet coaxed a smile from her. “I’m a bit short on the measure.” She felt her smile fade when she caught sight of Karl’s dirt-and-soot-covered clothes.
“We got his shop all put to rights, Sis,” Karl boasted. Like the new blacksmith, his hair was wet, and his face and hands looked freshly scrubbed.
Mr. Walker rested his palm on Karl’s head. “Aye, he’s a hardworkin’ lad.” He rumpled Karl’s hair and ordered, “Now remember what I said. Go grab something else to wear. Your sister doesn’t need you smudging her tidy home. Best if you change outside, then shake these out. When’s laundry day?”
“Wednesday,” Betsy said. She tried not to show her dismay. She seriously doubted Karl’s clothes would ever come clean. She let out a small sigh and resigned herself to cutting britches for him from the wool. She could make do without a skirt for awhile yet.
Pa came through the door. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday. You getting ready to go to Miz T’s again, Betsy?”
“Yes.” She hastily folded the cloth and set it aside. She could cut the dresses out after supper. Hungry men shouldn’t have to wait. She put biscuits in the large, shallow kettle and hung it high above the fire so they’d bake without burning. Next, she knelt on the flagstone hearth. The rich aroma of venison stew filled the house as she stirred the pot. “Ruthie Schmidt said she’ll mind Greta for me again.”
Pa pulled out a bench and sat at the table. He gave her a rueful look. “I ripped the elbow of my shirt.”
“It happens,” she said. “I’ll try to get to it after supper. Will, the wood box is nigh onto empty.”
“I’ll help you fill it.” Mr. Walker walked out the door with her little brother. A minute later, the ring of the ax sounded. There wasn’t an immediate need for wood to be chopped. Pa already had seven cords done. Clearly, Mr. Walker wasn’t a slacker.
“He’s a good man, Betsy,” Pa said softly.
“He’ll make a fine neighbor.”
“A man like that would likely make a good husband, too.”
She opened the kettle and pretended to check the biscuits, even though she knew they weren’t anywhere near done. She didn’t want Pa to see the longing in her eyes. “We’ll have to introduce him around, then.”
“So Betsy, tell us about your new blacksmith.” Samantha brushed a speck of lint from her black dress the next day as they sat and sewed in Mrs. T’s pristine parlor.
Betsy concentrated on mending the rip in Pa’s shirt. “He’s not mine. His name is Tyson Walker, and I’d be happy to introduce you.”
“What is he like?” Samantha pressed.
“I just met him at church two days ago.” Betsy wished her cousin wouldn’t be so curious or perceptive. She bit the thread and knotted it. “I could scarcely have anything more than a weak first impression of Mr. Walker.”
“Weak?” Elsa laughed merrily. “Oh, he’s anything but weak. Shane said Mr. Walker shot a five-point buck early this morning and carried it from the woods to his place over his shoulders without a bit of help!”
“Then we can assume he’s not going to go hungry this winter,” Mrs. T said matter-of-factly. She used her porcelain thimble to push the needle through several layers of wool. “Though with Betsy’s good cooking and the Larkins’ hospitality, I didn’t worry for a moment that he’d starve.”
“Speaking of food,” Betsy said in an attempt to change the subject, “Samantha, I still want your recipe for that scrumptious squash casserole.”
“I’ll write it down for you. Mama made that one up. She loved it, too.” Samantha blinked back tears.
Betsy set aside her needle and squeezed Mantha’s hand. Mantha gave her the “be brave for me” look, so Betsy forced a lighthearted tone. “As much squash as I grew this year, we’ll probably eat that casserole for the next month!”
Mrs. T took the cue, laughed, and picked up the Bible from the side table. “The reading I chose for today is about how God abundantly supplies all of our needs.”
Betsy carried the big willow basket full of freshly mended clothes on her hip. Underneath them, a wool dress she’d begun for Greta lay stuffed in a clean sugar sack. Betsy would work on it late at night and use the daytime hours when Marie was at school to stitch on Marie’s. Christmas was coming up fast, and she wanted to have something to give each of them. She’d spent much of the summer sitting out on the porch in the evening, spinning while Marie carded the wool.
Pa had planted a full acre of flax. Less than half that would have been gracious plenty to weave the linen they’d need for the year, but Betsy held her silence. Some days, his anger toward God was a fearsome thing. When he grew restless or bitter, she was just as happy for him to be out plowing a field or spending his wrath on the earth. Though he’d come in worn out those nights, he never looked at peace.
He still refused to go to church. He sat in stony silence as Betsy led the children in prayers. Most evenings, when she read to them from the Bible, he’d go out to tend the beasts in the barn. It burdened her terribly to know he’d turned his anger toward God. Still, Pa allowed her to worship under his roof and take her youngers to church. For now, that had to suffice.
Maybe she could squeeze in more time at her loom. With all that extra flax, the extra cloth—no, she shook her head. As it was, she barely seemed to get everything done. Aunt Rachel used to help now and then when the mercantile was slow, but since she’d died, even that little bit of help was gone. With winter coming on, Betsy knew she’d spend more time indoors, but she’d learned to use the cold months to do other things.
Marie and Greta were five steps ahead. Marie had just learned to skip. Greta fancied that she could, too, so she galloped alongside her sister and giggled with glee. Karl and Will dawdled behind her until the smithy came in sight. They both sped up. “Let’s go see Mr. Walker!”
“Boys! Don’t bother him. He’s at work!” Even as she called to them, Betsy knew it was a lost cause. Part of her wanted to hasten, too; but that would be unseemly, and she didn’t want to look like she was interested in the handsome, strong, new man in town.
Mr. Walker showing up for church of his own accord spoke volumes. The noontime conversation on Sunday made it clear he honored the Lord and loved reading the Bible as much as she did. Betsy admired a man who lived his relationship with God so naturally. There was something about having a man say grace or mention the Lord that made a house feel safe and her heart feel warm. Especially with Pa at odds with the Almighty, it would be wonderful to have a Christian brother so close by.
Long before she reached the wide-open doors of the smithy, Betsy could smell the smoke and hear the clang of hammer on metal. The blows carried a rhythm and music the previous smith never attained. It reminded her of the joyful peal of the church bells. Betsy felt her heartbeat change to match the hammer’s cadence, and she felt a shiver of delight at stopping by to see Mr. Walker. She stood behind the children, but their chatter had already garnered attention.
“Hello, my new little friends! It’s so nice of you to stop to see me when school is over for the day.” He looked past them, and his smile widened as he spied Betsy. “I pounded together a small fence there, just inside the door. That way, the children can come watch when they have your permission, but you won’t need to worry that sparks or slivers of metal will hit them.”
“You’re very thoughtful, Mr. Walker. You needn’t feel obligated to entertain my little brothers and sisters.”
He chuckled. “I have a feeling they’ll entertain me far more. You’re always welcome, Miss Larkin—you, and the kids. Did you have fun, visiting with your friends as you sewed?”
The tilt of his smile made the welcome personal. She felt her cheeks grow warm and tried to hide her reaction. “Yes, the sewing circle is special. Mrs. T—that is, Mrs. Tidewell—is a lovely woman. She took to heart the verse in the Book of Titus that exhorts the older women of the church to guide and instruct the younger ones. She invites us over each Tuesday for tea, sewing, and Christian fellowship.”
His head tilted to the side a bit. He glanced down at the children, then back at her. A flash of understanding glinted in his eyes. “Must be nice to talk things over with womenfolk and have a chance to sit down for a few minutes.”
“I confess, I do look forward to Tuesdays almost as much as I anticipate Sundays. The reverend has a way of making the Bible come alive.”
“I noticed.” He shoved back an errant lock of hair. “If the ground is wet again this Sunday, I’ll stop by with my horse so we can all ride.”
“Oh, but you shod Jenny.” Though Betsy demurred, something deep inside dared to hope he’d insist.
Concern furrowed his brow. “Even if you and little Greta ride Jenny, these other kids are getting so big, it’s precarious for all of them to share a horse.”
“I could ride with him, Sis.” Marie’s awestruck look and tone made it clear she’d be delighted to do so.
“Hey! Me!” Will pounded his chest. “He’s a boy. Boys stick together.”
“I’ll take turns giving all of you rides,” Mr. Walker said diplomatically.
“Even Betsy?” Greta asked.
The blacksmith looked at Betsy with twinkling eyes. Her cheeks felt scorched by heat, but he simply chortled and shrugged. “Told you they’d entertain me. Tell you what, kids, I hope to repair the sleigh over on the side of the smithy. When it snows, we’ll ride to church in style. That’s how your big sister will ride with me.”
The children chattered excitedly. “Misser Wakka, can I go, too?” Greta asked.
He leaned over the spanking new fence and hoisted Greta high. Rolled-up shirtsleeves left his ropy forearms bare, accentuating his strength and making it clear he took pains to be extra gentle as he playfully bounced her up and down. “Hmmm. I suppose you don’t weigh too much. We’ll tuck you in.” He stood her on the fence and kept his huge hands clasped around her. “If we’re going to be friends, ‘Misser Wakka’ sounds like a big mouthful for a half pint like you. Why don’t you call me Ty?”
“Sometimes I tie Betsy’s apron,” Marie said as if the name and the verb were all the same.
To Betsy’s amazement, Ty took Marie’s childish reasoning in stride and looked down at his sooty leather apron. “Her apron doesn’t look anything like mine.” He carefully set Greta back down beside Betsy. “Can’t say I end up looking very respectable once I set to work.”
“Pa gets sweaty and muddy all of the time,” Karl declared. “Betsy says that a man who comes home clean didn’t mind his work. Course, she makes sure Pa washes up on the porch and scrapes his boots ’fore he comes inside.”
“I’ll remember that tonight. Your pa invited me to supper. I hope you don’t mind, Miss Larkin. He and I were making some neighborly arrangements, and he told me to be there just past sunset.”
Glory, what will I fix? I was just going to sliver ham bits in some noodles….
“I brought down a buck this morning,” he continued, completely unaware of the panic he’d set her into. “We stuffed a roast in the pan, if that sounds all right to you. Your pa is sowing the winter wheat today, so I figure he’s going to have a fair appetite, too.”
“Yes. Yes, he will,” Betsy stammered. How could one man upset the balance of her day with just a few sentences? “I’d best go slide it on the spit right away. It was very generous of you to share it with us. Come, children.”
“Bye-bye, Misser Ty,” Greta said. The others echoed her—including Betsy. Once she caught herself being familiar, she felt the telltale tingle of another blush.
“I’ll see you later—all of you.” He lifted his hammer. “I’m looking forward to your delicious cooking, Miss Betsy.”