Nathan’s hammer rang against the horseshoe he was fashioning, splitting the air with a rhythmic ping, ping, ping. Most of Calico’s blacksmithing responsibilities fell to him. Luckily, he didn’t mind. He liked the feel of the hammer in his hand, relished the challenge of molding the metal to his will. Now that the weather had cooled, he enjoyed the chore even more.
Pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow, he stretched his back and shoulder muscles while he scanned the dusty street for a sign of Abigail and Lizzie. Abigail, especially, had been in his thoughts all day. She had gone in search of work, hoping to find a female or two willing to pay for the services of her needle. The money she’d managed to save wouldn’t go far if she didn’t find a job soon.
He threw a glance at the blue sky, which was dotted here and there with fluffy clouds. “I’m not asking anything for myself, You know.” Bitterness rose in his throat. He knew better than to lay his own requests before God, but maybe Abigail’s… How could God not love someone as kind and generous as her? “She’s alone. She needs this. Help her—please.”
The clouds continued to drift lazily across the heavens, as silent as ever. What had he expected? Thunder? Lightning? He was no Moses, and God no longer guided men from pillars of smoke and fire.
Fighting a rush of anger, Nathan tightened his grip on the hammer and delivered one final blow to the horseshoe. The jolt of metal on metal traveled up his arm to his shoulder.
It was good. Something tangible he could focus on. Not the wrestling match he’d been waging with an unseen God ever since Charlotte died.
He tossed the horseshoe onto a growing pile. It landed on top with a clang and then rolled off and settled in the dirt.
“Pa! Pa!”
He turned in time to see Lizzie break away from Abigail and hurtle across the street toward him at a full run. He held up his hand and brought her to a skittering halt.
“Mind the fire, Lizzie, and the hot water.”
She stopped, her eyes wide, and waited while Nathan wiped his hands on a towel. When most of the grime was gone, he bent and scooped her up. “Well?” he asked as Abigail caught up to them. He searched the woman’s face for a lessening of the anxiety he’d read there earlier. “Did you girls have a good day?”
Lizzie erupted into chatter, but his gaze remained locked onto Abigail. For the first time in many days, he glimpsed the hint of a real smile. Relief sagged his shoulders, but not wanting her to see it, he turned his face and pressed a kiss to Lizzie’s cheek. “You did good work today, little one.”
She grinned and then her blue eyes widened. “Pa, did you know Mr. Stacy has a mail dog? He has his own pouch and everything.”
“A what?” Nathan laughed and looked at Abigail.
“The postmaster,” she replied, her smile growing. “I stopped by today to see if there was any news from—any correspondence for me.” She went on before he could remark on her choice of words. “It seems he has a new friend—a black-and-white shepherd he found laying on his porch.”
“His name’s Dorsey,” Lizzie interrupted. She wiggled until Nathan put her down. Holding her hand up to her chin, she said, “He’s this big, Pa, but he’s not mean. He’s nice. He likes to lick.”
Probably the same cheek Nathan had just kissed. Abigail caught his grimace and laughed. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, bowing close. “All clean.”
Nathan’s heart jerked. Charlotte used to read his thoughts like that. It both startled and pleased him that Abigail could too. He turned his attention to Lizzie’s insistent tugging on his hand.
“Mr. Stacy said I could visit Dorsey sometime, but Abigail said I need to ask you first. Can I, Pa? I want to see Dorsey delib”—she stumbled on the word, her small brow bunched—“libering—”
“Delivering,” Abigail supplied.
“De–libering the mail. Please?”
As if he could deny that face anything. Nathan chuckled and pinched the end of Lizzie’s nose. “He actually delivers mail?”
“Uh-huh.” She rubbed the spot he’d tweaked, her gaze earnest. “Mr. Stacy puts the letters in his pouch and Dorsey carries them away.”
Abigail smoothed a blond tendril from Lizzie’s forehead. “Mr. Stacy has a partner in a mine near Bismarck, just outside Bar-stow. Apparently when the two need to correspond, they do it via Dorsey.”
Unable to help himself, Nathan watched Abigail’s hand tuck Lizzie’s hair back into place. She did it almost without thought, as though it were second nature.
“Nathan?”
“Uh…” Caught staring, he blinked and dropped his gaze to his daughter’s oval face. “That would be a sight.”
“So you’ll take me?” Eyes hopeful, Lizzie clasped her hands under her chin.
“Yes, sugar. I’ll take you.”
She squealed and sent her ruffled skirts flying as she ran off to play with Charlie. Her childish voice rose and fell as she told the old mule all about Dorsey.
Alone with Abigail, the need to fill the silence became pressing.
The smile remained on Nathan’s lips as he crossed his arms and looked at Abigail. “A mail-carrying dog, eh?”
Her slender shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Mr. Stacy insists he’s more dependable than the stage.”
Nathan laughed and rested his hip against the anvil where he’d been working. “Which really isn’t saying much.”
She laughed too, her fingers absently twisting the string that bound her reticule. “No, I guess not.”
In the distance, the normal sounds of the town floated sluggishly on the afternoon air, breaking what otherwise might have been an awkward silence. After a moment, Abigail looked away and plucked at the fabric of her dress. “Well, I guess I’d best see to that gown Mr. Wiley asked for.”
Nathan lifted an eyebrow. So, God did still answer prayer—now and then. “He placed an order?”
She shook her head. “Not really—just agreed to let me display a couple of things in his store. If they sell, he promised to commission more.”
He was stalling, Nathan realized, because he wasn’t ready for his conversation with Abigail to end. It was good to see this side of her again—this less-troubled, more hopeful side—and he couldn’t help but want it to continue. He shoved off the anvil and stood before her, squaring his shoulders. “I’m glad. I hope it all works out.”
“Me too. If the dress sells, I may be able to look into the mining accident and try to figure out what really happened.”
Her lashes swept up, revealing her sparkling brown eyes, and Nathan felt himself drawn to them—dangerously so. A man could lose himself in those depths. He swallowed, hard, and jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Well, I suppose I should let you get to work.”
She swept a stray lock of hair behind her ear with one hand and pulled at the lace around her collar with the other. “Yes, you too.”
“I appreciate your keeping an eye on Lizzie today.”
“She was no trouble,” she said quickly. “I enjoy spending time with her.”
Abigail didn’t appear in any hurry to leave either. Instead of backing away as he should have, Nathan found himself stepping closer. “I–I’m happy for you, Abigail. About Mr. Wiley, I mean.”
Was it his imagination, or did her breathing quicken?
She licked her lips. “Th–thank you.”
The air around them felt charged, like the split second before a bolt of lightning ripped the sky. A second longer and Nathan would have found himself irresistibly drawn to taste that same mouth he’d just been studying. Ashamed at where his thoughts had taken him, he whirled and fumbled to pick up the file he used to smooth the horses’ hooves. He held the tool high. “Back to work.”
“Back to work,” she repeated, her voice a whisper.
The folds of her navy-striped skirt billowed as she spun away. She grasped its sides to keep it from brushing the dirt and almost ran the short distance to her cabin—in a hurry to get away from him, it seemed, and well she should. At that moment, he was no better than those mongrels from the saloon he’d warned her about.
Still, with each stride, Nathan willed her to turn, to send one last glance in his direction. In fact, she did turn just before her foot crossed the threshold, but not to look at him. Instead of wistfulness for his company, it was a scream that made her hesitate—a cry so filled with pain and fear that it sent rivers of dread coursing through Nathan’s veins. The file slipped from his fingers and landed with a thump at his feet. That panicked voice belonged to—
Lizzie.