The Blacksmith’s Bravery by Susan Page Davis Page B

started to leave but turned back. “Oh, and I almost forgot. I owe you for the boy clothes. I want to settle up with you for those.”
    Libby spread her delicate fingers. “Mr. Bane told me to put them on his account.”
    Vashti opened her mouth. For years she’d turned down men’s offers to buy her fancy things—laces and ribbons and silk petticoats—knowing they’d want more than a pretty thank-you in return. Now a man was buying her clothes, but they were thick work boots and a leather vest.
    â€œIt’s part of his business expense,” Libby said quickly.
    Vashti gulped and nodded. “All right. I’ll come back later.”
    â€œDon’t forget your basket.”
    â€œThank you!” She grabbed the gathering basket with the buns in it and hurried outside and down the boardwalk to stand before the office door. A man walked across the street from the Fennel House.
    â€œTicket to Dewey.”
    Vashti went inside and made out his ticket. She took his money and put it in the cash box Griffin kept in his desk drawer. The man watched her, unblinking, the whole time, and she cringed as she handed him the ticket. If only she were wearing that green dress. She rose and stepped toward the door, wondering what she’d do if he didn’t move.
    â€œYou’re all set for your ride to Dewey, sir. Excuse me.”
    He stepped back, and she exhaled. She went out again to wait for the stagecoach. Peter Nash came out of the post office. He usually met the Boise coach to claim the town’s sack of mail. His presence put Vashti more at ease.
    â€œHello, Mayor,” she called. The traveling man took a few steps down the boardwalk and leaned against the office wall.
    â€œGood afternoon, Miss Edwards. How did your run to Silver City go?”
    â€œJust fine.”
    Mr. Nash smiled and chatted pleasantly with her. Soon she heard the stage coming. Johnny Conway, the regular driver on the Boise run, didn’t blow a horn when he came into town. He just ran thehorses like a pack of demented wolves were after them. Griffin didn’t like that. Come to think of it, why was Johnny racing the team like that with the boss inside the coach? Vashti peered down the street, trying to see through the cloud of dust that approached with the stage.
    Johnny pulled up with his usual showmanship—yelling to the team to whoa and stopping them on a dime—if there’d been a dime lying in the street, that is. Vashti shook her head and scowled at him. He looked down and grinned at her, touching his whip to his hat brim.
    â€œAfternoon, Miss Edwards. Don’t you look fine?”
    â€œWhere’s the boss?” Vashti had already noticed that Lenny Tucker, one of the regular messengers, rode the box with Johnny, and none of the faces she could see through the coach window had her boss’s exuberant beard and shaggy head of hair.
    â€œHe didn’t take the stage back.”
    â€œWhat?” Vashti stepped closer to the coach. Lenny jumped down on the other side and hustled around to open the door. “Where is he?”
    â€œHe told the station agent in Boise he was buying some stock for the line and driving it home.”
    â€œOh.” Vashti sagged and let out a big sigh. So much for the buns and careful toilette.
    â€œWe passed him an hour out of town,” Johnny said.
    She straightened. “So he’ll be here soon?”
    â€œSoon enough.”
    â€œIs his nephew with him?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œWhat’s he like?”
    Johnny shrugged. “He’s a kid.”
    Lenny set a sack of mail on the walk. “There you go, Mayor.”
    â€œThanks, Lenny.” Mr. Nash hefted the sack and swung it over his shoulder. “I guess a few folks in Fergus will be getting mail today.” He ambled off up the street.
    Two passengers got out and headed for the Nugget.
    â€œWe’ve got three more sacks of mail to go on to the