As David stretched his arm out toward the sofa, a man rose to his feet. Slowly. Well, it wasn’t so much that his movement was slow, but that there was a great deal of him to unfold from where he sat.
At some level, her mind registered the preacher’s voice as he made the formal introduction, but the rest of her attention remained riveted on the giant in Emma’s parlor. If the mythical Hercules had been inspired by an actual person, this man would surely be a descendant. She’d never seen such broad shoulders.
Her gaze moved from his shoulders to his face. Square jaw. Firm lips. Straight nose, barring the bump on the bridge, where it looked like it’d been broken. Everything about him was hard—except his eyes. Vulnerability shone in their gray depths. Or at least she thought it did. He shifted his regard to the floor so fast, she couldn’t be sure.
David cleared his throat, and Eden blinked, realizing she was expected to speak. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. . . . ah . . . Mr. Grant.”
“Ma’am.” He nodded to her, his gaze barely brushing her chin before falling again to the floor.
Good heavens. How was she supposed to conduct an interview with a man whose size was so startling she could scarcely manage a coherent greeting?
Chapter Two
Levi forced his gaze away from the auburn-haired beauty standing beside David Cranford. This was Mr. Spencer’s representative? He’d been prepared to face a man like Mr. Draper—professional, practical, and more than a bit pompous, but a woman who looked like she belonged in some rich man’s drawing room? He’d be lucky to string a handful of words together under her scrutiny.
It wouldn’t be so bad if she were older, or pinched-faced or something. Even having her look down her nose at him would help. But, no. She had to be young, and prettier than a spring meadow in her green dress with the flowery ruffles. Yeah, he’d noticed. Noticed the way her eyes widened when she got a look at him, too. Wished he could tell if it was fear or appreciation that prompted that reaction.
“Come. Have a seat, Eden.” David Cranford ushered her to a chair near his own and waved Levi and Draper back into theirs. “We might as well get this business done while everyone is here.”
The banker grumbled something about interfering women, but Levi ignored the muttering as he retook his seat on the sofa. Draper might not think too highly of the female, but Calvin Spencer obviously did, and Levi had no intention of alienating the man’s representative, no matter her gender.
“Miss Spencer runs the library down the street,” Cranford explained to Levi as the lady removed her shawl and bonnet, draping them across the arm of her chair. “And since Mr. Spencer resides in Austin, she also serves as her father’s representative on town matters.”
Draper heaved an audible sigh. “Let’s forgo the explanations, shall we? All Mr. Grant needs to know is that Calvin Spencer owns the blacksmith shop he wishes to lease, and that, for some unfathomable reason, our founding father wishes his daughter to give her approval before the papers are signed.”
The banker dipped his chin toward the young woman, his voice brittle. “If you’d be so kind as to get this interview underway, Miss Spencer? Some of us have places to be.”
Levi dug his fingers into his knees, disgusted by the man’s attitude. He wanted to glare him into repentance, but instead, he turned toward Miss Spencer and tried to apologize with his eyes. “I’d be glad to”—Answer your questions?—“tell you whatever you need to know, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grant.” She offered him a small smile, and he returned the gesture, relief uncoiling the knots in his belly. “And please, call me Miss Spencer. Ma’am makes me feel decrepit.”
Her smile widened, and Levi tried to match it while the knots reasserted themselves in his stomach and climbed into his throat.
“You’re far from decrepit,” he assured her.
Her eyelashes fluttered as her gaze dipped to her lap, and Levi exhaled, grateful to have extricated himself for the time being, even though he knew he was doomed to offend her in the future. Her name had so many S’s in it, he’d hiss worse than a steaming kettle if he attempted to pronounce it. And if ma’am got her dander up, too? Well, he was sunk.
“So tell me about your work experience, Mr. Grant.” Miss Spencer’s lashes lifted, and her eyes glowed with purpose. “I’m sure Mr. Cranford has expressed our town’s need for a blacksmith, but let me assure you that I’d rather prolong our search than employ a smith who offers shoddy craftsmanship.”
Regardless of the opinions of the men in the room, the lady took her responsibilities seriously. Levi checked his posture, rolling his shoulders back slightly to make sure he was straight, then met her gaze head on. Time to get down to business.
Deliberating over each phrase, he pieced together a halting answer. “My father . . . taught my brother and me the trade. I’ve manned a forge . . . from the time . . . well, from the time I could hold a hammer.”
“And where are you from?”
He couldn’t say Huntsville. One, because he really couldn’t say it. And two, because everyone knew of the state prison there. Such a response would provoke too many questions. However, he’d not dishonor his new commitment to Christ by lying, either.
“I . . . grew up in Caldwell.”
“That’s south of here, isn’t it?”
Levi nodded. “Yep. Near Hearne.” He turned away from her for a moment, hoping to cut off the line of questioning that was growing increasingly uncomfortable. The unspoken code of the West was to let a man’s past alone. He didn’t know if that held true in employment interviews, but he’d do his dead-level best to invoke it if possible.
Miss Spencer shifted in her chair, as if sensing his unease, but instead of pressing the issue as he would expect from a woman determined to prove her mettle, she hesitated. For a time-stretching moment, she peered into his face as if searching for proof of his character, then blinked and steered the conversation in a different direction.
“You mentioned working with your father. Have you ever operated your own shop?”
“No, ma’am.” As soon as the ma’am left his tongue, Levi slammed his lips closed, but it was too late. Miss Spencer’s eyebrow twitched, and Levi dropped his gaze like a schoolboy trying to avoid a teacher’s scolding.
“Mr. Grant comes highly recommended,” the preacher interjected in an effort to smooth things over. “Your father found his references quite satisfactory.”
“I’m aware of that.” Miss Spencer’s brow arched even farther, but at least this time she was looking at someone else. “Yet it is still up to me to ascertain the smith’s suitability. So, Mr. Grant . . .” Her attention fixed on Levi once again. “Do you have any written documentation vouching for the quality of your workmanship?”
Levi forced himself to meet her stare without apology. “No.”
He hadn’t actually plied his trade in close to six years. But his time as a bare-knuckle fighter combined with the eighteen months spent breaking rock at the Granite Mountain labor camp had kept him fit. He didn’t doubt for a moment that he could swing a sledge as well as he ever had. Maybe better. Seeing as how this time around he actually wanted the job.
“Give me a month,” Levi urged, glancing at the banker and the preacher but focusing on the woman across from him. “If you find my work . . . inadequate . . . you can take back your offer.”
Eden held the man’s gaze. His offer was fair. More than fair, really—seeing as how he could have leveraged his skill against their obvious need in order to take advantage of the situation. But he hadn’t. No, he’d answered her questions forthrightly, and treated her with respect. There was an earnestness about him, too, that made her want to trust him. Not that she was foolish enough to trust a man she’d just met, but he’d wisely given her exactly what she needed to say yes—a way out if things turned bad.
“Can we write that into the lease, Mr. Draper?”
The banker scowled at her. “Would doing so get me out of here in the next fifteen minu
tes?” He deliberately pulled his watch from his vest pocket, checked the time, and clicked it shut before raising his eyes back to hers.
Eden bit back the retort that sat heavily on her tongue. Instead she favored him with a tight smile. “Having such a stipulation in place would assuage my concerns concerning Mr. Grant’s lack of references. Surely, it would only take a minute to add such an amendment to the lease papers.” She turned to David Cranford. “Do you have pen and ink, Mr. Cranford?”
“Of course.” The preacher pushed to his feet and crossed to the desk that stood in the corner. With a dramatic sigh, the banker followed.
Eden fiddled with the bonnet strings that draped over the arm of her chair and into her lap. Even though she and Mr. Grant were not alone in the room, it suddenly felt as though they were. She glanced in his direction, and her gaze collided with his. They both smiled, then quickly looked elsewhere. Well, Mr. Grant looked elsewhere. Eden couldn’t seem to find another object in the room on which to focus. But it wasn’t as if she wanted to look at him. The man was as big as a mountain. Where else was she supposed to look?
He certainly possessed an abundance of brawn. Eden’s attention flittered over his arms as he leaned forward and balanced his forearms on his knees. The fabric of his sleeves seemed too meager to contain the muscles within as it stretched over his biceps. The heavy aspects of ironwork would be no hardship for this man. It was unfortunate that his intellect hadn’t developed to the same extent as his physique. Then again, he wasn’t interviewing for a position as schoolmaster, so what did it matter? Except that it did matter—to her—a bit more than it should.
A vague feeling of disappointment had circulated through her when she first heard him speak. Why his halting verbiage should bother her, she had no idea. It wasn’t as if she had any personal attachment to the man.
Eden sat up straighter in her chair, uncrossing her ankles and then crossing them again in the opposite direction. She forced her eyes away from the blacksmith, glancing behind him to where Mr. Draper stood hunched over the desk, penning an addendum into the lease contract. Unfortunately, Mr. Grant chose that moment to straighten his own posture, the top of his head moving to block a good portion of the banker’s back and half of the preacher’s arm from her view. Eden bit the inside of her lip.
For heaven’s sake. She was tempted to think he had somehow discerned her intention to ignore him and taken action to prevent it. But, no. The man was just restless. He lifted a hand and scratched a spot behind his ear as he turned toward the window. When he finished, a small tuft of hair stuck out, somehow making the gargantuan man seem almost boyish. Eden’s lips curved slightly before she pressed them back down into an indifferent line. His thick, dark brown hair was cropped into short waves. She wouldn’t call them curls; that descriptor sounded much too feminine for a man as rugged as Mr. Grant. However, the strands looked as though they would easily wind around a person’s finger . . . should a . . . uh . . . person’s finger have cause to be in his hair.
The smith glanced back at that moment, and Eden dropped her gaze to her lap—where her right index finger had apparently wound itself up in her bonnet ribbon while she’d been contemplating the man’s hair. She immediately extricated the iniquitous digit and gave it a firm glare.
She wasn’t in the market for a man, and even if she were, she’d never be attracted to one who lacked wit and intelligence. It was not that she didn’t respect a man who worked with his hands. Skilled tradesmen were crucial to a town’s economy. Nonetheless, she couldn’t imagine spending her life with someone who was unable to converse with her about Dickens or argue the merits of Twain. Love of literature encapsulated too large a part of her not to share.
“It’s ready, Mr. Grant.” The banker cleared his throat, effectively cutting off Eden’s wayward thoughts. “Come, read over the lease agreement. Mr. Cranford can serve as witness.”
The smith rose and strode across the rug toward the desk. Eden jumped up and followed, an insistent inner voice demanding that she be allowed to read the addendum before the men signed it. She clamped her teeth closed against it, though. Mr. Draper already thought her enough of a harpy without her questioning his honor. Besides, David Cranford had observed the banker’s edits, and she trusted the minister’s integrity.
Mr. Grant nodded to the men as he accepted the contract. He swiftly reviewed the page, as if the legal jargon presented no difficulty for him, which caused Eden to raise a brow. That didn’t fit her image of him. Then again, the man was eager to obtain employment. He was probably just putting on a show—pretending to read in order to make a good impression before signing the papers.
Once Mr. Grant and the minister signed their names, Norman Draper stuffed the lease into his portfolio and held out his hand to the blacksmith. “Welcome to Spencer.”
Mr. Grant smiled and gripped the man’s hand. “Thank you. . . .”
There he went again. He opened his mouth to say more, then didn’t.
“One of our council members, Luther Colby, owns the local hotel and has offered to put you up tonight free of charge.” Mr. Draper collected his hat and tucked it into the crook of his arm. “Should you require additional time to search for more permanent accommodations, all subsequent charges will be your responsibility.”
The blacksmith nodded.
“Claude Barnes down at the livery has been filling in as temporary farrier, so he can show you around the shop.”
“I’ll . . . come by tomorrow morning.”
As the men shook hands and thumped each other on the back, Eden retreated and fetched her shawl and bonnet. She needed to be going, too. Verna would have a conniption if she showed up late for dinner—what with the Ladies Aid meeting tonight.
She slid the shawl around her upper arms and wandered back toward the kitchen to say her farewells to Emma. But before she left the parlor, she cast a final glance over her shoulder—and found the blacksmith watching her.
“Have a good evening, ma’am.” The deep voice vibrated through her like the low timbre of a concert cello. The only discordant thing about it was that he still called her ma’am. Perhaps he had forgotten her request. He’d been focused on securing employment, after all, not social connections. A little reminder might be in order.
“Congratulations on your appointment, Mr. Grant,” she said. “And please, do call me Miss Spencer.”
A strange look passed over his face, almost as if he were battling a rising frustration. Why on earth would he be frustrated with her? Hadn’t she just wished him well?
She tied her bonnet ribbons into a bow beneath her chin as she waited for him to answer, her hackles rising as each silent second ticked by.
Finally, he managed to spit out a “Thank you” accompanied by one of those generic nods he seemed so fond of. Either Mr. Grant had some sort of mental blockage when it came to names, or he didn’t deem hers worth remembering.
Eden turned and made her escape, telling herself in no uncertain terms that the tiny ache in her chest was a touch of indigestion, nothing more.
Chapter Three
Eden made every effort to banish Mr. Grant from her mind as she welcomed the members of Spencer’s Ladies Aid Society into her home for their weekly meeting later that evening. However, the new blacksmith seemed to be all anyone could talk about.
“My Chester told me everything over supper,” Hattie Fowler informed the ladies who clustered around her the minute she arrived. The woman hadn’t even removed her cloak. Yet she didn’t seem to mind. She just flapped her wings and gathered her chicks closer. Hattie loved nothing so much as being the purveyor of social information.
“Norman Draper reported all the pertinent details to the council, and Chester reported them to me. The man’s name is Levi Grant, and he used to work in his father’s smithy down in Caldwell.”
Immediately, an image of Mr. Grant rose in her memory, and not the imposing one that was easier to dismiss, either. No, hearing his first name summoned the picture o
f him with his boyishly mussed hair made all the more charming when contrasted against his very mannish musculature.
The moment Eden felt her mouth begin to tip upward at the corners, she shook off the recollection and stepped forward to touch Hattie’s arm. “Let me take your wrap, Mrs. Fowler.”
“Thank you, dear.” Hattie managed to hand over her brocade cloak and matching lace cap without forfeiting any momentum. As she prattled on, answering questions and expounding opinions, Eden slipped into the smaller private parlor across the hall and gently deposited the items on the settee with the other coats and hats.
When she returned, she attempted to skirt the group of ladies standing in the center of the reading room so that she could check on Verna in the kitchen, but Melody Cooper called out and stopped her.
“There you are, Eden. Come here. Come here.” Her hand rotated in small, frantic circles as she waved Eden closer. “You must tell us.”
“Tell you what?” Eden asked as she approached, propping up her hostess smile with an extra rod of patience.
“What the new smith looks like. Hattie told us you were there.”
“Yes, Eden. Tell us.” Hattie stared at her—not unkindly, but in a fashion that left Eden with the impression that the woman wished her to hurry and be done with it so she could continue holding court.
“Well, there’s not much to tell, really. He’s tall and looks to be fairly strong. I imagine he’ll do a fine job.” She began to edge away.
“But is he handsome?”
“Does he wear a beard?”
“How old would you say he is?”
“What color is his hair?”
The barrage of questions peppered her like tiny bullets. The firing squad closed in on her, their eager faces swimming in Eden’s vision as panic rose in her chest.
She should have stayed in the parlor with the cloaks.