Brides of Arizona, page 33
Terror won. Lavette stepped back to make an exit. Her movement must have caught the blacksmith’s eye, for he looked up. Like a rabbit caught in a snare, she froze. Intelligence shone from his black eyes along with something else she couldn’t quite name. He stared, his hammer poised for a blow that never fell. Now that he faced her, she could see he was as handsome as she’d dreamed he would be, with rounded cheeks and a slightly flattened nose. His face split in a wide grin. Lavette couldn’t breathe. Oh, she was right. This was a dangerous man.
Josiah Washington usually lost himself in the rhythm of his work. Once, he’d loved the solitude and the pounding beat of the hammer falling on the metal. During these times he felt closest to Jesus. Lately, he’d needed that closeness. Although he had friends in Tucson, an ache of loneliness had begun to needle at him. He watched his friends Lieutenant Conlon Sullivan and his wife Glorianna, and now Deputy Quinn Kirby had married Kathleen O’Connor. They were so happy. They shared something special between them. Every time he saw them together, Josiah couldn’t stop the heart-wrenching anguish that filled him.
Shame filled him. He should be thankful to God for the friends he had. Before he’d led Conlon to the Lord, he’d had no friends as such. Since then, he’d become close with the Sullivans, the Kirbys, and friendly with the other Christians who worshipped with them. These believers agreed with 1 Samuel 16:7. Instead of looking at his skin color, they looked at his heart. He should be content with that.
Jesus, I don’t mean to complain, but I’m tired of being alone. If this is Your will that I remain single all my life, then please remove the desire I have for a wife. But, Lord, if You have someone in mind, let me know clearly when I see her. Thank You, Jesus.
With a lithe movement, Josiah slipped the hammer from his right hand to his left. He hated the thought of ending up with one arm bigger than the other like some blacksmiths did. When his father taught him to shoe horses, he also showed him the trick of working the metal with either hand. Josiah made sure to keep in constant practice.
Something moved at the front of the shop. Josiah looked up, expecting to see one of his regular customers bringing him a new job. He’d never lacked for work since leaving the cavalry and coming to Tucson. Some of the other blacksmiths complained because their steady customers preferred Josiah’s work to theirs. He didn’t intend to take away their clients, but he wouldn’t compromise his work ethics, either.
The heat from the hot metal he was working rose in undulating waves in front of him. A mirage. That’s what he was seeing. She certainly wasn’t one of his regulars. Delicate bone structure gave her heart-shaped face an ethereal look. Her flawless complexion, dark coffee with a touch of milk, made his fingers twitch with a longing to touch. Josiah’s chest began to ache. He realized he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled and drew in a deep, ragged breath. This was the woman of his dreams, the woman God made to be a helpmeet for him. Oh, that she could be real and not a vision.
She moved. Josiah caught his breath. She took another small step backwards. Suddenly he knew she wasn’t a mirage, vision, or dream. She was real—a living, breathing person. God, is this Your answer? Is she the one?
Josiah’s hammer clattered to the floor. They both jumped. He hadn’t even realized he was losing his grip on the heavy tool. He glanced down at the iron scraps the hammer had fallen on, feeling stupid as he tried to pull his thoughts together. When he looked back at the door, she had stepped close enough to it to be framed by the bright sun. Wisps of curly black frizzed out from the rest of her hair, which was pulled back into a neat bun at the base of her neck. A look of uncertainty or fear widened her already large eyes. A burst of compassion such as Josiah had never known raced through him. He wanted nothing more than to care for this woman and to protect her from whatever she feared.
She turned to leave.
“Wait.” Josiah stretched out his hand, wishing he could reach across and stop her. Panic rose up at the thought that she might go, and he would never have the chance to find out her name.
She hesitated, her face still turned away.
Stepping around the bench, Josiah closed the distance between them in two quick strides. In slow motion, she twisted back around to face him. The scents of cinnamon, fresh bread, and wood smoke wafted up from her.
“Cinnamon.”
“What?” The vision’s melodic voice matched the rest of her.
Horrified, Josiah realized he’d spoken his thoughts aloud. “I, uh.” He glanced around, hoping to come up with something that would sound plausible. He didn’t. Josiah shrugged. The truth was always best anyway. “You smell like cinnamon.”
She looked down, her impossibly long eyelashes brushing like delicate butterflies against her cheeks. Josiah was in the act of lifting his hand to touch her face when he caught himself. What was he doing? He didn’t even know her name. For some reason, he couldn’t think clearly. Frantic that she would disappear, he struggled to think of something to say. Why was she here?
“Oh.” Josiah’s gasp of the word caused the angel to look up. “Is there something I could help you with, Miss?”
“Johnson.” A small smile flitted across her lips.
Josiah stared at her. He couldn’t figure out what she was saying. He couldn’t remember what he’d asked.
“Lavette Johnson. My name is Lavette Johnson.” She tilted her head back and managed to look at him. Even her eyes reminded him of spices. The rich brown depths glowed with intelligence and humor.
“Josiah. Washington.” Josiah knew she must think him a complete dolt. He couldn’t drag his gaze from the multitude of wiry strands of hair framing her face like a troop of fairies dancing in pure joy at her beauty. He could feel from the stretching of his cheeks that he must be grinning at her, but he couldn’t seem to quit.
Lavette took a step away, then held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet ya, Mr. Washington.”
For the first time, he noticed her pronounced Southern accent. He thought he could listen to her talk all day, even if she never said anything even halfway important.
“We don’t stand on much formality out here.” Josiah did his best to scale down the overpowering grin to a smile. “You can call me Josiah.”
Once more, her eyelashes rested on the gentle slope of her cheek. “I don’t believe I know you well enough for that, Mr. Washington. Perhaps if we become friends, I will consider using your given name.”
Friends? Had she said they might become friends? Josiah wanted to do cartwheels like that young fellow who worked at that sideshow had done.
“Hey, Smithy.”
Josiah tensed. Even the smile left his face. He straightened and turned toward the opening of his shop. Bertrand Mead. He’d know that voice anywhere. One of the drawbacks of being in business was the necessity of serving the public, no matter how difficult they were. Bertrand Mead was worse than difficult. Mead owned a hostelry and saloon. To all intents and purposes, he gave the appearance of being a well-to-do businessman. Josiah knew differently. He knew about the secret houses Mead was suspected of running. There was even talk about him bringing in young girls from back East to work there—girls too young to work anywhere except doing chores for their mama or papa. The thought of such an immoral action made Josiah’s blood boil.
Stepping around Miss Johnson, Josiah nodded at the fancy-dressed man seated in a small buggy. “What can I do for you, Mr. Mead?” Josiah’s voice must have held a warning, for Lavette moved a step closer, like she was trying to hide behind him.
“I want you to take a look at my team.” Mead gestured at the matched bays hitched to his buggy. “They haven’t been shod in awhile. I think the mare is getting ready to throw a shoe.”
Standing several feet away from the horses, Josiah could still hear the faint click of a loose shoe as the mare fidgeted. “Would you like me to stop by and get the horses, or do you want to leave them now? I can take care of them as soon as I finish the job I’m working on, if you like.” Although he didn’t care about pleasing this customer, Josiah did his best to keep contact with Mead to a minimum. The faster he finished the man’s horses, the sooner he could be out of his oily presence.
“I have a little business down the street, so I’ll leave them now.” Mead stepped down, landing gingerly in the dust, careful of his polished shoes. He brushed imaginary dirt from his pant leg, then tossed the lead rope toward Josiah. The mare jerked her head away, white showing around her eyes. In one swift move, Josiah swept up the rope. He stepped closer and began to soothe the startled horse, wondering if Mead abused the animal to have her react like that.
“Well, well, what have we here?”
Josiah whirled around at Mead’s question. He’d forgotten that stepping toward the mare would expose Miss Johnson. When he moved, she was no longer concealed from Mead’s sight.
Lavette stared at the ground in front of her. Her hands clenched the folds of her skirt. Small white teeth caught at her bottom lip to keep it from quivering. She looked terrified. Josiah understood. The Southern accent. The hesitance at meeting his eyes. She’d once been a slave. She knew the power a white man had over a black girl. No wonder she was so scared.
Wrapping the lead rein around the hitching post, Josiah let his long stride carry him between Mead and Miss Johnson. “I’ll have those horses ready for you in an hour, Mr. Mead. You can go ahead and take care of your business.”
Mead moved to the side of Josiah. His shifty gaze traveled over Miss Johnson in a way that made Josiah want to wipe Mead’s face in the dirt. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Josiah wanted to groan as the verse popped into his head. Most of the time he found it easy to allow the Lord to work. Right now, he wanted to take over and do things his way rather than wait for God to handle matters.
“I don’t believe I’ve met this young lady.” Bertrand looked at Josiah. His ice blue eyes glinted with an evil look. “Perhaps you could introduce us.”
Clenching his teeth, Josiah stepped to Lavette’s side. “Miss Johnson, this is Bertrand Mead. Mead, Miss Johnson.”
Mead bowed low, sweeping the hat from his head. “This is truly a pleasure, Miss Johnson. I’m sure I can’t wait to get to know you better.” He lifted her hand to his lips.
With a small cry, Lavette yanked her hand back. Lifting her skirts, she raced away down the street.
Chapter 2
Closing the kitchen door behind her, Lavette leaned back against the wood, her legs trembling so hard, she wondered how she managed to make her way home. She’d gone from total elation to complete terror so fast, her mind was still catching up to her body. When Bertrand Mead had touched her, all she could feel were the times Miss Susannah’s father would catch her alone and put his slimy hands on her. She shuddered. Bile rose in her throat. What was she to do? Would Mr. Mead find out where she lived?
Her breathing slowed, and Lavette made her way to the bucket of water by the stove. Wetting her face, she thought how nice it would be to wash away her troubles as well. She hadn’t been around Master Brennan, Susannah’s father, in nine years, yet she could still see and feel him as if he were here in this room. Growing up, she’d lived in terror of the man. Even when she was a young girl, Mr. Brennan would look at her in a way that made her uncomfortable. As she grew older, she learned to never be near him without Miss Susannah close by.
“Lavette? Are you here?” A thin, quavery voice came through the doorway, followed by deep, hacking coughs. A bell tinkled.
Lavette dried her face and hurried to the front bedroom where Mrs. Sawyer rested. The elderly woman lay on her side, her translucent skin taking on a slightly bluish cast. She held a handkerchief to her mouth as the coughs racked her frail body. Her gray-white hair, flattened on one side, curled around her face.
Moving to the basin of water on the night table, Lavette wet a clean rag to wipe the perspiration from Mrs. Sawyer’s brow. The features on the left side of Mrs. Sawyer’s face still sagged a little, refusing to work properly just as her left arm and leg gave her problems. Eight months ago Lavette had come home from shopping to find Mrs. Sawyer lying on the floor, pale as death. The doctor diagnosed the problem as apoplexy. He assured Lavette that her mistress might improve, but the improvements would be slow and would take a lot of work. Then he showed Lavette how to help Mrs. Sawyer exercise her limbs and suggested she encourage her to talk, even though the sounds were garbled.
For the first few weeks, Lavette felt nothing but despair as she tried to help the kind lady. The muscles refused to respond. Mrs. Sawyer couldn’t seem to say the simplest words that once flowed with ease. As the day wore on and she tired, the responses were smaller. By evening, Mrs. Sawyer would be in tears, and Lavette often felt like joining her.
Lavette refused to give up on the exercises and made Mrs. Sawyer repeat certain words every day. Bit by bit, she began to improve. Now, after eight long months, her speech faltered only a little, and she walked a short distance with Lavette’s assistance. Her movements were still very slow, but even the doctor praised them both for the progress they’d made. It hadn’t been easy coming out here. They’d taken the trip in short distances, and each day had taken its toll. Still, they’d made it. Now, although she had a nasty cold, Mrs. Sawyer seemed to be gaining strength.
“Is Gretta coming by today?” Mrs. Sawyer’s gaze sought Lavette’s.
“She’ll be here in time for the evening meal.” Lavette forced a smile and a light tone, not wanting Mrs. Sawyer to know the horror she’d faced this morning. After all, this woman wouldn’t understand the terror and the power white men had over her.
“I need to get up and dressed.” Mrs. Sawyer’s voice was hoarse from all the coughing. Sweat popped out on her brow as she tried to sit up unassisted.
“Not yet.” Lavette put her arm behind Mrs. Sawyer for support as she plumped the pillows and piled them behind her. Then she eased the older lady back until she rested against the cushioning. “Dinner is a long way off. You need to rest so you’ll be ready for those rambunctious grandsons of yours.”
Mrs. Sawyer’s pale blue eyes lit with some of their old sparkle. “They are quite a rowdy trio. I wish I felt good enough to get up and run with them. Why are they coming so late?”
“Your son-in-law will be able to join you for tonight’s meal. Your daughter will be here in the afternoon with the children, then he will join you at dinnertime.”
Mrs. Sawyer gave Lavette a smile that shone with sincerity. “He’s such a wonderful young man and so good to Gretta and the children.”
“I’m sure he’s as wonderful as you say.” Lavette finished straightening the covers.
“I’ll bring you some breakfast, then you can rest for awhile.” Lavette hurried to the kitchen, having noted the tired circles beneath her mistress’s eyes. She wouldn’t be awake for long and needed some nourishing food to continue gaining strength.
The familiarity of the routine gave Lavette time to think as she worked. Her thoughts strayed back to this morning, to the time before that repulsive Mead had accosted her. Instead, she could clearly recall the blacksmith’s warm smile and dark eyes. Had his eyes shone with interest in her? Her pulse quickened, and for a moment, she allowed the childhood dream of husband and family to wash over her. She imagined the patter of bare feet racing across the floor and the eager smiles on the small faces. Those smiles all resembled the friendly grin of a certain blacksmith.
With a final tap, Josiah finished the last shoe on Bertrand Mead’s mare. He patted her, rubbing down her neck and scratching her ears. She sure was a sweet horse. If he ever found out Mead was mistreating her, he’d take her away from the man. No one should be allowed to own animals if he abused them.
“Have you finished?”
Josiah turned around at the sound of Bertrand Mead’s voice. The bay pressed close against Josiah’s side.
“Yes, Sir.” Josiah patted the mare’s neck, hoping to reassure her. She tried to dance away as Mead stepped closer.
Mead raised the short buggy whip, his eyes flashing with anger. “Stupid horse. I should sell her and get a decent one.”
“Would you like me to hitch her to the buggy?” Josiah stepped in front of the mare, hoping to keep Mead from hitting her.
“Fine. See to it.” Mead crossed to stand in the shade near his buggy, the whip flicking against his leg in a steady rhythm.
Doing his best to soothe the skittish mare, Josiah urged her back into the traces next to the other bay. Her eyes rolled as she tilted her head to keep an eye on her owner. Nostrils wide, she snorted and stamped, the opposite of the sweet, contented horse he’d finished shoeing.
“There you go, Sir.” Josiah strode to her head to give her a final pat as Mead climbed into the buggy. “She’s a fine animal. They make a smart-looking team.”
“Of course they do.” Mead’s icy gaze chilled Josiah. “I wouldn’t have anything less.” He leaned forward, his gaze riveting. “Speaking of smart looking, who was the young lady with you earlier?”
“I introduced you to her.” Josiah wanted to walk away and ignore the question. He could picture slime dripping from this man.
“Yes, I remember her name.” Mead slapped the whip against the side of the conveyance, causing both horses to jump. Mead jerked the reins. “I want to know who she is, where she lives.”
Josiah breathed a silent sigh of relief. At least he could answer honestly. “I only met her this morning. I don’t know where she stays.”
Mead’s pale eyes fastened on Josiah’s with a gaze that would have intimidated many men. A slow, feral smile tilted his lips but didn’t reach his eyes. “I have plans for that girl. You don’t often find beauty like hers.” His eyes took on a thoughtful gaze. “I wonder if she can sing as pretty as she looks. Imagine what she would do for my business. Of course, there are other ways a beautiful girl can be useful.”
