Blacksmith Brides Page 5

  “As a blacksmith, aye. But not as a suitor for their sister.” Da crossed his arms and leveled his no-nonsense stare at Alexander. “’Tis one thing to work for a man, ’tis another entirely to try and enter his family. Nay, laddie, take your mam’s advice. Look on the lassies from church. Any of them would be proud to marry a man like you.”

  A man like him.

  Alexander clenched his teeth. He was bone weary of being seen as nothing but a blacksmith. He was so much more, or at least he could be. The frontier held all the possibilities he meant to fight for and hold to.

  But he couldn’t tell Da that, not without making it sound like he didn’t appreciate the skills he’d learned at Da’s elbow. He wasn’t some ungrateful wretch. But he wasn’t just a blacksmith either. He felt called to be something more. And as illogical as he knew it was, he wanted Mistress Meg McCracken by his side.

  October’s chilly wind blew down the street, the remains of fall’s spectacular foliage skittering and twisting before it. Meg wrapped her heavy shawl around her shoulders and pinned it in place. It was woven in the McCracken tartan. She smoothed the fabric with her fingers, pride in her family flowing through her. It was an honor to wear her family’s colors.

  She’d thought a lot about honor these past two weeks with the sting of learning Alexander was leaving. The Patriots needed good men, men like her brothers and her father. She’d come to accept that now. So why would Alexander leave? They needed him, but he had chosen Daniel Boone over the Patriots, over her brothers … over her. That’s what stung.

  It didn’t help that she knew she was being ridiculous over a man she’d seen only a few times in her life.

  There was nobody she could talk to. Mother had finally lessened her hovering since the accident by the river. Meg wasn’t going to risk stirring that up again by mentioning Alexander. Robbie talked of nothing but the war, except to extol the virtues of Daniel Boone, or laugh at her for not recognizing a man whom he practically idolized. She certainly couldn’t speak to Father or her older brothers.

  She shook herself out of those dreary thoughts and ran her fingers through Gulliver’s creamy mane, the musky scent of him like a balm. “You listen to me, at least.”

  He swung his face her way. She slipped a piece of apple from her pocket and held it under his velvety white nose. While he munched his treat, she gathered the reins and mounted. With her skirts settled, she turned Gulliver toward town. She had nothing to do and nowhere special to go, but she craved the fresh air and exercise.

  A wide-brimmed straw hat adorned with ribbons and feathers caught her eye in the window of the millinery shop. She stopped Gulliver to admire the gold-and-green creation.

  “Watch out there. Out of the way!”

  Meg twisted in her saddle. A coachman on a tall black carriage gestured wildly as he shouted again, his team of horses pounding toward her. Gulliver spooked at the shouts, stepping sideways and stumbling. Meg fought to regain her balance and turned in time to see a well-dressed elderly gentleman in the carriage tip his hat to her.

  “Of all the nerve.” She soothed Gulliver with one hand while watching the carriage speed down the road.

  “Do you know who that was?” A matronly woman stood in front of the millinery shop, stretching to watch the carriage.

  “Someone with very bad manners, I assume.”

  “’Twas Mr. Franklin himself.”

  Benjamin Franklin? Meg looked again, but the carriage had disappeared from view. “He has returned to town?”

  “Aye, poor man. You know his wife died last year. He must be terribly lonely now.” The matron patted at her elaborate curls that puffed from beneath a frilly hat meant for a much younger woman. “And did you notice that he tipped his hat to me?”

  “If you will pardon me, I must hurry along.” Meg nudged Gulliver into a trot. Anything to get away from that gossipy old woman. Imagine, saying such things on a public street to someone she didn’t know. And about Mr. Franklin no less, whom her father esteemed greatly as a man of wisdom.

  Gulliver stumbled again. Meg pulled him to a stop next to the boardwalk.

  “’Tis his off front shoe, mistress.” A young lad with straw-colored hair poking out from under his cloth cap pointed at Gulliver. “Half off, ’tis.”

  She jumped down and walked to Gulliver’s right side. Sure enough, the shoe was twisted on his hoof. He must have caught it when he stepped sideways to avoid the carriage. Of all the luck.

  “Thank you, laddie.” She dug a coin from the purse that hung from her wrist. “Could you tell me where the nearest farrier is?”

  “Closest be ‘round the corner on South, mistress. Ye’re almost there. Can’t miss it.” He offered a wide grin with a couple of teeth missing.

  “Is that the Ogilvie smithy?”

  “Aye, mistress, but they be a farrier if needed. I seen one workin’ on a horse just this mornin’, I did.”

  She tossed him the coin, and after catching it, he sprinted down the street.

  Taking a closer look at her surroundings, she let out a huff. How had she gotten so close to Alexander’s smithy without realizing it? Or had this been her destination all along, and she hadn’t admitted it even to herself? However it had happened, Gulliver needed a farrier. She led him down the street and around the corner, wondering if it was only her horse that needed to see a certain blacksmith.

  Alexander clamped onto the bar of iron and beat the glowing end to flatten it, only half aware when Thomas left his side to see to a new customer.

  “Can I help you, mistress?” Thomas asked from the doorway of the smithy.

  “I hope so. My horse has dislodged a shoe.”

  Alexander whipped his head around. Meg McCracken stood in a beam of sunlight, looking like an angel escaped from heaven. She’d returned. He’d kicked himself for a fool these past two weeks for letting her go without speaking to her the last time.

  Now she stood before him again.

  The iron bar slipped from Alexander’s tongs and crashed into the hot coals of the forge. He fumbled the hammer trying to catch it, and the hammer landed on his boot.

  “Pay no attention to my brother, mistress. I’ll be happy to look after your horse.” Thomas smiled at Meg and ran his hand down Gulliver’s shoulder.

  “Nay. I shall see to the lady’s horse.”

  “I think not—”

  “I said I shall see to it.” Alexander stood as straight as he could on his throbbing foot, and glared at his brother.

  Thomas frowned at him, looked at Meg and then back at Alexander. His eyebrows rose toward his hairline.

  Eyes locked with his brother’s, Alexander tipped his head toward the forge.

  Thomas looked at Meg one more time then stepped away from Gulliver and mumbled, “Are you daft, lad?” as he brushed past Alexander.

  Daft? Probably. But he wasn’t about to lose another chance to speak with Meg. “’Tis a pleasure to see you again, Mistress McCracken.”

  She ducked her head and twisted the reins in her hands. “Gulliver and I were out for a ride when he took a bad step.” She gestured to the twisted shoe. “We were not far from here.”

  Was she letting him know she didn’t search him out on purpose?

  He ran his hand down the gelding’s shoulder and picked up the hoof. He pulled a pair of nippers from his apron pocket and cut the shoe away. “He has done no damage to his hoof, and the shoe is still in good shape. All it wants is to be reset.”

  Thomas stood near the forge but kept watch. Alexander turned Gulliver around and tied him to the hitching rail out front. Away from Thomas’s ears and eyes. He pulled a couple of nails from his apron pocket and settled Gulliver’s hoof between his knees.

  Why didn’t she say something? Why did she stand on the other side of the horse?

  He drove in the first nail then another, until the shoe was set. He clinched the ends and let Gulliver’s hoof loose. The gelding stomped it once and flicked his tail.

  “That’s a
ll he needed.” Alexander patted the horse on the rump as he walked around him.

  “How much do I owe you?” Meg reached into her purse.

  He laid his hand over hers.

  She gasped and looked up.

  Her blue eyes stunned him yet again. His mouth dried while his pulse stuttered.

  “No charge.”

  “But I must. I owe you something.”

  “You could meet me at the river on Sunday afternoon.”

  Chapter 7

  What was she doing? Meg eased Gulliver down the slope where the river path neared the water’s edge. She approached the watering spot like a bucket drawn from a well, powerless to change course. Her parents would shackle her to a chair in the parlor if they ever learned she’d sneaked out to meet a man. She looked over her shoulder, but no brothers followed, so she reined Gulliver around the last hedge of willows.

  Alexander stood in almost the same place he had when they’d accidentally met here weeks ago. When she’d landed in the mud, and he’d escorted her home. But this time he wasn’t facing the river or fighting with a fish. This time he was waiting for her, making her insides flip like the fish in the basket at his feet.

  He took hold of Gulliver’s bridle and offered her a hand to dismount. She bit back her usual retort about not needing assistance and placed her gloved hand in his bare one. He smiled, and the creases on each side of his mouth deepened. She slid to the ground next to him. He took a step closer.

  “You came.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I’m glad.”

  His tawny eyes, shaded by his hat, lit with emotions that made her reclaim her hand. She turned and looked at the river as he tied Gulliver beside his horse. His basket lay open, already half full of fish.

  “You have been here for a while.”

  “Aye. ’Twas a short sermon this morning, so I got an early start. Yours must have gone on some longer.”

  “’Twasn’t easy to slip away.”

  A frown marred his brow. “I did not think you would have to sneak off.”

  “’Tis only recently I have been given leave to ride alone. And since the last time here ended rather badly …”

  He grinned. “I did not think it ended badly. Your brother did not challenge me to a duel.”

  Her cheeks heated at the memory. “Mother was less than amused.”

  “I can imagine.”

  He stepped closer.

  She stepped away.

  “Mr. Ogilvie—”

  “Alexander.”

  “Mr. Ogilvie.” She took a step toward the river and then turned and faced him. “I’m not sure why I came here today. Nothing good will come of it.”

  “Because I’m a blacksmith, you mean.”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist and drew in a deep breath. “Because you are going away. Because you are not joining the Patriots and fighting for our independence.”

  He dropped his chin against his chest for a moment and then paced down the riverbank a few steps. Just when she was sure he wasn’t going to speak again, he squatted and picked up a smooth stone. With a flick of his wrist, it skipped across the surface of the Schuylkill.

  “Do you think me a coward?”

  “I know not what to think.”

  He plucked another river stone and skipped it after the first.

  “How could you know?” Alexander stood and gave her a sad sort of smile. “’Tis what most people will think. It does you credit that you did not assume. I thank you for that.”

  “But …”

  “You wish to know why.”

  The answer to this had plagued her for weeks. She needed to know. “I do.”

  “I know not if this will make sense to you. Heaven knows my own family does not understand.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And you have grown up as part of the gentry.”

  “My father and brothers work. They build things.”

  “They lay out the plans. ’Tis the sweat of others that builds them.”

  She opened her mouth to argue but snapped it shut again. He had a point. Father didn’t come home with hands covered in black, the way Alexander’s hands had been the first time they’d met. Father directed others because he was smart and creative. She straightened and lifted her chin. “Someone must design and oversee such work.”

  “I agree. ’Tis something to be admired and … strived for.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I’m not saying this well. I’m not good with words. But I want to be more than a blacksmith. I feel, deep in my spirit, that my destiny lies somewhere else. I’m not afraid to fight, but this is not my fight.” He pointed to the west. “Over the mountains there is land. Raw land ready to be made into something new.” He half raised his hands and dropped them to his sides. “I want to be a part of that. I want my chance to rise above being the third son of a blacksmith. I want something … of my own. ’Twill not be easy. ’Twill not be without its own dangers and battles. That is the fight I’m drawn to. That is my fight.”

  The longing in his voice sent tingles along her arms. For someone not good with words, he’d painted a powerful picture of the life he wanted. Not unlike her father, who had built a whole new life when they arrived on the American shores from Scotland. “I can understand that.”

  “Can you? When you have always been given whatever you wanted?” His eyes locked onto hers.

  She sensed that her answer mattered to him. Mattered deeply. But he’d no idea what he’d just insinuated, surely. Whatever she wanted? She clutched her hands to her collar, beneath her chin, as she searched his face. “Mr. Ogilvie—”

  “Alexander.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment and opened them again. “If I could receive whatever I wanted, my father and brothers would not be preparing for war.”

  She was right and Alexander knew it. It had been unfair of him to imply that her life was perfect, just because she’d been born into a wealthy family.

  If he could have whatever he wanted, she’d come with him to Kentucke.

  “Perhaps nobody receives whatever they want,” he said. “I’m willing to work for what I can. And fight to keep it. I have no future here other than a life spent bent over a forge. No matter who wins this war, my lot will be the same. But I can build something for myself in Kentucke.”

  He swallowed, hard. If only he had William’s glib tongue and quick wit. He took a step toward her. This time she didn’t back away. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? “Meg.”

  Her mouth dropped open at his use of her name.

  “Meg, I want to know if there could ever be—” He cleared his throat. “If you could see a way—” Sweat gathered across his brow. “Would you be agreeable to seeing me if I approach your father?”

  A blue jay winged overhead and landed in the willow thicket, scolding them with its raucous voice. One of the horses snorted. The breeze skimmed the water to ruffle Meg’s dress and flutter the lace that flowed from the back of her hat.

  After what seemed an age, she lifted her face. If only he could read the thoughts pulsing behind those incredible eyes of hers. He stood still, barely daring to breathe lest he interrupt her thoughts. She searched his face as if a map had been drawn upon it.

  Pink stained her cheeks before she looked away at last. “We barely know each other, Mr. Ogilvie.”

  He suppressed a groan at her refusal to say his name. “Is that not what courting is for?”

  She gave a nod, a single tiny dip of her chin. “Indeed.”

  “Then, you would be agreeable to getting to know me better?”

  “But you are leaving.”

  “Aye. I want you to come with me.”

  Meg gasped and faced him. She pressed her fingers against her cheeks.

  He refrained from slapping a hand over his mouth. Why couldn’t he think before he spoke? Now he’d shocked her.

  “Well, that is certainly saying it straight out.”

  “If I have offended …”

>   “You have not.”

  He took another step but she held out her hand, palm toward him. He stopped.

  “My father, my brothers … ’Twill not be easy.”

  A wild rush of joy the likes of which he’d never experienced sluiced through his veins.

  Saying it wouldn’t be easy was more than just an understatement. But if the width of Alexander’s smile was any indication, he wasn’t to be deterred. If the pounding of her heart was any indication, she didn’t want him to be.

  What had started as her experiment in flirtation had moved, beyond all explanation, into something she hadn’t expected. Hadn’t even wanted.

  Or maybe she had. Maybe this was what she’d longed for. Found in a place she’d never have imagined.

  This man in front of her was like no man she’d ever met before. He wasn’t as well-groomed, or as ready with a polished compliment, or as educated as the men she’d met at dances and dinner parties. But unlike those well-groomed gentlemen, this one wanted to ask Father for permission to court her. This one looked at her like she was priceless.

  And that had her insides in a dance of their own.

  What was it Jamie had said? That she needed a man who wouldn’t back down from her brothers? There didn’t seem to be any backing down in Alexander. He said he would fight if the fight was the right one. He’d have a chance to prove that in the confrontation to come. Not only was he a blacksmith, certainly not what her parents had planned for their daughter, but he intended to take her into the wilderness over the mountains. Her parents would not be pleased.

  Was she?

  He held out his hand, and she paused only a moment before placing hers in it. His shoulders blocked the sun from her. Even with his face cast in shadow, the wonder in his eyes shone forth. He raised her hand and kissed the back of it, his lips warm through the thin leather of her riding gloves. He stood, still holding her hand, and that wonder in his eyes warmed the rest of her.

  It was the same kind of look that her father shared with her mother.

  Their horses walked side by side, Alexander content with the dawdling pace. They shared about their families and little things about themselves along the way. Would this be what it was like to court a lady like Meg?