God proved merciful, though, and sent rescue in the form of Emma Cranford. The minister’s wife had just secured a cup of warm cider from the sideboard and started making her way back to the center of the room when Eden spotted her.
“Oh look. There’s Emma.” Eden redirected their attention with only a twinge of guilt for subjecting her friend to the next round of pecking. “Mr. Grant was in her home all afternoon. I’m sure she could describe him better than I.”
The instant heads swiveled in Emma’s direction, Eden hied off to the kitchen.
“I got the fritters nearly done,” Verna informed her without looking up. Her housekeeper cranked a sifter over a pan of fried apple dough, snowing sugar on the cooling treats.
“Take your time. Everyone is still milling around and talking.”
“Hmmph. They’ll be talkin’ about how there ain’t no food set out if we don’t get these trays finished.”
Eden wouldn’t mind such a conversational shift, but Verna took pride in her service, and Eden couldn’t sacrifice that for the sake of her mental comfort. So she took up a clean silver tray and began arranging the sugared morsels upon it.
Verna gave the sifter a final shake and set it aside to configure her own tray. “If I hadn’t had to wait dinner on you, these things woulda been ready by now.”
“I know.” Eden squeezed one more fritter into the center of her tray and wiped her sugary fingers on the towel draped over Verna’s shoulder. “No one will mind. Once they get a taste of these goodies, they won’t care when they were set out. All they’ll be able to talk about is how wonderful they taste.”
“Ach. Get on with ya.”
Eden took up the tray as Verna shooed her out of the kitchen.
Verna and Harvey Sims had moved with her from Austin to Spencer five years ago. Those first few months away from her mother and father had nearly done her in, but the Simses kept her from burying herself in pity over the event that drove her from her home. They treated her like a daughter—dispensing unwanted advice, interfering in her affairs, taking her to task when they thought she needed it—and she adored them for it.
In fact, it was Verna who had inspired the idea of opening a lending library. She’d been dusting the shelves and grumbling about how Eden had more books than any one person ought to have. Yet behind that complaint, Eden recognized an unspoken challenge. Conviction seized her in that moment, and with it sprang a new sense of purpose—to share her love of literature and learning with others in the community, especially the children.
As she mingled with her guests in the reading room, offering fritters from the tray she carried, Eden eyed the bookshelves that lined three of the four walls, the chairs and lamps strategically placed throughout the center of the room and near the windows, the corner where she read to the children on Friday afternoons. Peace settled into her heart, chasing away her earlier upset. Yes, this was what the Lord had called her to do. The path that led her here might not have been of her choosing, but as he promised, God had worked it out for good.
“Ladies, if you would take your seats, please. It’s time to begin the meeting.” Emma Cranford stood behind Eden’s library desk at the front of the room and called the meeting to order.
“As head of the Charitable Aid Committee, I would like you to know that we have prayerfully considered all the members’ suggestions for organizations we might support this year with monies collected during our annual fund drive.”
Eden quietly placed her tray on the sideboard, a tickle of anticipation fluttering in her belly. Last year they had raised over two hundred dollars and stitched nearly thirty quilts for the Seeds of Hope Foundling Home and Orphanage in Austin, where she used to volunteer.
The ladies generally selected different projects each year, but the church that ran the home had been so appreciative that the committee allowed her to resubmit its name for consideration this year. After all, who could possibly be more deserving of aid than orphaned children?
“We’ve decided to fund a mission that is rich in spiritual promise and moral fortitude.”
Yes . . . Eden leaned forward, bracing her palm on the corner of the sideboard.
“This year we will be facilitating a Bible drive for the residents of the Huntsville state prison.”
Eden’s arm went limp, and the sudden loss of support threw her off balance. Her knee bumped the table, rattling the cups and saucers by the cider urn. A few ladies seated in the back of the room turned censorious looks her way. Eden smiled and held up a hand of apology as she straightened her posture.
“Now, I realize this choice might seem odd to some of you . . .”
Odd? Make that completely nonsensical. Eden bit the inside of her cheek. How could the committee possibly favor helping criminals over children?
“. . . but open your minds to the possibilities. I have personally been in contact with the chaplain who serves in the Huntsville prison, and he has supplied me with several moving stories of conversions that have taken place during his tenure there. However, he is concerned that without a physical representation of the gospel to cling to and immerse themselves in after they are released, these new believers will fall back into their old ways. We, ladies, are in a position to meet that need.”
Emma spoke with passion and zeal, as if the years of listening to her husband’s sermons had imbued her with his oration skills. And she was succeeding in winning over the crowd. Religious fervor fairly crackled in the air.
“Now, I’m sure some of you have questions, so I’ll open it up for discussion.”
A timid hand inched up to half-mast in the middle of the room.
“Yes, Bertha?”
The young woman stood. “Will we have to visit the prison or come into contact with any of these . . . convicted persons?”
Emma smiled and shook her head. “No. After the Bibles are ordered and shipped, my husband will deliver them to the chaplain. Our only duty is to collect money from neighbors and friends here in Spencer, just as we have done in the past.”
Bertha nodded and took her seat.
As others raised questions, Eden’s indignation built. Evangelism was all well and good, but it seemed rather pointless to sow all of one’s seed in rocky soil and expect anything to take root. These were convicts, men who willingly chose a life of sin. Violent men—Eden swallowed the growing lump in her throat—men like the instigators of the riot that had nearly killed her father when she was twelve. Just thinking about that awful day made Eden’s toes curl down like tiny claws within her shoes.
Wouldn’t it be wiser to sow seed in tender, undeveloped ground? Soil too young to have been corrupted by deceitful thorns and stony hearts? Unlike those who had already turned their back on godliness once and would likely do so again.
Eden’s hand shot up in the air. Emma recognized her with a nod of her head.
“I think the idea of raising money for prison Bibles is a lovely idea, but I fear it might be a little impractical.”
“How do you mean?”
Eden weighed her words. Emma was a godly, kindhearted woman. And her friend. She had no wish to insult her in any way, but she had to give voice to her concerns. “I appreciate the compassionate spirit that led the committee to make this selection, but I wonder if it is the best stewardship of the money we collect. Most of these men are uneducated and illiterate. What good will a Bible do them if they can’t read the truth it contains? And let’s not forget that these men already turned their backs on morality and righteousness once, if not repeatedly, when they chose to commit unlawful acts.”
Ladies bent their heads together, and low murmurs broke out across the room.
“Miss Spencer makes a valid point,” Emma conceded. “In fact, those are some of the very issues we struggled with in making this choice. Jonathan Willis, the chaplain at the Huntsville prison, has assured me that he will only distribute copies of Scripture to men who have attended his Bible studies and worship services. But even if nine of every ten men who receive a Bible n
ever open it, isn’t it worth our participation for the one soul who does? Jesus himself said that there is more joy in heaven over one sinner who comes to repentance than for the ninety-and-nine just persons who need no repentance.”
The fire that had burned inside Eden began to sputter.
“We are called to be sowers, ladies. It is not our business to decide which soils are most likely to give success, for the Lord rarely confines himself to areas dictated by human wisdom. We are to scatter seed. God will give the increase. And I believe he will give great increase, indeed, if we join him in this endeavor.”
Her voice rose on a crescendo, and applause erupted. Without much enthusiasm, Eden joined the ovation, clapping her fingertips limply against her palm. Her heart still sided with the children at Seeds of Hope, but she could no longer argue in good faith that the Huntsville cause had no merit. Her spirit had perceived too much truth in Emma’s defense.
So she would do her duty. She would solicit funds for prison Bibles and even contribute her usual personal sum to the effort. She’d not particularly enjoy it, but she’d do it.
Then another thought hit her, this one causing a whole different type of disturbance to Eden’s system. Her assigned merchants to approach for donations would be the same as in years past, those with businesses on the west end of Main Street. The saddler/boot maker, the livery owner, and . . . the blacksmith.
Chapter Four
“Well, here she is.” Claude Barnes twisted the key in the padlock that kept the wide double doors chained together.
Levi’s gaze traced the outline of the stone structure. It looked nothing like the wooden building his father had used, yet an odd sense of coming home settled over him as the livery owner pulled the first door wide. The hitch in the older man’s gait made the going slow, so Levi stepped forward to take over the task.
“The place ain’t ’zactly been kept up.” Barnes relinquished his hold on the door. “The council only gave me the key so’s I could take care of shoein’ when the need arose. Not to be a caretaker.”
Levi shrugged. “I can clean.”
The man’s rigid posture relaxed, and a smile cracked his white-whiskered face. “Glad to hear it. You ever get bored, feel free to come over to my place and muck stalls.” He slapped Levi’s arm and chortled as he led the way into the smithy. Levi grinned and followed.
A large brick hearth sat on a stone foundation in the center of the workshop, its chimney funneling up through the roof. Levi was pleased to see a lever rod hanging down from a chain at about shoulder height. If he was to be working alone, having a way to pump the bellows without leaving the forge would be essential. He’d have to inspect everything, of course, but not having to rig his own pull rod would save time. Levi gave it a yank, and when a stream of air stirred the dirt and ash in the cold hearth, he nodded in satisfaction.
He moved to the anvil and tested its height, swinging an imaginary sledge. It might be set a bit low for him, but it stood mounted close enough to the hearth that he would be able to maneuver between the two with only a quarter turn. Whoever designed the shop knew what he was doing.
A wooden rack a few feet away boasted a selection of tongs, chisels, scroll forks, punches, and hammers. Sledges and vises littered the floor, along with leftover rod iron and discarded horseshoes. The Lord had truly blessed him. With the twenty dollars paid to him by the state after his release, plus the sixty-five cents a day he’d earned breaking granite at the labor camp for eighteen months, he’d come to town with a little over three hundred dollars to his name. And he’d spent a good chunk of that paying for the first two months’ rent in advance that morning at the bank. All he owned were the clothes on his back, a spare shirt, and the Bible the chaplain had given him. He would have never been able to afford to stock the smithy on his own.
A mouse skittered across Levi’s path, darting away from the sunlight. More scratching sounds echoed in the back corners. The place smelled of dust and disuse, but there was a familiarity, too. Charcoal, leather, and iron. The smells of his father.
Levi ran his hand over the cold anvil, moving from the squared heel, down across the chipping block, and out to the pointed end of the horn. He could hear the pounding of the sledge, see sparks shower from red-hot iron, hear his father call for him to pump the bellows or hand him a twisting bar while his brother acted as the striker. The smithy had been a place of tradition and pride for the Grant men. Until Levi’s rebellion. Maybe today would be the first step in reclaiming the family honor he’d lost.
Barnes stepped into Levi’s line of sight and pointed to a large dark circle in the middle of the plank floor. “The smith afore you took to drinking,” he said. “Dropped a hot coal into his kindlin’ bucket one day and tried to put out the flames with the contents of his whiskey bottle.” Barnes looked up and gave Levi a grave look. “Didn’t work too good.”
Levi shuddered. “He dead?”
“Naw. Got a few new scars to impress the ladies with is all. Gave ’im a good scare, though. Decided to skip out the next day. I hear tell he’s got a pig farm over in Williamson County now.”
“Huh.” What else could he say to a story like that?
“Ain’t a drinkin’ man, are ya?” Barnes scratched at his whiskers, shooting him a glance from the corner of his eye.
“No.”
Not for the last two years, anyway. Levi had practically lived in saloons and barrooms prior to that. Not so much for the liquor—mostly for the fights. But that was his old way of life. He’d not return to that path. The Lord had given him a second chance. He didn’t aim to squander it.
“Good. Then I’ll leave the key with you.” Barnes tossed it to him, and Levi snagged it out of the air. “You got a place to bed down?”
“I . . . ah . . .” Stayed? Slept? Levi cleared his throat. “Colby . . . put me up at the hotel. But I’ll need to find . . . a room . . . of my own before long.”
“Well, it ain’t nothin’ fancy, but the wife and I got a shed out back o’ our place with a bunk and a stove. You could come and go as you please, no one to bother ya. Oh, and you’d be welcome to take your meals with us. Georgia would insist on it. That woman don’t believe in lettin’ a man fend for himself in the kitchen.” Barnes winked at him and patted the slightly rounded midsection on his otherwise wiry frame. “Not that I’m complain’, mind you.”
Levi grinned, warming to the old man. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had approached him with genuine hospitality. The preacher and his wife had been kind, but there was something about Claude Barnes that put Levi at ease. Made him feel accepted. Normal.
’Course, that was probably because the man thought him a blacksmith, not a convicted felon. Guilt jabbed him in the belly.
“Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.”
The verse from 2 Corinthians he had spent days meditating on before his release rose from his memory to beat back the shame and unworthiness that twined like fast-growing jungle vines around his soul.
He was a blacksmith. Like his father before him. And like his father before him, he would become a man of integrity.
“How much?”
Barnes kicked at the spokes of an old wagon wheel that had been left propped against the wall by the previous owner. “Three dollars a week. Less, if you’re willing to help out with the chores.”
“Deal.” Levi stuck out his hand. Barnes shook his agreement, his grip firm and assured, his eyes taking Levi’s measure. Levi held his gaze, giving silent promise that the man would not have cause to regret his offer.
“Well, then. I’ll leave you alone to get your bearings.” Barnes thumbed his suspenders away from his plaid flannel shirt and released them with a painful-sounding snap. “Give you a holler ’round six and we can head out. Georgia’ll have supper on the table.”
“All right. Thank y—”
A low growl cut Levi off. He spun toward the doorway, where
a brownish-gray dog crouched in the opening, baring his teeth. A chunk was missing from his left ear and his ribs were visible through the matted fur on his side, giving him a desperate, almost savage appearance.
Barnes stood nearest the animal. He held out a conciliatory hand. “Look who’s paying a call. What’re you up to, Ornery?” The rumble in the dog’s throat deepened.
Levi edged closer to the forge hearth, where a sledge stood on end, its handle about level with his knee. He didn’t want to hurt the critter, but if the animal attacked, he’d be ready.
“Don’t worry,” Barnes said in a hushed voice. “Ornery hardly ever bites. He’s just the cussedest dog you ever wanna meet. Showed up ’bout a year ago. I’m not sure from where. Don’t like people. Other dogs, neither. Give ’im a wide berth and he’ll leave you alone. Won’t ya, boy?”
The livery owner took a step back and the growling stopped.
“See? I—”
With a yip, the dog’s ears perked up and a small whine resonated in his throat. He lifted his head and seemed to stare directly at Levi, tilting his jaw to the side.
Soon Barnes was looking at him, too, with a nearly identical tilt to his chin.
Levi let go of the sledge handle and extended his hands in front of him, palms out. “I’m not going to hurt you, Ornery.”
At the sound of Levi’s voice, Ornery let out a sharp bark and bounded forward. Thinking he was about to have a mouthful of canine teeth tearing at his throat, Levi raised his arms to fend off the beast, but the dog only pushed his front paws into Levi’s abdomen and tried to overcome him with pants of pungent dog breath.
“Well, I’ll be.”
Levi met the livery owner’s gaze over the dog’s head, the awe on the other man’s face heightening Levi’s confusion.
“Son, I think you’ve just been adopted.” Barnes shook his head in disbelief, a wide smile breaking out across his face. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”
“But . . .”
Barnes waved him off, still shaking his head as he left.