Free The Blacksmith’s Bravery by Susan Page Davis

steps to the post office.
    Griffin came out and went straight to the coach. He heaved the treasure box up and settled it on the boards where the driver and messenger rested their feet. Bill helped him slide the heavy box under the seat. They fussed for a moment, making sure it was secure; then Griffin stepped back and turned to her.
    â€œAll right, George. Time for you to go.”
    Vashti walked over to the step at the front of the coach and climbed up. Settling onto the seat beside Bill, she smiled at him.
    â€œMorning, Mr. Stout.”
    â€œHow do, Sam.”
    â€œIt’s George, but that’s all right.” She looked down at Griffin, whose head came up as high as where her feet were braced. A strange look crossed his face. Was he thinking he ought to tell Bill to take care of her, instead of the other way around? For a moment, Vashti was afraid he’d make her get down again and tell her she couldn’t go.
    â€œWe’ll be just fine, Mr. Bane,” she said. “I hope you and your nephew have a nice trip.”
    â€œGodspeed.” Griffin stepped back.
    Bill lifted the reins and let the horses have an inch or two of slack. “Get up!”
    They rolled out of Fergus with the wind whistling in Vashti’s ears below the hat’s brim. As they passed the Spur & Saddle, she glimpsed Augie and Bitsy standing at the front door. She raised the shotgun in triumph and waved.

CHAPTER 6
    G riffin paced the porch in front of the Wells Fargo office in Boise. He had another half hour before the stage was due. He could step down the street for refreshment, but he wanted to make sure he was here when Justin arrived.
    After a few minutes, he went inside. The ticket agent looked up and smiled. “Cup of coffee, Mr. Bane?”
    â€œThanks.”
    The man nodded toward the potbellied stove in the corner. “I make a fresh pot before the Mountain Home stage comes in. The cups on the shelf are clean.”
    Griffin poured himself a serving of the boiling, dark brew. The stove’s heat made the room too warm, and he stepped away from it, toward the counter. He set the hot cup down for a minute to let the grounds settle.
    â€œHow’s business up to Fergus?” the agent asked.
    â€œTolerable. I’m having a little trouble keeping enough drivers and messengers lined up.”
    â€œWe’ve had a big turnover here, too,” the man admitted.
    â€œThought I might talk to your division manager to see if he had any suggestions.”
    The agent shook his head. “Mr. Nelson’s gone to Glenn’s Ferry. I don’t expect he’ll be back for two or three hours at least.”
    Griffin picked up his tin cup. The small, curved handle was hot, but not so bad he couldn’t hold it. The worst part was that the curvewas so tight he couldn’t get his large finger through it. He managed to raise the cup to his lips and took a cautious sip. He’d had worse coffee. Once. He grimaced and set the cup down.
    â€œDid you get the new rate table?” the agent asked.
    â€œYup.”
    The door opened. Two men came in.
    â€œAfternoon,” one of them called. “We need tickets to Mountain Home.”
    Griffin stepped outside, leaving his cup of brew on the counter. He paced back and forth, ignoring the passing wagons and foot traffic. If he were home, he could be shoeing Oscar Runnels’s mules, or working with the bay colt, or mending harness.
    And what about the Silver City run? He’d put Vashti with his steadiest driver, but maybe he’d lowered Bill’s chances of a safe run by giving him a green shotgun rider. What if road agents tried to stop them and she panicked? Griffin turned and walked the length of the porch again. Best not to think about the Silver City stage when it was too late to change things.
    Ten minutes later, the ticket agent came out and piled luggage and mail sacks near where the stagecoach would halt. The two men who’d