Sparked By Fire (Dorado, Texas Book 4) Read online

  “If everyone would please bow their heads for a brief blessing?” Penn’s deep voice filled the room.

  Ivey barely heard what words of praise her brother spoke, because all of a sudden, she was too aware of the quiet man sitting not four feet away. As the bowls and plates of food made the circuit of the long rectangular table, she served herself. Present at this meal were her family members plus the regular boarders—Mister Spengler, the schoolmarm Miss Fletcher, carpenter Morgan Shipley, barmaids Olivia Domingo and Sally Doolan. She leaned forward to catch her mother’s eye. “Where’s Mister Baklanov?”

  Frowning, Ellen buttered a biscuit and shrugged. “If he doesn’t respond to the bell, he misses a meal. I don’t track down the boarders.”

  Ivey knew her mother disliked the fact half of the permanent boarders worked at the Golden Door Saloon and kept late hours. A situation her late father must have anticipated when he’d had the boarding house originally built, because four of the upstairs bedrooms had private access from exterior doors. A small town like Dorado with its less than one hundred residents, counting those living on outlying ranches, meant business owners had a limited clientele from which to accept.

  “Oh, my, that’s got quite a tang.” Sally dabbed a cloth napkin at her mouth, and then reached for her glass of water.

  “What’s that?” Ivey glanced toward the red-haired woman on her right who used her fork to point at the gravy covering her slice of ham. “Really?” She cut a wedge from her slice, dipped it in the gravy pooling under her split biscuit, and popped the tidbit into her mouth. Immediately, the saltiness of the meat and the savory mustard tantalized her mouth, and she closed her eyes to focus. The blend was nice, and the flavors complimented each other. Then came the slow burn of the ground black pepper. And the intensity built until Ivey’s tongue tingled. She resisted sipping her water and instead broke off a piece of dry biscuit and chewed slowly. “Is the gravy too spicy for anyone else?”

  Nodding, Ellen munched on a mouthful of peas, and her sisters blinked watery-eyed above the napkins they pressed to their mouths.

  “Not for me.” Smiling, Miss Domingo used her biscuit to sop up a puddle of gravy.

  “Quite piquant, but I like it.” Miss Fletcher gave a quick smile and cut another slice of meat.

  Mister Shipley shook his head and kept eating.

  With his mouth full, Penn just gave her a thumbs-up signal.

  Mister Spengler held her gaze and gave a quick nod. “I like things a bit fiery.”

  Chapter Two

  Forget increasing the shop’s inventory of stock items. I must craft this…for Miss Ivey’s safety. Berg tossed another piece of seasoned oak on the glowing fire and settled it atop the low flames. Although an hour had passed since the midday meal, he didn’t think his heart rate was yet back to normal. The disaster that might have happened with a broken pot bail had stolen his breath. He couldn’t bear the thought of scalding liquid marring her beautiful peaches-and-cream skin. Being close enough to smell her floral scent and having her hold his hands had only partially eased his worry.

  In front of the raw material shelves, he sorted through the pile of rectangular lengths of slab metal until he found the two sizes he needed. Those he slid into the smoldering coals at the base of the fire and pumped a foot on the pedal to force air through the bellows. The resulting orange glow reminded him of Ivey’s gravy.

  After the midday meal, and being as secretive as a man his size could, he’d removed the small pot from the kitchen and ducked out the boarding house’s back door. Lucky for him, he’d still had half a loaf of bread tucked away in the larder and used that to sop up the remaining tasty gravy. Hesitant to take the size or number of portions at mealtimes that would truly fill his stomach, he always kept fruit, bread, and hard cheese in the shop for when hunger pangs hit.

  Whistling an unnamed tune, he used tongs to move the heated bar to the anvil and pounded the yellow-orange metal to flatten the end. Plunging the hammered metal into a nearby barrel of water tempered the steel. Berg kept the image of the finished product in his mind as he pounded, molded, and shaped then held the piece flush to the pan. With quick movements perfected from years of practice, he bent the bar by tapping it over a curved wooden block, attached the second piece to complete the circle, and added a twist at the base of the handles. He couldn’t fight back a prideful thought of how this collar handle would ensure Miss Ivey’s safety for a long time.

  Smiling, he remembered the occasion when Miss Ivey had run a finger along the spiral twists of his fireplace pokers. Her blue eyes had glistened with what he’d hoped was wonderment. Surely, this design would please her just as well. But was he expecting too much from what he’d seen on that brief visit? Especially since he’d also tended to the details of her brother’s order.

  The concern he’d seen in her eyes today in the kitchen had been true. Deserved or not, he’d let the realization seep into his lonely soul. All through the meal, he’d been aware of her gentle movements and had been glad for the chance to voice a favorable vote on her gravy. Such satisfaction went through him at her widened gaze when he used the word ‘fiery’.

  Shaking his head, he re-focused on the implement he created. Each adjustment was checked to be sure this device fit like a tight collar under the pot’s upper edge. Wanting to add a personalized detail, he worked a hot-metal chisel along the middle of each handle in a meandering line. Then he tapped a curved punch at a couple spots along its length, reversing the metal piece to create a leaf shape. His final action was to tap the punch containing his initials on the underside of the collar. Steam hissed into the warm afternoon air with the final plunge into the water barrel.

  Pounding hoof beats from an approaching horse team announced the arrival of the westbound Bain and Company stagecoach from San Antonio. From a nearby peg, Berg grabbed a length of toweling to mop at his neck and face. He unhooked then removed the leather guards protecting his forearms, glad for the air on his skin. Curiosity drew him to the doorway in time to watch the driver halt the team in front of the depot office near Othmann’s Mercantile. Was this only a mail and supplies drop, or would the driver need his services?

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed movement from up the street and hoped for a glimpse of Miss Ivey. But Miss Maisie scurried from the boarding house toward the mercantile. Her braids flopped against her back as she fast-walked down the dirt road then hopped up to the boardwalk. Must be checking the mail.

  Turning toward the water barrel, he leaned, grabbed out the finished implement, and wiped off the clinging droplets. The cool water felt good on his flushed skin, and he anticipated swimming in the creek before supper. In summer, taking a dip was the only activity that wasn’t overheated.

  “Hey, are you Spengler?” A man’s voice sounded from close by.

  Berg edged toward the doorway. He spotted a lean man whose broad-brimmed hat shadowed his face leading a pair of horses toward the shop. “Yes, sir.”

  “Name’s Henry Demmon, the new stage driver.” He stepped into the doorway. “Each of these mares has a loose shoe. Can you put on a new one right away?”

  “Sure, Mister Demmon. One can be tied to the post in the middle and the other to the ring on the far wall.” Berg hung the pot collar on the closest wall hook and moved to the black horse, running a hand over its damp back as he crooned. “Such a beauty you are.” He eased his hand down the animal’s front right leg, stopping on the fetlock to give the horse a moment or two to lift its own hoof.

  “Mister Spengler.”

  At the sound of the familiar voice, Berg jerked upright. He turned and looked to where Miss Ivey stood in the doorway, one foot raised over the threshold, her gaze flickering between him and the stage driver. Her blue eyes sparkled, and brown curls clung to her forehead. Such a pretty face. His breath hitched. “Yes, Miss Ivey?” He couldn’t stop from glancing at the collar then back to where she stood. Not that she would recognize what the circle was.

  “Oh, you h
ave a customer.” Frowning, she looked down at the white porcelain dish decorated with pink flowers in her hands and then back in his direction.

  “Good day, miss.” Demmon lifted his hat and nodded then swung his gaze back to the blacksmith. “I need to speak to the man in the livery. Okay if I come back in ten or fifteen minutes?”

  “More like thirty or forty.” Berg glanced up from under the horse’s neck.

  Miss Treadwell stepped all the way into the shop. “The stable master is my brother, Penn. If you don’t find him inside the stable, walk through to the corral. He mentioned he’d be currying the horses this afternoon.”

  “Much obliged.” Demmon moved outside and turned left.

  Berg walked around the head of the black horse so the animal wasn’t between them. “I can explain about the missing pot.”

  “Missing pot?” Her brows wrinkled, and she shook her head.

  Well, he’d just spilled the beans about his little thievery. He fought to give her a convincing smile. “I needed to borrow it to make a new handle.”

  “You did?” A blush came up in her cheeks, and she looked around the shop, eyebrows raised. “That’s so…thoughtful.”

  A pinch grabbed his throat, and he swallowed hard. She was so pretty and approachable, especially when she wasn’t surrounded by everyone in her kitchen. He liked seeing her here, in his world. If only he could think of something clever to say to prolong her stay.

  “May I see it?”

  He shook the silly notion from his head that she’d want to remain and moved toward the workbench. “Let me show you how to use it.” He lifted the collar off the hook and placed it on the wooden surface. Then he set the pot in the open circle. Pride filled him at the sight of the smoothness of the curved metal.

  Ivey moved close, bent her head, and watched his movements.

  For the second time that day, he smelled a sweet floral scent, like the wildflowers in the fields when he took his solitary walks to the creek. An odor that filled his senses and wrapped around his heart like on the days she filled the boarding house with sugar and spices of apple pies and berry strudels.

  “There’re two handles?”

  “Uh. Right, for stability.” He lifted the implement by the handles until it fit snugly at the lip of the pot. “This collar allows you to carry a hot pot to where you need it. The only time you’re in danger of getting burned is when you insert the pot into the collar.”

  “That’s ingenious.” She turned and smiled, her blue eyes shining. “May I?” She reached to test the handle and brushed her fingers over the tops of his.

  At her light touch, Berg almost closed his eyes. How many times had he thought of them holding hands? Too many for my own good. He dropped his hands, stepped back, and watched her angle and tip the pot. She maneuvered it well, and the collar/pot combination worked precisely as it should. Now if only his heart rate would slow to normal and the yearning in his soul dissipate.

  “Oh, Mister Spengler, this is wonderful. I like the weight of the metal and”—she rubbed a thumb along the top surface—“the added design is a nice touch.” Her gaze lifted to connect with his for just a second, and then dropped again. “Please tell me what the charge is.”

  He wondered if she recognized it as an ivy vine. “None, this is a gift.”

  “Thank you.” She smoothed a hand over the stamped design one last time before straightening. “Seems today is a day for gifts. I have one for you.”

  Berg stilled then rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. No one had given him anything since he’d left home at age sixteen. “What? Why?”

  “I’ve spent years around hot stoves and ovens, and believe me, I’ve had my share of burns.” Ivey set a small ceramic dish on the workbench and lifted off the lid to expose a yellowish paste. “This is a salve I make and keep on hand for burns. I know you said your hands were tough, but I had to see for myself that blisters hadn’t erupted in the time since the accident.”

  She’d worried about him? A warm feeling settled in his chest. He extended his hands, palms up, and showed her that only a couple of tiny blisters had formed. Nothing worse than he got from flying sparks when the forge hammer hit a piece of hot metal. “See, still fine.”

  A gasp sounded, and Ivey grabbed his left hand, drawing it closer. “Not true. There’s a blister.” She scooped up a glob on a forefinger and smoothed it over a spot that wasn’t much larger than a pea.

  For a few seconds, the goop stung before it soothed. He fought back a grimace. “What’s in that?”

  “Beeswax, sweet oil, and turpentine. Is the stinging bad?” She leaned forward and blew on the shiny spot at the base of his palm.

  He’d put up with the mild ache with no complaints if she stayed close to minister in such a caring way. For the first time in a long time, Berg felt like his welfare mattered to another person. His throat tightened, and he didn’t move, savoring the sensation as she fussed over him.

  “You know, I learned how to make this salve from my granny’s secret formula. She was a healer back in England.”

  “Hmm.” He wondered if Ivey was aware she still stroked the area around the spot of medicine. Not that he minded, not one bit.

  “Her house was in the middle of thick woods, and she knew the use for just about every plant and tree growing nearby. I loved spending time there, wandering among the trees and ferns, hunting for this flower or that pod.” She tilted her head and gazed at the coals. “I’d have a sketch of what she needed, and I’d just keep looking until I found it. Like a treasure hunt.”

  The dreamy note in her voice drew him, and he wanted to share something of his past. One of the few happy memories. He opened his mouth.

  “Ivey? Is that you?” A female voice came from the doorway.

  “Oh.” Wide-eyed, Ivey dropped his hand and spun. “Maisie, you startled me. I’m just putting salve on Mister Spengler’s burn.”

  Berg stepped toward the horse needing to be shod and put his hand behind his back, to let the salve soak in. That’s what he told himself. In truth, he curled his fingers to hold in her caresses.

  Wearing a wide smile, Maisie waved a piece of stationary back and forth in the air. “Dylan’s coming for the Fourth of July celebration. He’ll arrive on Monday, the first, and he’s bringing a stallion for Mister Hawksen at Shady Oaks. But, of course, he’ll be in town to see me.” She rushed close and grasped her sister’s hand. “And a friend of his from Alba Ranch is coming along. Wouldn’t it be so much fun if his friend escorted you to the town’s activities?”

  Hearing about the possibility of Ivey being with another man shot a chill through his body.

  Ivey glanced over her shoulder, biting her lip. “I’ll just leave the salve here for a couple of days. We’ll left and let you get back to work now.”

  “I appreciate you tending my blister, Miss Ivey.” More than she could possibly know.

  ***

  As Ivey settled the last dry dish on the shelf, she couldn’t resist running a finger over the wrought iron collar Mister Spengler had made. The trailing vine decoration he’d added had to be a sign of his personal interest. Didn’t it? After all, twice in one day they’d been in a position to hold hands. Although, they hadn’t done so. Not in the true sense of an intentional act.

  Tonight’s supper had been a noisy event. Maisie was irrepressible over the news that her beau would arrive in a little more than a week. Fewer regulars were present because Olivia, Sally, and Mister Baklanov had left for their jobs at the Golden Door Saloon. But several cowboys from outlying ranches were in town for their Saturday night reverie, and they had eaten supper before the regular meal time. That meant both rooms upstairs with two sets of bunk beds would be filled.

  Ellen nodded and grinned, most likely due to the extra coins in her money box. But she’d grumble at breakfast tomorrow about being awakened when the cowboys’ boots clumped up the wooden stairs in the wee hours of the night.

  “Ivey, Mama says time for the family sing
ing.” Lydia stood at the edge of the kitchen, twisting the end of her long strawberry-blonde braid.

  Ivey couldn’t stop the frown that settled in her brows. Thinking their private conversations might make a difference in his attendance, she’d been so hopeful when she invited Mister Spengler to join them in the parlor after the meal. Maybe he felt their new and exciting connection. The one she experienced so tangibly her skin tingled. But just like every other Saturday night, he’d declined. “Tonight, I want to hear you play.”

  Thin shoulders drooped under a rose petal-printed dress. “Oh, Ivey, do I have to? You’re the most accomplished player in the family.”

  “Flatterer.” She laughed and rested her hands on her youngest sister’s shoulders, turning her toward the parlor. “How will you ever improve if you don’t practice? How will you ever grow confident playing for an audience if you don’t perform?”

  For the next hour, the sisters rotated playing popular tunes so the guests and family could be entertained by singing together. “My Grandfather’s Clock” followed “Carry Me Back to Ole Virginny” which rolled into the hand-clapping, thigh-slapping “Camptown Races.” Because she couldn’t fight her jealousy over the fact Maisie had a beau and she didn’t, Ivey dug into the piano seat for the sheet music for the ballad “Annabel Lee.” Singing the last line of the final chorus, “in her tomb by the sounding sea,” she felt her throat getting thick. “Maisie, your turn to choose.” Then she dashed out to the front veranda, hoping the cooler evening air would calm her turmoil. Off to her right, she heard a scuffling sound of shoes on the wooden planks. “Who’s there?”

  “Mighty fine playing, Miss Ivey.”

  Squinting, she stepped away from the doorway and saw the familiar silhouette of a large man. “Mister Spengler? Why didn’t you join us inside? You know you’re welcome to.”