Reservations for Murder - Tim Myers [2]
Bill Yadkin, one of the two blacksmiths working the fair, already had a hearty fire going in his portable forge. The big, fierce-looking young man stared intently at the coals as they burned. Rachel Seabock, a traditional woodworker who used only the hand tools she’d inherited from her great-grandfather, hovered near the young blacksmith. Though Rachel was a decade older than Bill, it was obvious from the look in her eyes that there was more than just friendship between the blacksmith and the woodworker.
Alex thought about skipping past them, but Elise forged on before he could steer her to another exhibit. She said, “That fire feels good this morning,” as she warmed her hands near the coals.
Yadkin smiled. “We’ll see how you feel around noon when the day starts to heat up.”
“No thanks,” Elise said. “What’s in the fire?” she asked, pointing to the center of the forge. Alex looked into the burning coals and saw a foot-long tapered shaft of metal glowing a dull orange.
“I’m making another stake for Rachel’s canopy. Somebody walked off with the last one.”
Rachel said proudly, “Bill’s building up quite a clientele. His business is really taking off.”
“You don’t have to sell me every minute of the day, Rachel,” Yadkin said shortly.
“I wasn’t... I didn’t mean. . .” Rachel said, looking flustered. After a deep breath, she continued. “I’d better take Jenny that rocking chair she ordered before the fair gets into gear today,” Rachel said. “I swear, I never thought a weaver would be one of my best customers,” she added with a shrug before hurrying off.
After she was gone, Alex said, “Rachel’s a big fan of yours, isn’t she?”
Yadkin shrugged. “Yeah, too much, sometimes,” he grumbled as he moved the glowing shaft around with a long set of tongs.
As Yadkin started to pull the steel from the fire, he warned, “You’d better move.”
Alex and Elise took a few steps back as the young blacksmith pulled the glowing rod from the fire. In a practiced motion, he began pounding the steel with a scarred and worn hammer on the broad, flat top of his anvil. The anvil seemed to sing with each strike, and in moments the shaft’s tip was tapered to a point. Yadkin studied it a moment, then plunged the steel back into the fire for another heat.
“That’s fascinating,” Elise said after he was done. “It’s like alchemy.”
“I guess,” Yadkin said with a shrug.
Alex asked, “How did you learn to do that?”
“My dad had his own forge when I was growing up. It was a hobby for him, but it’s the only thing I know how to do.” The young blacksmith was a great deal more eloquent with his hands than with his words.
Alex looked at some of the pieces on the display table in front of the blacksmith’s booth. “That’s an interesting swoop,” he said as he fingered a delicate curlicue on the end of a fireplace shovel.
“It’s my trademark,” Bill said heatedly, “no matter what Jefferson Lee says. I hear he’s been making pieces using it just to spite me!”
“You don’t get along with the other blacksmith?” Alex asked gently.
“He’s not a blacksmith,” Yadkin said with a snort of derision. “He’s a showboat and a bully, but he’s not a blacksmith. Not in my book, anyway.”
Yadkin’s tongs dove back into the fire as he pulled the tapered shaft out again. He laid the metal across a wedge protruding from the top of his anvil, and with a quick strike, he separated the spike from the body of the iron. Another flurry of strikes, and the butt end was bent at a ninety-degree angle. After a rapid dunk in the bucket of water beside his forge, the spike was done. It was beautiful, even with its simple form and function.
“I’ve got to get this to Rachel,” he said, dismissing them in an instant.
As Alex and Elise moved on, she whispered, “He’s an interesting fellow, isn’t he?”
“Rachel seems to think so,” Alex answered. “You know, I never would have put those two together.”
“Love has a mind of its own sometimes,” she said as they approached the next exhibition spot.
Jenny Harris, an attractive blonde in her early thirties, was working at her loom, weaving an intricate pattern of yarns