Chapter 6 - Until Her Hands BledThey worked until time stopped feeling like days.
It became tasks.
Heat the iron.
Strike.
Turn.
Strike.
Quench.
Sharpen.
Wrap.
Deliver.
Collect payment.
Record payment.
Start again.
Mave worked the forge from before sunrise until the muscles in her forearms trembled.
Caleb watched the transformation happen piece by piece.
A bent wagon axle became straight.
A broken hinge became stronger than before.
A plow blade returned to a farmer with a new edge.
A ranch gate that had dragged through dirt for three years swung freely after Mave rebuilt its hardware.
People came because Dietrich had talked.
Then they came because those people talked.
By the second day after Pike’s visit, a wagon waited while Mave finished another job.
Caleb should have been encouraged.
Instead he became obsessed with the ledger.
Every evening he counted.
Every morning he recalculated.
Money came in.
But the amount still needed was too large.
He did not tell Mave at first.
Then he remembered the promise.
“No more lies.”
On the third night, she came inside near midnight.
Her face was gray beneath the soot.
She removed her gloves.
Caleb saw blood.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s blood.”
“Then clearly something happened.”
“Mave.”
She opened her palm.
Two blisters had torn.
Another formed below her thumb.
Caleb stood.
“You’re done tonight.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“You don’t give orders in my forge.”
“It’s my forge.”
“Then repair your own axle tomorrow.”
He stared at her.
Mave stared back.
Caleb lowered his voice.
“You can’t work if your hands stop working.”
“I know.”
“Then sit down.”
She hesitated.
Finally, she sat.
Caleb brought clean cloth and warm water.
Mave watched him soak one strip.
“I can do that.”
“I know.”
He wrapped her palm carefully.
“You’ve done this before.”
“Cattle cut themselves on wire.”
“I’m not cattle.”
“No. Cattle complain less.”
She gave him a tired look.
Caleb smiled.
Then his expression faded.
“We’re still short.”
Mave’s eyes dropped to the ledger.
“How short?”
He told her.
She went completely still.
Even after everything they had earned, the remaining gap felt enormous.
“That’s tomorrow’s number?”
“That’s tonight’s.”
“And after expenses?”
“Included.”
Mave leaned back.
Her shoulders sagged.
For several seconds she looked like the woman who had stepped off the stagecoach.
Tired.
Uncertain.
Carrying everything she owned.
“We can’t make that with repair work.”
Caleb said nothing.
She looked at him.
“You knew.”
“I realized this afternoon.”
“And you were going to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Mave nodded.
“Good.”
It was a strange thing to praise him for.
But Caleb understood.
A week earlier he would have hidden the number until morning.
Maybe longer.
He would have protected his pride and called it protecting her.
Now the bad news sat openly between them.
“What happens if we’re short?” Mave asked.
“Garrison proceeds.”
“No extension?”
“I already got one.”
“Pike?”
“He waits.”
“For the bank.”
“Yes.”
Mave looked toward the corner of the room.
Something in her expression shifted.
Caleb followed her gaze.
An old tarp covered a stack of material he assumed was scrap.
Mave stood.
“Come outside.”
“It’s midnight.”
“I’m aware.”
She carried the lamp toward the forge.
Caleb followed.
Inside, she set the lamp on the bench.
Then she pulled away another tarp in the back corner.
Caleb stopped.
Underneath were finished pieces he had never seen.
Not repairs.
New work.
A pair of decorative hinges shaped with curling leaves.
Heavy door latches with clean scroll patterns.
Fireplace hooks.
Handles.
Brackets.
A set of tools.
And in the center, a large gate hinge shaped like cottonwood leaves.
Caleb picked it up.
The craftsmanship was finer than anything coming through the repair line.
“When did you make these?”
“At night.”
“You work at night already.”
“Later at night.”
He looked at her bandaged hands.
“Mave.”
“Don’t.”
“You’ve been sleeping two hours?”
“Some nights.”
“Why?”
“Because repairs keep us alive.”
She touched the decorative hinge.
“These might save us.”
Caleb examined the pieces again.
“Who buys decorative iron when everyone’s broke?”
“People who aren’t broke.”
He looked at her.
“The Christmas market.”
Mave nodded.
“Red Bluff.”
Caleb knew it.
Everyone did.
Once a year, on Christmas Eve, merchants, ranchers, mining suppliers, traders, and families came from several counties.
“That’s fifty miles.”
“Yes.”
“Stall fee.”
“Yes.”
“Travel costs.”
“Yes.”
“And if none of this sells?”
Mave looked at him.
“Then we lose.”
Caleb laughed bitterly.
“We’re already losing.”
“Exactly.”
He put down the hinge.
“We could use tomorrow doing repairs.”
“And still be short.”
Caleb hated the logic because it left no safe choice.
Mave pulled the tarp back.
“I’ve been building inventory because I knew ordinary repair work wasn’t enough.”
“You should have told me.”
“You would have stopped me.”
“I would have told you to sleep.”
“That too.”
Caleb looked at her.
She looked exhausted enough to fall where she stood.
But beneath exhaustion was something harder.
Resolve.
“When is the market?”
“Tomorrow.”
Caleb turned toward the black window.
Outside, Christmas Eve had already begun.
One day.
That was what remained.
“One last gamble,” Mave said.
Caleb looked at the iron.
Then at her hands.
Then toward the darkness where Harlon Pike’s land waited beyond the ridge.
“Fine.”
Mave’s eyes lifted.
“Fine?”
“We go.”
She released a breath.
Caleb pointed toward her.
“But you sleep in the wagon.”
“No.”
“Mave.”
“Who drives?”
“I do.”
“Then who watches you fall asleep?”
He almost argued.
Instead he laughed.
“Pack the pieces.”
She smiled faintly.
Caleb pulled on his coat.
“I’ll get blankets.”
Within minutes, the forge was alive again.
Not with hammer blows this time.
With packing.
Wrapping.
Rope.
May you like
Wooden boxes.
Their last chance slowly filled the wagon.
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