My Blacksmith Savior

POV: Sorsha

The sun was just setting when Mabel bent a shoe.

Petting her neck affectionately, I knew I’d have to get that fixed, but the thought of coming home with no money scared me more.

My father and brother were not forgiving and expected me to expand the business, which was laughable. Mabel was a cart horse, and every day I waited in the market square for anyone who needed items delivered or moved.

The cart wasn’t in great shape either, and I feared one of the wheels would soon fall off. Even when I was approached to move items—like today, sacks of fertilizer—it took me a long time to load and unload, not enough time to do multiple loads.

In addition, I’d spent a penny on a fresh loaf of bread and devoured it throughout the day. I needed my strength for physical work, but neither my father nor my brother seemed to realize that.

The blacksmith came into view, and I hesitated, instead watching him hammer a piece of steel, sparks flying. Sully, his name was—just like his father before him.

It was rather delightful to watch him as I walked past every day. He never looked up, always focused on his work. He wore a leather apron that had black burn marks and was shiny in places, but it only made him look more manly.

You could see those biceps flexing when he pounded the steel, which always made my breathing hitch, but I wasn’t foolish and knew people like him didn’t like girls like me.

When he looked up, I stopped in surprise, only to realize I’d already stopped.

“Um, how much for a bent horseshoe?” I stammered quickly.

He blinked at me, uncomprehending for a few seconds, before hastily laying his tools aside and stepping closer.

He spotted the bent shoe immediately, but checked all of Mabel’s hooves.

“These horseshoes are so rusted, they all need replacing,” he said, petting Mabel’s neck and avoiding eye contact.

“How much would that cost?” I asked in trepidation.

Our eyes met, and for the first time, I saw his eyes were a blue-green color, making him even more handsome.

I’d seen the admiring looks he received when he strode through Bridgeford, but no one seemed to get close enough even to form a friendship, let alone something more intimate.

“Three pennies per shoe,” he said, and my face fell.

I’d made six pennies today and spent one. If I came home with only two pennies, my father would likely beat me to death.

“Could you maybe just make it more comfortable for Mabel?” I asked, a plea in my voice, stroking Mabel’s nose.

His gaze dropped to my wrist, the blue bruise encircling it clearly visible. I hastily lowered my arm and looked away, completely embarrassed.

Nodding, he walked to the forge and picked up a tool that looked like something to pull the horseshoe off. He bent down beside Mabel, one broad hand steadying her leg as he lifted her hoof with a practiced manner, gentle despite the strength behind them.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms roped with muscle, dusted with soot and fine hair.

As he crouched, I could see just how tall he truly was—when he stood straight, he’d easily have a head on most men in Bridgeford. With a sharp tug, he wrenched the bent horseshoe free, muscles flexing in his shoulders and back.

Grabbing hold of Mabel’s bridle, I soothed her as Sully laid the bent and rusty shoe into the fire.

I watched in fascination, and this was new material for my daydreams.

“Sorsha?” The shout had me whirling around in fright. “What the hell are you doing?” my brother Ryan yelled.

I moved closer to the forge and said defensively, “Mabel bent a shoe, and I can’t let her walk on that.”

“We don’t have money for that,” he said, striding towards me with narrowed eyes that were spitting fire.

No, we only had money for the bare necessities, and I mean bare. My dress had holes around the waist, which I stitched together, but the fabric was threadbare and kept splitting open.

He nodded toward Sully. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to straighten it,” Sully responded factually as he gripped the horseshoe with tongs and laid it on the anvil.

“Well, don’t.”

“Ryan,” I gritted through clenched teeth. “If we lose Mabel, then what?”

I hissed in pain as he gripped my bruised wrist and yanked me closer.

The clang of the hammer falling had me jerking in fright—but Ryan didn’t even flinch. He kept his grip tight on my wrist, his face twisted with fury.

“Let go,” I whispered, trying to pull back, but his fingers only dug in deeper.

Then Sully stepped forward. Not loudly. Not hurried. Just a calm, deliberate motion. He set the hammer down beside the anvil, wiped his hands on a rag, and came to stand between us.

“That’s enough,” he said quietly.

Ryan didn’t back away, but his grip loosened slightly. “This is my sister.”

Sully didn’t blink. “And this is my forge.” His tone hadn’t changed, but underneath was something dangerous that made Ryan pause. “You don’t lay hands on anyone here.”

For a moment, no one moved. Mabel snorted behind me, uneasy.

Then Ryan released me with a shove that made me stumble back a step. He turned on his heel and stalked off, muttering curses under his breath—then turned back and held out his hand.

I stared at the ground, heart hammering, my wrist throbbing.

I knew what he wanted.

The money I’d earned.

I dug the five pennies out of the pocket in my dress and slapped them into his palm. Sully watched but didn’t speak. Once Ryan walked away, he just picked up the tongs again and returned to the anvil.

It didn’t take him long to straighten out the horseshoe, and he carefully fitted it. Mabel was almost as old as I, and without horseshoes to protect her hooves, they could become brittle.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll pay for this tomorrow or the next day.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, and I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. Did he want the money or not?

“Bye,” I said so softly he probably couldn’t hear me, and led Mabel home, already dreading the evening.

The closer I got to home, the slower I walked. Home was no more than a ramshackle house in desperate need of repairs. But that wasn’t going to happen—not now, not ever.

My mother took regular beatings from my father, and one day she went to bed and never woke up. I knew, deep down, that he was responsible.

Soon enough, he started beating on me, and Ryan, instead of protecting me, followed his lead.

I dreamed of running away and leaving them behind, but Bridgeford—although not as large as a city—had a bridge toll, and you needed papers to enter and leave the town district.

The papers were hidden somewhere in the house, but unless both my father and Ryan were dead drunk, I had no occasion to look for them.

Once, I had an enquiry to move pottery to the next town, but my father immediately declined, saying it was too dangerous to leave the area on my own. I suspected he was scared I would never return, and I think that’s exactly what I would have done.

When I suggested Ryan accompany me, my brother shook his head, as though work was beneath him.

I inhaled sharply when I saw both sitting on the porch, waiting for me.

I knew what was coming—but first, I would take care of Mabel.

Something Ryan could have easily done. Instead, he watched from the sidelines. Once that chore was finished, I slowly walked to the porch, preparing myself for the onslaught.

“Five pennies?” my father asked derisively, stretching his feet out and crossing his ankles as though he was having a casual chat.

But I knew what he was capable of—he could move very fast.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? How much did you give Sully?”

“Nothing. Free of charge.”

“Then why so little money?”

I sighed inwardly. I would never let him hear me sigh—because that was a surefire way to be backhanded.

“I only had one load of fertilizer, but it took me the whole day to load and unload,” I admitted, wishing that such an admission would make them feel a twinge of guilt.

“Ridiculous,” Ryan interjected loudly, grabbing the bottle from behind him and taking a swig.

The scent of alcohol wafted toward me, and I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

My father held out his hand, and Ryan passed him the bottle. He took a long draught. I didn’t know how they could stand the stuff, but they brewed it each week religiously from potatoes and scrap vegetables.

Every Friday, I was ordered to pick up scraps from eateries and guesthouses.

I was sure everyone in Bridgeford knew what my family situation was, but no one interfered.

It was not polite to interfere in family matters.

The man was the head of the household, and if he wanted to beat his wife to death, then he must have a reason.

Ditto for his daughter.

“I’m tired,” I said, but while they blocked the front door, there was no way in.

“Hmm,” my father said, slapping my brother’s leg. “You hear that? She’s tired. TIRED… not hungry. That means she spent money buying food for herself.”