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broken hinges, axles, plows, horseshoes, anything that could possibly be welded or reshaped. He’d need to order several pounds of iron bars and rods for new projects as well as a couple dozen bushels of charcoal. There were enough supplies and fuel to keep him in business for a few weeks, but if any large projects came in, he’d come up short.
    With no hot coals to ignite the forge in the morning, he’d need to come in early to build an appropriate fire. The kindling box was full, though, probably thanks to Mr. Barnes, so there was nothing left to do until tomorrow. Levi figured he had a couple hours before it would be time to meet Claude at the livery, and since Ornery had wandered off a while ago to wherever stray dogs went in the afternoon, he decided to explore the town.
    He’d already seen most of the east side, having stayed in the hotel and eaten at the café last night. He’d visited the bank after treating himself to a cinnamon bun at the bakery next door.
    A wagon and team rumbled out from the livery, heading toward him. Levi waved to the fellow on the driver’s seat and waited for him to pass before crossing to the opposite side of the road. He introduced himself to the man who ran the saddle shop and let it be known that he’d be open for business on the morrow.
    The saloon came next, with its entrance discreetly, or not so discreetly, tucked around the corner. Only two horses stood hitched outside at this early hour, but someone was pounding out a vigorous tune on a piano, as if the house were packed. Bawdy lyrics popped into Levi’s head, lyrics he used to sing with his cronies after a drink or two. Lyrics that now heated his neck with shame as he fought to oust them from his mind. He lengthened his stride, trying to outrun the words and the images they induced.
    He evoked a hymn from memory to replace the tavern song and started humming, “O for a faith that will not shrink, Though pressed by ev’ry foe . . .”
    The rest of the verse eluded him, but he kept humming the music, louder and louder until the saloon was out of earshot. So intent was he upon clearing his mind that he marched past the boardinghouse, general store, drug store, and butcher before sight of the sheriff’s office drew him up short.
    “ ’Scuse me, mister. I’m late.” A young boy pushed past him and dashed down the side street that veered to the right.
    Eager to avoid the sheriff and curious about where the kid was rushing off to, Levi followed. He recognized this road. The steepled church and parsonage beckoned to him from the end of the lane. But the boy didn’t clamber up to either of those doors. Instead, without knocking, he plunged into a large two-story frame house. Levi assumed it was the boy’s home until he moved closer and caught sight of a small wooden sign hanging from the eaves of the covered porch. Library .
    A yearning began to grow within him. He’d started reading books to aid his efforts in circumventing his speech problem and discovered along the way that he truly enjoyed getting lost in a book.
    In grade school, Levi dealt with his lisp by trouncing any kid who teased him. His size and quickness gave him an advantage over other boys, even those two or three years his senior. But he’d had to deal with his dad’s belt and extra chores every time the teacher sent him home for fighting, so he began searching for another way around his problem.
    In his sixth grade year, the school board hired a new teacher, a short, thin fellow with spectacles and pointy chin whiskers. The first day he caught Levi in a fight, he pulled him aside.
    “Levi,” he’d said, “fighting doesn’t make these kids think more highly of you. It simply makes you a bully.”
    Levi hadn’t been too sure of that at the time. He’d seen the respect in the eyes of the other kids after he pummeled an eighth grader who thought it funny to call him a baby. Yet this diminutive teacher was the first person to address his problem