The Last Renegade
Page 40
“You’re Miss Morrow. The schoolteacher.”
Tru stopped. She supposed that if he had any doubt about her identity, the simple act of pausing was sufficient to confirm it.
“My name’s Bridger,” he said, touching the brim of his pearl gray Stetson with a gloved hand. “Cobb Bridger.”
She sighed and tugged on her scarf again. “I know who you are, Mr. Bridger.”
“You do?”
She felt strangely pleased that she had surprised him. “I eliminated all the faces I know. Since I don’t know yours that makes you new to town and therefore the gambler who has taken up lodgings at the Pennyroyal.”
“I’m staying at the Pennyroyal.”
“I don’t pass any judgment about gambling, Mr. Bridger. Or drinking for that matter.” The Pennyroyal was a hotel and saloon. “Your affairs are your own.” She thought she sounded a bit priggish for someone who professed to pass no judgment, but it was too late to make amends for it. “Excuse me, please.”
He retreated a step and let her move out of his reach before he said, “I thought you’d be more curious.”
If he’d put out a hand to block her path, he could not have stopped her with more ease. Tru turned her head and arched a single spun-gold eyebrow.
“Don’t you wonder how I recognized you, Miss Morrow?”
Tru yanked on her scarf. “I imagine you learned something about everyone in Bitter Springs in the same manner I did. You cannot get from the train station to the hotel without the assistance of Rabbit and Finn Collins, and no personal detail is too small for them to miss about you or relate about others. As the young masters are both my pupils, I can suppose one or both pointed me out to you as you rode by or told you all of the six ways I’ve made their lives miserable by accepting the position to teach in Bitter Springs. You probably noticed my horns and cloven feet.”
Almost immediately, Tru regretted calling attention to herself in that manner. Cobb Bridger’s scrutiny was thorough, though not particularly personal. He regarded her with a certain remoteness that was almost clinical, more akin to the dispassionate observation of a scientist. She was most definitely not flattered, but then neither, she realized, was she embarrassed.
“What I noticed,” he said, returning his gaze to hers, “is that the color of your hair is as fine as Rumplestiltskin could spin it.”
Tru felt her jaw go slack. Gaping like a fish was unattractive, and she recovered quickly. Quite against her will, though, the dimple on the left side of her mouth appeared as a short laugh changed the shape of her lips. “Pardon me, Mr. Bridger, but this is the second time today that someone has made that rather odd comparison. I do have to ask myself whether you heard it first from Finn or whether he came by it from you.”
“No doubt about it, Miss Morrow. That’s a puzzler.”
Tru smiled again, this time appreciatively. Mr. Bridger had obviously decided to give nothing away. “So you and Finn have become fast friends.”
“I don’t remember that he gave me a choice.”
“No, I don’t suppose he did.” Her smile faltered, became earnest. “You’ll have a care with him, won’t you? He doesn’t know a stranger, and I understand from his grandmother that he’s drawn most particularly to gamblers.”
“He asked me right off if I knew his father.”
She nodded. “He believes his father is riding the rails playing high-stakes poker from one end of the country to the other. He might be. No one knows, but no one but Finn holds out any hope that one day he’ll turn up in Bitter Springs with his winnings in a wheelbarrow.”
“I see.”
Tru wasn’t sure what he saw. When he tilted his head, the brim of his hat cast a shadow over his eyes. She couldn’t tell whether he was being reflective or dismissive. “So you’ll have a care,” she repeated. “It would be a kindness if you did.”
“You are certain of that?”
His question seemed to suggest that she could be wrong. She felt herself bristling and responded with rather more sharpness than she intended. “It’s no burden to show kindness.”
“What if kindness is merely a deceit? There’s a burden there, I think, and usually unfortunate consequences.”
Tru shivered inside her coat. She tried to form a response, but her teeth chattered so violently that she would have bitten her tongue.
“Perhaps we should agree to disagree,” he said. “Before you are chilled to the bone.”
“T-too l-l-late.”
“May I escort you home?”
She shook her head.
“As you wish.” He tapped his brim again. “Good day, Miss Morrow.”
Tru thought she might have seen something like humor play about his mouth, but she couldn’t be sure. He did not strike her as a man who smiled as a matter of course but as one who offered it more judiciously and to far more devastating effect.
Tru covered the lower half of her face again and turned away. She fought the temptation to glance over her shoulder to see if he was watching her. She had the sensation that he was. The most disturbing thing about that particular fancy was that she was warmed by it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jo Goodman is a licensed professional counselor working with children and families in West Virginia’s Northern Panhandle. Always a fan of the happily ever after, Jo turned to writing romances early in her career as a child-care worker when she realized the only life script she could control was the one she wrote herself. She is inspired by the resiliency and courage of the children she meets, and feels privileged to be trusted with their stories, the ones that they alone have the right to tell.
Once upon a time, Jo believed she was going to be a marine biologist. She feels lucky that seasickness made her change course. She lives with her family in landlocked Colliers, West Virginia. Please visit her website at www.jogoodman.com.