by Regina Scott
“What’s the job pay?” It sounded crass, even to his own ears, but his plans required more than a dollar a day and all you could eat. Bridger rubbed his fingers against the smooth wood of the table, wondering if the hunger would hold off his exhaustion.
If the question offended Ike Tyler, nary a blink told it. “I treat my men well. Room at the boardinghouse next door, meals here, good wages—” his voice trailed as Mattie came up behind him, rubbing her free hand across his back “—and plenty of added benefits.”
Bridger thanked the woman for the plate and she sauntered off with a wink as Ike swatted her bottom. He didn’t bother with niceties but dug into the thick steak and steamy potato. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll be grateful for the soft bed tonight, but it doesn’t seem like a real restful spot.”
Ike smiled. “Might be a room in the new hotel once it’s completed.” He puffed on his cigar, eyes glittering. “I like the looks of you, Bridger Jamison. It’s not bragging to tell you, you’ll not find a better boss in town, maybe not in the territory. Ask my men. You do well with the jobs I give you, and I’ll see about throwing more work your way. Ones with greater pay more befitting a man with your needs.”
Bridger focused on his plate—one cleaner than he’d have expected in such a place—and worked a bluff. “Don’t need anything but a quiet place to stay and work to earn my keep, Mr. Tyler.” He chewed another tender bite of meat. “When can I start?”
“Supplies for the hotel are to arrive by end of the week, but there’s no reason I can’t call on you for some odd jobs before that, right? Why don’t you get settled in next door and I’ll see what comes up over the next day or so to keep you occupied in the meanwhile.”
Bridger pushed his chair away and stood, shaking Ike’s outstretched hand. “Sounds good. I reckon anyone looking for a stranger in town might check with you, then?” He tossed coins from his pocket to pay for the meal onto the table.
“That a problem for you?” Ike asked with more interest than concern.
“No, sir. But I found a body out on the trail—turned out to be your sheriff. I would suppose someone will have questions for me sooner or later. I want them to know I didn’t run out.”
The glitter of coins on the table reflected in Ike’s eyes. “What happened?” He pulled the stub of cigar from his lips and leaned forward.
“Looks like his horse threw him and he hit his head on a rock. The undertaker lady, she seemed plenty shook and not of a mind to discuss much when I delivered him.” Bridger blinked his tired eyes.
“Lola will handle it. You’ll not find many women with her strength. I’ll see to it she knows where to find you, but it doesn’t sound like there’s much to tell.”
“Not so far as I could see, but that doesn’t stop the need to ask the questions.” Bridger smirked. Lying low never came easy to him.
“You think people should be worried about your answers?” Ike grinned.
“I didn’t do anything but find the poor guy. But the way I look right now, I don’t reckon it’ll stop any wagging tongues. If you’re worried about the answers I’ll give, I may not be your man for the job.”
Ike waved him off, his easy smile tight and the gleam in his eye sharp. “Don’t bother me none, either way. Sometimes a man with secrets makes him the best asset of a business.”
Bridger ran a hand over his scrubby whiskers. “Strange thing, finding a woman undertaker.”
Ike Tyler leaned back in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, and twirled the stub of cigar between his fingers. “Well, I think mainly Lola doesn’t know what else to do with herself yet. Her father died a few months back, murdered by some drifter coming through town. First hanging we’ve had in these parts that I recall.” He snuffed his cigar on the edge of Bridger’s empty plate. “Lola worked with him since she was real young. I suppose folks around here are giving her a chance to mourn and sort through everything before she figures out what to do next. Besides, there’s no one else in town. Doc Kendall travels between Quiver Creek and four other towns, so we only see him once every couple months.”
Bridger stacked this information against the small woman he’d met. Tough thing for any woman alone in Wyoming Territory. But she hadn’t exactly acted unsure of herself. And knowing her pa had died recently, it made more sense that she’d been driven to tears when the sheriff turned up dead.
“You can let her know I’m bunked here. I’d like to get the matter settled quick as I can. A man never knows when he might need to move on. I’d as soon not let that kind of tale follow me, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand you, friend. Room’s second door on the left at the top of the stairs. I’d be glad to send Mattie over to air it out for you.” He watched Ike follow the woman’s form as she laughed and chatted with some of the other cowboys but tossed a wink his way as she downed a shot. “Looks to me like she wouldn’t mind so much, either.”
Bridger shook his head. “I need to untack my horse, get settled in. I’ll be ready to start day after tomorrow, if that’s all right by you. I appreciate the work.”
“Sounds fine, Bridger. I know where to find you when I’m ready. You do what I say and mind your own secrets, you and I will get along just fine.” Ike stood and shook his hand, nearly crushing it. Bridger felt his dark gaze bore into him. Ike jerked him close enough to choke him with his smoky breath. “You do as you’re told, and don’t ever cross me, you got that? Loyalty is rewarded handsomely among my men. But your life won’t be worth a plug nickel if you ever go against me.”
Bridger stepped back, a cold grin pulling at his lips. “Mister, all I need is a job in a town big enough to not attract attention to myself. No man has been able to intimidate me since I left home to join the War Between the States when I was eighteen, so you’re wasting your time trying. Now, if you want a hard worker who knows how to mind his own business, you got it. But no one owns me, and you best understand that from the start if you’re looking to hire me.”
He pulled his hand out of Ike’s loosened fist. For a moment, the man’s eyes flashed hot, but it passed in an instant and he threw his head back with a hearty laugh. “Now I like that—a man who won’t let himself be pushed. Yes, sir, Bridger, you’re exactly the man I’ve been looking for. I just wanted to be sure we had an understanding.”
Bridger nodded and kicked his chair under the table without breaking his gaze. “I’ve understood men like you since I wore short pants, sir. You got no worries from me. I only mean to do the job, collect my pay and live quiet.”
He stepped around Ike, tipping his hat to Mattie and another friend of hers as he stomped out the doors. Her coy wave lacked the warmth of Miss Martin’s determined green eyes.
The sign in the window caught his eye again as he untied his horse. This was the first notice of work he’d seen in almost a month. The town and Ike’s saloon had all the up-and-coming signs that would help him save what he needed to start his own business. Ike’s tone set him off, but experience taught him big talk often came from lesser men. Ike relied on others to do the real work for him. He probably pulled that tone with every new hire. With the lack of sleep and food he’d had over the past two weeks, he might have misunderstood Ike’s intent, anyway.
He hoped the lady undertaker made no mistake about his. Bringing the sheriff into town on the back of a horse had to raise questions, but his conscience prevented anything less. He hoped Miss Martin found rest tonight, in spite of the trouble he’d brought to her door.
All he knew now was he needed to get his horse to the livery and get a couple hours of sleep. He had to get back to camp and move Frank into town before sunup. He’d learned the hard way, keeping Frank away from other folks—especially beautiful, refined ladies such as Miss Martin—saved a lot of trouble in the end.
Chapter Two
Dawn slipped over the sharp ridges to the east of town as Bridger rode the slopes north of Quiver Creek. His brother, Frank, rode beside him, half-asleep. The few hours in a re
al bed had done wonders, but Frank hadn’t had that luxury. Thankful for the moonlight, Bridger had headed back up the trail to wake Frank and clean up the meager camp they’d set the night before, not far from where they’d found the sheriff’s body. He needed to get Frank into town before folks started stirring. It would be much easier to get Frank into their room undetected.
“Frank? You with me?” Bridger asked, his whisper echoing in the silence of the morning.
Frank shifted in the saddle, rubbing beefy fists into his eyes. He blinked dully and breathed deep, drawing himself awake, then turned his ruddy face to Bridger with a wide smile. “Good morning.”
Bridger couldn’t help but smile back. “Morning, Frank. We’re almost there.”
“Good. I like town, seeing all the people.”
“Shh!” Bridger warned. “Remember what happened in that last town? We need to stay put for a while this time, Frank. We can’t do that if you get too nosy again—”
“I didn’t do nothing!” Frank protested. “I didn’t do what that lady said, Bridge—”
“I know. I know you didn’t. But sometimes…well, people don’t understand what a great brother you are. They think—”
“I know, Bridger. We’re a scary-looking pair, right?”
“Right. Me with the scar, you all big and strong… We have to be…careful, that’s all. I have the promise of a good job here, a chance to make enough money so we can afford a place of our own like we’ve been talking about.”
“With horses?” Frank asked.
“With horses,” Bridger conceded. He knew enough about farming and ranching to hold an odd job now and then and enough to know he wanted something different. But all Frank wanted was horses to care for. He’d never seen a man who knew the beasts better. “But to do that, I need you to help me. You have to do as I say.”
“I always try, Bridger. You’re smart. I know that.”
Bridger winced. Frank did know that, just as well as those folks who saw fit to judge him. Frank’s brain worked slower, and his speech was thicker and simpler, but not enough to make him unaware of his own deficiency. Then, too, Frank’s looks didn’t help him—tall, broad, rawboned—everything like their father. Before Frank’s…before his brother lost that part of himself, a keen, teasing wit and sharp mind had kept the young ladies back home plenty impressed with Frank Jamison. The familiar knot twisted in Bridger’s chest.
“I’m just saying I need you to do your job. It won’t be forever, Frank. Just until we save enough for a little spread. Nothing fancy—a few horses for you, a woodshop for me. Away from town, but close enough I can sell my furniture to those fancy outfits back East…”
“And some chickens and a dog.”
Bridger looked at his brother, smiling at the dream they’d been talking about ever since he’d made it back home from the war. “The way you keep adding animals to the list, we’re going to need a bigger barn.”
Frank grinned and rubbed his sleepy eyes again. “I’m tired.”
“I know you are. We’re almost there, and then you can sleep in a real bed and get a good rest.”
“Real beds cost lots of money,” Frank said, eyes closed again.
“Not this time. It’s part of the pay for the job I found. Meals, too, I think.”
“You don’t have to cook no more?”
“Nope. They have a cook.”
“Better than you, right?”
Bridger glanced from the trail to his brother’s dozing form. Every so often, hints of Frank’s old, teasing self would slip out. But never at his whim. Still, sometimes it was hard to tell.
“Not just better than me—good.”
They wandered onto the main thoroughfare in silence, Bridger thankful for the quiet that greeted them. The town felt deserted.
“We’re here,” he said, sliding down and tying his mount. Frank did the same. “We have a room upstairs here.” Bridger nodded toward the dilapidated boardinghouse. It had to have been one of the town’s original structures. But it seemed sparsely used, if not quiet. A saloon next door made for a rowdy neighbor, but it beat the hard ground and would have to do. He only needed to convince Frank. “You can get a good sleep, in a real bed. How’s that sound?”
Frank nodded, eyes still heavy from his early-morning wake-up call.
Bridger motioned him to follow as they walked toward the rear entrance, which lay in shadows from a few spindly aspens. Between the trees and the distractions of a lively saloon next door, Frank would be relatively free to come and go. The notion of this dingy building and the tiny room they’d share being Frank’s new prison gnawed on him. But only for now, just until he settles in—
“What’s this place? People drink here!”
Bridger pivoted, hand on the doorknob. He had hoped the dimness would disguise the nature of the establishment next door. It would be easier to have this debate once they were tucked away in the room upstairs.
“Listen, Frank,” he said, moving to his brother’s side. He raised his hands to his brother’s shoulders and tried to draw him away from the narrow alley between the boardinghouse and the saloon, filled with broken amber bottles and litter.
“I’m not working there,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. “But the man who gave me the job, he owns this place. He’s building a hotel, Frank, and I’m going to help him with that.”
“Saloons make people mad, Bridger. Folks drink too much and get loud and fight, and—”
“The owner, he keeps it from getting to that. I watched him throw a man out last night for causing trouble. It gets loud, maybe, but with music and people, Frank.”
“God doesn’t like people drinking and fighting. I don’t want to stay here.”
Frank’s voice grew louder. His eyes darted while his breath heaved. Bridger knew he had to calm him before he bolted.
He pressed his hands on either side of his brother’s head, acting as blinders to everything except his own face. “Listen! Calm down and listen to me, all right?” Frank’s breathing eased as Bridger spoke in low tones. “It’s going to be all right, you hear me? We’ll be together, and it’s only for a little while. We’ll sock away every penny and get those horses. I don’t like living here any more than you do, pard, but it’s the first sign of work I’ve seen in weeks.”
“Mama wouldn’t like it, Bridge,” Frank said, his voice soft, quiet, still tinged with fear.
Bridger sighed. Frank was right, but she hadn’t exactly stopped Pa from spending the majority of his time in such a place, either. No sense in bringing that up to Frank, though. “She’d be sad to know if we were going the way Pa did, but we’re not. This is only a place to rest up, lie low awhile, until we can afford our own place.”
His brother’s dull eyes shifted, trying to see beyond Bridger’s hands, but he held firm. “With horses?” he finally asked, his voice softer and not so panicked.
“With horses.”
Frank shook his head, pulling away. “No drinking, either, Bridge.”
“Nothing Mama wouldn’t approve of,” he promised. He hadn’t ever been a drinker. But Frank had reason to be suspicious, given what they’d grown up with.
“I miss her,” he whispered. “Can we go to church?”
Bridger lowered his arms, taking a step toward the stairway. “You know we can’t. Folks don’t—”
“You can. You can go and tell me about it.”
Bridger took his hat off and raked his hands across matted hair. “I can’t promise, Frank. But, well…I’ll try, all right?”
Frank beamed. “Thanks.”
“So you’ll stay here?”
“I have to stay with you, Bridge. We’re a scary-looking pair, remember?”
“I remember.” He grabbed his brother’s thick arm and led him up the dark stairs to their room. Frank had sacrificed his independence for Bridger’s life. He never mentioned it, and maybe the fact was lost in his muddled thinking. Or maybe he chose not to remind his little brother of it. But Bridger cou
ld never forget.
*
“We often ask the Lord ‘why’ in cases such as this,” Pastor Evans said. “And the simple answer is ‘because it’s the Lord’s Will.’ When our pain is fresh, that answer leaves us hollow. It’s only with time and faith that we can come away from grief stronger and, at the same time, with greater reliance on God.”
Lola shivered in the morning mountain shadows as Pastor Evans gave the eulogy for Pete McKenna. She stretched her arm around Grace, who stood shrouded in black with a heavy veil to hide her tears. Had it been only six months ago their positions had been reversed when Papa died?
Lola squeezed Grace’s shoulders in support as a soft wail broke from under the black veil, and she scanned the crowd standing silently around the gaping hole in the ground. The Rigger family looked almost as sorrowful as Grace. They lived farther up the pass and had asked for Sheriff McKenna’s help in tracking the mountain lion bent on killing off their herd. Mrs. Rigger squeezed her husband’s hand and gathered their two little girls close, no doubt thinking how easily it could have been her husband’s body that man had found.
Lola rocked Grace as Pastor Evans guided those in attendance in the 23rd Psalm. Her eyes settled on that same man in question. He stood behind Ike, shovel in hand and hat pulled low. But she recognized the deep, angry scar that crossed his face.
Her heart jumped as his gaze locked on her, surprising her with a warmth she’d missed at their first meeting. But she didn’t turn away. Let him know she recognized him. She hadn’t expected him to still be in town, let alone be here as they buried Pete, but she was glad to see him. It would make the U.S. marshal’s job that much easier when he arrived.
She had sent a request early the very next morning after Pete had been brought to her door. She was sure the marshal would have questions for him when he arrived. She’d like to ask a few of her own, but patience reigned. The law would prevail.
Lola gave Grace a parting hug and kissed her cheek with a promise to visit soon. Her heart ached to watch her friend leave with Pastor Evans to deliver her home.