by Regina Scott
Bridger pushed his plate aside and drew a deep breath. He’d long learned that getting angry with Frank only made the problem worse. “That’s right—I did. So where did you go?”
“Around the field by the church…”
“And?”
“And back through the town, the way we rode in…past that lady’s house.” Frank’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“What lady?”
“The lady with the pretty black hair, who lives in that house around the bend.” It came out in a whoosh of soft breath.
“Miss Martin?” Bridger looked out the window and across the roofs of the businesses next door. “What happened?”
“Nothin’, I promise! She didn’t even see me.” Frank always managed to tell the story through his protests.
“Why would she? You weren’t anywhere near her, right?”
“But I had to help the cat and that’s all, Bridger. I didn’t mean to fall and crash her door.” His brother looked at him with a curious mix of determination, fear and truth.
“‘Crash her door’? Hard? Did she hear you?”
“She didn’t leave the porch or nothin’. I ran away quick. I know you said—”
“Calm down, Frank.” He stood and settled his brother with a hand to his shoulder, his thoughts flying like a racehorse. “She probably didn’t even hear you.”
“Yes, she did! I heard her tell the other pretty lady.”
Bridger groaned. “If you’re close enough to hear, you’re too close, Frank!” His anger echoed against the bare walls, and he forced his tone to ease.
“I’m sorry, Bridger. Don’t be mad. I know what you said. It was dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”
Bridger slumped to the bed next to his brother and wrapped an arm around his broad shoulders, swaying a little until his mind cleared and Frank’s breathing returned to normal.
“I’m sorry, too, Frank. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s been kind of a long day for me. I’m not really mad.” He stood, looked at his brother’s repentant face and grinned. Frank would never intentionally frighten anyone or cause trouble. “Listen, I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. Miss Martin didn’t see you, right?”
Frank nodded. Bridger breathed a sigh of relief.
“Good. And I’m to go and talk with her this evening, anyway. I’ll see if she says anything about today. It’s probably slipped her mind already. In any case, she wouldn’t know it was you. But you have to promise me, Frank. You have to promise you’ll stay away from the busy part of town. And no going near people’s houses, all right?”
“All right.” Frank nodded with vigor, eyes gleaming with promise.
Bridger sat down again and bumped shoulders with Frank. “It will be all right. We scary-looking guys have to watch out for each other, that’s all.”
*
Lola started at the faint knock outside her front door. Another late-night guest? She marked the book she read, smoothed her hair into place and wound her way through the empty preparation room. Blue sky peeked through the window, but muted gray crept over the buildings as the sun sank below the mountains.
With a deep breath, she opened the door. “Mr. Jamison?”
“Bridger, ma’am.” Though his stance took full advantage of what height he had, his eyes drooped with fatigue. “I hoped it wouldn’t be too late to take a look at your father’s workshop. I’d like to find plans and see what supplies are on hand. Then, if I think I can do the job, I’ll start next week, if that’s agreeable to you.”
Tension across her shoulders eased at his businesslike tone. “That sounds fair…Bridger. Come in and I’ll get the key.”
His weary eyes scanned the room over her shoulder, then glanced along the street behind him. “With all due respect, ma’am, I think it’s best I meet you around back at the shed.”
Whether the nature of the room behind her or concern for her reputation prompted him, Lola appreciated his propriety.
Bridger’s shadowed form rounded the corner as she stepped onto the narrow porch. The brilliant sunset of a clear day lent a golden glow to the last rays that clung in spots around them, reluctant to make a complete escape. It burnished the rim of his hat, highlighted the angry scar across his face, lit his eyes with a warm glow.
Lola forced her attention to her trembling hand. She jammed the key into the lock. Bridger Jamison brought far more questions than she had answers.
“The U.S. marshal should arrive in a few days.” The lock sprang open and heat rushed to her cheeks as she faced the man.
Bridger dipped his head with a quirked smile. “Be glad to see him myself, ma’am. I’m anxious to clear any poor notions of my character.”
How many times had her father cautioned her about thinking out loud? “I apologize for the insinuation. You did a good thing, finding Pete and bringing him in like you did. I’ve just learned to be leery of strangers.”
His head tipped back, eyes blending with the growing darkness. “Mr. Tyler told me some of what you’ve been through this past while, and I’m sorry for your loss. It behooves you to be wary of scary-looking fellows like me.” He smiled and reached for the latch.
Lola bit her lip. She’d judged this man on circumstance and outward appearance, and her conscience pricked her. Yet not enough to prompt a full change of heart. Who was this man and what brought him to Quiver Creek? Maybe Grace was right. Having him in her employ would give her the opportunity to learn more about him—for better or for worse.
His voice interrupted her thoughts. “Mind if I light the lantern, ma’am?”
“Go ahead. The one Papa used should be inside the door.” She watched him trim the wick by feel alone and light it to a comforting glow within minutes.
“Anything you prefer I not touch in here?” he asked, keeping his lean back to her. He held the lantern at shoulder height and peered around the long room.
She wrapped her shawl tighter, looking to the gold-tinged peaks and stars winking in the darkening sky. The view failed to lure away memories brought on by the musty warm scent of wood shavings trickling through the doorway. Blinking tears from her eyes, she shook her head. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t a clue what’s in there. I haven’t opened the door since my father died.” She drew a snuffled breath. “You’re welcome to use whatever you find. I appreciate you considering the job.”
His warm hand grasped her forearm as she turned to go. The warmth of his calloused fingers clashed with the cool, damp night, and she shivered. Or perhaps the tenderness in his gaze caused the tremor. She bit the inside of her cheek to forge away fresh tears.
“I can do this another time, ma’am. I forget how quickly darkness settles here in the mountains. This might be easier by daylight.”
She knew by his tone he spoke to her emotions, not to what suited him. “No, you should have time for a quick look around before the lantern won’t be enough. Papa kept his notes in a box at the far end.” She gestured to the narrow door. “You’re welcome to take those along to study. They should give you the details you need as far as supplies and such. I’ll leave you to your search.”
*
Bridger held the lantern high, its light wobbling against dusty tan walls and glimmering tools. Even in the dimness, he saw two things: Lola’s father kept his work space neat, and he’d done more than fashion coffins. There were a large variety of tools, some old but well cared for, others with hardly a scratch to them.
His hands itched to think of the fine tables and cabinets he could make when he had his own woodshop someday. The main material lacking seemed to be proper lengths of wood, which he could order. He made a mental note to check with the general-store owner to see where a smaller order could be placed, hoping to avoid another visit with Mr. Johnston.
A row of windows lined the western wall, allowing the last remnants of sunlight to mix with the lantern’s flickering glow. A similar row on the opposite wall would allow a good work space to take advantage of morning light, should he have opportunity to u
se it. It also gave a direct view of Lola’s back door. If Mr. Tyler was serious about him keeping an eye on his former sweetheart, he wouldn’t have to feel quite like a spy.
What did Ike expect him to see? Being alone, even in town, couldn’t be easy for her. Raw grief still clouded her clear green eyes when she spoke of her father. Maybe a little fear, too.
His thoughts turned to Frank. A man his size falling into her door had to make a commotion, and Frank knew she’d heard him. Was it still wearing on her mind as she turned in for the night? Dare he ask?
Every great once in a while, the thought struck through him that his life would be simpler had Frank not stepped in that night to his defense. Their father might well have killed him, but then Frank would have a mind to make his own way. Now it rested on Bridger to care for the brother he’d lived his childhood looking up to.
Picking up a mallet, Bridger pounded against the anvil, comforted somehow by its hollow echo. Being in this place as darkness took over wasn’t doing him any more good than it had Lola. He needed to grab the box and get back to Frank.
The Lord knew the mess they were in, all the hows and whys. Frank continually reminded him it was enough to trust He’d clear the way for them. But so far, that way seemed filled with bad roads and crooked paths.
Bridger found the box Miss Martin had mentioned, though smaller than what he’d imagined. He’d study her father’s notes in the evenings and be ready to work as soon as he secured the supplies. The more he had to keep his hands busy, the better off he’d be.
He grasped the box by the handles. If he could be certain Frank hadn’t been spotted yet, this would all be a little simpler.
*
Lola wiped the dishes, set the kettle to heat and swept the floor before giving up the pretense to wait by the kitchen window for the lantern light to go out in Papa’s woodshed. It brought a curious freshness to her loss to have someone root through his tools, through the place where he’d spent so many hours—so many happy hours they’d spent together.
“Lord, give me wisdom. I need someone to build these if I’m going to stay in business. Help me know the right direction to go,” she prayed.
Finally the light moved from the door. Bridger fastened the lock before snuffing the lantern and hanging it on the hook outside. She opened the door at the first soft knock. Surprise widened his eyes. The minimal lighting hid her blush at being caught spying, her response coming too quick for anything else.
The man fairly disappeared under the overhang of the porch, which blocked the moonlight. Still, the rustling told her he’d removed his hat as she opened the door.
“I found the box. Looks to me like he was quite a wood smith, ma’am.”
She sucked in a delighted breath, somehow warmed at the observation. “You’re right. And please, call me Lola, remember?”
“All right…Lola. If you’re willing to take a chance on me, I’m more than happy to have the opportunity.” His voice carried whisper-soft on the dry evening wind.
“I’ll expect you next week, then, whenever Ike can spare you. Good night, Bridger.”
“Lola?”
His voice caught her ear before the door closed. “Yes?”
A long pause greeted her, as if he’d tried to word his next comment several ways before speaking it aloud. “I don’t suppose you get many visitors to this door. Will it be all right if I knock here to get the key for the shed?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
She heard an anxious shuffle of feet. “I just thought hearing, uh, unexpected noises back here…even during the day, it might…”
Her mind returned to the strange thud today during Grace’s visit. “It might if I weren’t accustomed to staying here alone.” She hoped her voice hid her lack of bravado. “Most folks aren’t anxious to snoop around this type of business establishment, I suppose.” She managed a ripple of laughter, suddenly realizing the truth of the statement. “Besides, Ike’s men will patrol the town until a suitable sheriff can be elected.”
“I reckon you’re right.” She heard the smile in his voice and an awkward sense of relief. “Just, if there were something…anything that…disturbed you in some way…well, I hope you’ll grow familiar enough with me being around to let me know. Working for Ike, I’d be glad to keep an eye on the place.”
Lola nodded, unsure how she felt about having this man “keeping an eye” on her place. “I appreciate the offer,” she told him, strangely pleased by it in spite of herself. “But I assure you, I know how to handle things, Bridger.” She prayed for truth in that claim.
He stepped forward and leaned toward the door. His eyes glittered in the kitchen light, and the jagged edge of his scar rippled and pulled at the edge of his lip as he spoke. “From the little I’ve seen, Lola, I have no doubt that’s so.”
With that he slid from the porch with a light step. She heard his soft “Good night” as the door creaked closed.
Chapter Six
Bridger surveyed the lot where Tyler’s Hotel would stand in a few weeks. Various sizes of river rock wedged into tight stacks created an impressive foundation. Toby’s precise instruction and knowledge on how to build it surprised him. Despite an overbearing tone in directing the men, Bridger recognized the skill behind it. They would be ready to construct the walls by the middle of next week.
Bridger covered the last of the supplies with heavy canvas before meeting his boss at the front of the worksite. “Looks like you’re making progress.” Ike waved his cigar hand and smacked Bridger’s shoulder with a hearty thud using the other. “I have an errand for you, and a favor to ask.”
Bridger stepped from under his bony fingers. “What’s that?”
“First, I need you to pick up supplies at Anthony’s store. Tell Cecil you’re the new man for the weekly pickup. Got that?”
Bridger squinted into the sun, rubbing dust from his hands onto an old blue handkerchief. “Sure thing. I can see about supplies for Lola’s job while I’m there.”
He followed as Ike nodded him into a walk. “I also wondered if you’d be interested in working the saloon tomorrow evening. Lots of cowhands rumble into town with money burning a hole in their pockets. Things get busy, might get a little rowdy. It’d be good to have you on hand.”
Bridger adjusted his hat and tucked the handkerchief into his back pocket. “I prefer not to work in any saloon, Mr. Tyler. Besides, I hoped to do some work at Lola’s.”
“I’ll give you tomorrow afternoon off for that.” Tyler drew the promise out like a bone waved before a hungry dog, totally ignoring any preference Bridger might have. “Pay’s good.”
Ire brewed in Bridger’s chest. No good ever came from having a greater interest in money than you ought to. And outright trouble came when someone else discovered the weakness. Still…he thought of Frank holed up in that hotel room, of the fine tools Lola’s father had, of his promise to take care of his brother and his dreams for his own business. “I said I don’t much cotton to working in a saloon, Mr. Tyler. That’s not what I signed on for.”
“Agreements can be adjusted, right? I’m talking this one time. If I don’t get more men somewhere, you won’t have much chance at a restful evening, anyhow.”
Bridger stopped, his boots kicking dusty rock ahead. “What about the others?”
“Ah, they’re only muscle.” Ike’s voice grew as slick as the mustache wax he used. “You have something they’ll never have—intellect. They can handle situations that get out of hand, true. But you, sir, can prevent the problem in the first place. Besides, I’m shorthanded without you.”
Back home, old Reverend Harvey read warnings about idle flattery, and Bridger wasn’t fool enough to believe this was any more than that. He scanned the street, watching wagons rumbling around the bend that led to Lola’s place. Frank would hate it if—
“I’ll pay you double what the other men get, if you keep quiet about it.” Tyler grinned, leaning back with his hands clasped before him and a too-wide smile.
“And Sunday off.”
He’d be free to go to church. Bridger rubbed a hand along his scar. Frank would pitch a fit about him working in the saloon, but keeping his promise to attend church might smooth things over. Besides, Frank would never settle to sleep if things got wild next door. His conscience seared him. But double the pay?
“I’ll do it.” Bridger stopped and faced Ike’s knowing smirk. “Like you said, it’s one night. But no more.”
“That’s the spirit. I believe it’s always wise to keep an open contract. It’s good to see you’re a flexible sort, Bridger.” Ike clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t forget my order from Mr. Anthony, now. You can drop it in the saloon kitchen with Mattie if I’m not in my office. Then you’re on your own until tomorrow night.”
Bridger nodded him off, stopping by the water trough while Ike sauntered down the street.
Bridger wet his handkerchief at the pump and washed over his face and hands. Did Toby know of Ike’s offer? Somehow, Bridger didn’t imagine he’d be pleased if he did. Then again, Toby wasn’t easy to figure.
Bridger had little time to wonder. If he didn’t stop woolgathering, he’d never make it to Anthony’s store before it closed.
But he felt no hurry to return and tell Frank about the change in his working arrangements, either.
*
A tiny bell chimed as Bridger stepped through the door into Anthony’s General Store. Cecil Anthony, a tiny man with olive skin and a thick gray mustache, greeted him from behind the counter with a cheery hello. “What can I do for you today, sir?” he asked. Bridger couldn’t place the bold accent, but he smiled at the brightness of it. Mr. Anthony tapped the worn counter with thick fingers, his apron still crisp and white as the day wound down. Sunlight slipped through the front windows and gleamed across his smooth head, glistening along his spectacle frames. He stood straight and firm, though he barely rose above Bridger’s chin. His square shoulders matched his jawline, and Bridger knew in an instant he liked the man.
“I’m here to place an order for some wood lengths, if you can get them.” He sidled against the counter. “Pine boards.”