by Regina Scott
His boss took a longer-than-gentlemanly gaze at Lola, then met his stare with a smirk.
Bridger tightened his grip on the smooth rolled back of the pew before him, seething. Lola was too fine a woman—a lady—to have any man look her over that way.
He bit the inside of his cheek in frustration. Frank waited, holed up in their little room at the boardinghouse, barely able to sleep with excitement of hearing about church service secondhand, all because a woman mistook his attentions in that last town. And this man, leering at women from the pew!
The song ended and Bridger fell to his seat a half beat behind everyone else, fighting his ire with Ike.
The pastor returned to the pulpit and leaned over it. “I don’t trust folks too well,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.
A low murmur of laughter floated over the crowd, and Bridger found himself leaning closer. “Not that this is a confession. Folks who’ve known me longest and best aren’t at all surprised to hear it, I’m certain. But I have struggled with it. I mean, I’m a ‘man of the cloth,’ called by God, after all. How can I be so skeptical of other people?”
The man paused, returned to a full stand behind the pulpit and flipped open his Bible. His heavy brows bobbed over the rim of his glasses as he searched out the page. “I want to start this morning with the reading of Romans, twelve-nine.”
The congregation stood, Bridger with them. He crossed his arms over his chest. His mind lacked as much practice in attending to a speaker as his spirit at attending to God. But the pastor certainly had caught his interest.
*
Lola greeted familiar faces with a smile, hiding her consternation—she hoped. She hadn’t been able to put aside the distractions of the past week well enough to attend to Pastor Evans’s fine sermon. Especially after seeing Bridger Jamison slip in just before service started. Could he be one of the good guys after all?
She staggered, jolted to attention as she flowed into the vestibule with the rest of the congregation. “Excuse me—”
“Pardon me—”
Instant warmth flushed her cheeks as Bridger steadied her with a careful grasp of strong fingers. “Welcome to Quiver Creek Church. It’s good to see you.”
Bridger grinned, a half smile that tugged against his scar. “Surprising to see me, you mean.”
That truth brought a prickle of embarrassment, and denial was useless. Ike always told her she’d make a poor poker player. “Well, I hope you were blessed just the same.”
He followed close through the doorway, brown eyes alight. “A fine sermon—reminded me of my grandfather’s preaching when I was a boy. I admire your sanctuary, too. Someone took a lot of care in building it.”
Pride filled her heart. “My papa did much of it, the pulpit and altar and such.”
Bridger glanced around, and his attention returned to her in a way that brought peculiar comfort. “No great surprise to me. I’ve found the care a woodworker takes with his tools tends to reflect his craftsmanship. I also appreciated the singing, thanks to a particularly strong soprano—”
“Miss Martin is a woman of many talents.”
Ike. Her smile tightened, suddenly forced. While Bridger’s conversation brought warm joy to her chest, the disappointment of Ike’s rude interruption doused the feeling.
“Most fine ladies are,” Bridger said. His jaw rippled and boots shifted as he widened his stance. He nudged closer, but not improperly so. He turned toward Ike as if he sensed her irritation and wanted to shield her. She shook her head. Enough romantic notions—Ike’s dalliance had taught her better.
“I appreciate your compliments, gentlemen,” she said, “but if you’ll excuse me, I want to catch up with Grace.” She extended a gloved hand toward Bridger, feeling a tingle as he clasped her fingers. “I trust I’ll see you this week. And here for service next week?” Lola glanced away from Bridger, lest the hope she heard in her own voice shone too prominent on her face. Her fingers lingered a moment longer in his rugged hand. Wasn’t it right she should be eager for this man to show reverence for God if he were going to work for her?
“Lord willing, I surely hope so.” A fine row of white split his lips, even if it puckered his scarred cheek all the more. With a nod toward Ike, he crossed the churchyard toward the boardinghouse.
Ike cleared his throat, drawing her attention from Bridger’s easy stride. “Makes me uneasy, that one.” His lips drew a sneer. “Never hired a drifter who’d darken a church door. Could be he’d do anything to get in your good graces.”
“Why, Ike Tyler, isn’t that a bit cynical?” Lola protested, but her heart tripped at the thought he could be right.
He drew to her side as Bridger crossed the road and became lost among the buildings of town. “I only think of your safety, Lola. Are you certain you don’t want me to send Toby along, keep an eye on that one?”
She drew her arms around her waist. “No, I impose too much already. Besides,” she said, a light shudder passing through her as the cool spring air blew across the still-bare trees overhead, “I have to start trusting a little more.” She only prayed Bridger deserved it.
Chapter Eight
Bridger glanced around before cutting alongside Lola’s place to reach the woodshop behind. He bypassed her front door like a thief, but she kept the key at the back, and the less he disturbed her, the better.
He didn’t pine for a return through that front door, anyway. The gleam of fear across Lola’s face the night he’d brought the sheriff’s body to her haunted his memory. Bold as she had been, he recognized it. He hoped seeing him at church this past Sunday had eased her mind about him.
Maybe her wariness gave Ike Tyler the notion to watch out for her. Strange for Tyler to trust him for the job so early on, but then, the thought of any others in the crew being charged with her care made his skin crawl. And that included Ike.
He shook his head. Was it any concern of his, the company she kept? Ike had made it clear his hat was still in the ring, but Lola gave no impression she felt the same. A successful—not to mention beautiful—businesswoman had no reason to give one whit about a seedy saloon owner…or the rough-looking characters he hired.
Lola’s lilting soprano carried across the breeze in a tune he faintly recognized. He slowed his steps, hesitant to interrupt. She sang as pretty as she looked. He adjusted his hat. No time to dally with such thoughts. He whistled “Battle Cry of Freedom” as he rounded the corner, announcing his presence.
Lola twirled with a gasp, fingers trailing across her mouth. A pink flush graced her cheeks. “You startled me.”
“I apologize, ma’am. I’ve come to start on those coffins, if that’s all right.”
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Your show of industry is admirable, Bridger.” She grasped the rail with one hand and slipped a loose wave of hair behind her ear with the other. She wore a simple white shirtwaist with sleeves that rustled gracefully in the soft morning breeze and her blue-gray skirt lacked fancy, but everything about this woman spoke of gentleness and refinement, a true lady. Even with a basket of laundry in her hands.
“I won’t be able to do much until more supplies arrive,” he said. “I came to take a closer look at the tools, find out exactly what I have to work with, now that I have daylight. I haven’t had a chance to study your father’s notes yet, but I’ll see everything is in good working order.” He paused, reluctant to end the conversation. “Can I, uh, get the key?”
“Sure.” She stretched inside to grab it, never leaving the back porch. Her warm, smooth fingers brushed his calloused ones as she handed the key over the rail to him. “I was about to have some lunch. Are you hungry?”
Bridger glanced at the sun, nearly overhead, and tried not to think of the hearty lunch he’d sneaked over to their room for Frank. “Don’t bother on my account, ma’am. I didn’t come to disturb you.”
She leaned away, but a wide smile lit her face. “But I didn’t hear you say you aren’t hungry. It’s no bother, tru
st me. It’s also not a grand offer. Just a cheese sandwich and a little vegetable soup. You go on and get started. I’ll bring it out to you when it’s ready.”
“I shouldn’t be long. I don’t expect you to—”
“If you did, I wouldn’t have made the offer. Besides, you need to stay strong and able to do this work because you’re not getting paid until you’re finished.” She adjusted the laundry basket and nodded him on. “Go ahead. I’ll be out in a jiffy.”
Bridger opened the lock on the shed and stepped inside. In the light of day, layers of dust made the shop look like one of those newfangled photographs he’d seen during the war—everything still and frozen in some shade of rust. The morning light allowed him to see more than the lantern had shown. A box of rags under the workbench would get him started.
By the time Lola knocked at the doorjamb, Bridger had cleaned the worktable and settled into the corner on a high stool to inspect and wipe down tools. He slipped off to take the tray from her, noting with a little disappointment it contained lunch for one.
He smiled his thanks, feeling his scar pull tight.
Lola glanced around. “It seems you’ve made a good start here,” she said, her voice choked and tight. “I haven’t touched the place since…”
“That’s understandable.” He set the tray on a cleared space. “Did your father keep the finished coffins somewhere else?”
She drew slender arms around herself, glancing around. “No, no, they were stored here. I always asked Ike to send someone to move one inside as I needed it. I can’t believe we’ve used so many since Papa died.”
Bridger frowned. “That so?”
Lola nodded. “Lots of new faces passing through, and not all of them interested in following the law. Why, we had a gunfight right in the middle of town a few months ago. Quiver Creek is growing faster than we’re able to handle. Pete tried to convince the town council to hire on a couple of deputies, full time.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. What happened?”
“The council said they couldn’t afford it right now and praised the fine work he was doing on his own. Pete couldn’t even stir up interest with the local business owners to hire more help. They said it was Pete’s job and he should focus on doing it.”
Bridger leaned against the bench and crossed his arms. He’d been through plenty of these towns to know local lawmen often had enough power to break the laws they were sworn to uphold. “Did he?”
Fire sparked in Lola’s gaze. A nervous lump lodged in his throat, as if he were a man facing a minister from a jail cell.
She stared him down, her expression like ice. “No man could have done it better. Pete McKenna was a strong, wise and Godly man, and we were fortunate to have him watching over this town.”
He held up a hand in surrender, wishing he’d thought how the question might sound before he’d spit it out. “No offense, ma’am. I haven’t always had such experience with the law out here. No doubt they have a tough job, but sometimes they take liberties that don’t measure up to what a lawman should be.”
She didn’t retreat, and her voice grew low. “Pardon me if your vast experience with lawmen gives me concern!”
Bridger stood upright. “It’s not like that, Lola. I’m just saying—”
“I’m saying not Pete.” Her green eyes grew wider and glassy with tears. “I’m sorry. I have no right to judge you. But you’re wrong. Between the rowdies passing through, the town growing so fast and the accidents we’ve had around here, no one man could handle it all. It was bound to catch up to him, and it did, and we as a community allowed it by ignoring him.”
Bridger stepped closer but refrained from reaching out. Instead, he dipped his head to catch her gaze. “I meant no offense, Lola. I can see you put great stock in him. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything about his character. I didn’t even know him, so I had no business suggesting he was anything less than honorable, as you say.”
She brushed a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry, too. I wasn’t fair to accuse you so quickly, either. We’ve had more than our share of grief and sadness in Quiver Creek these past few months. I’m praying for a better season ahead.”
Bridger nodded. “I hope for your sake that’s the case.” He turned to the tray, his appetite dulled. “I’m especially sorry to upset you after you went to the trouble of this fine lunch.”
Lola managed a shaky smile. “I’m sorry I allowed my lack of sleep and temper to get the best of me so that you’re forced to eat it cooled.”
“Let’s say we’re sort of even, then, and start where we were a half hour ago,” he said.
“Who’s to say I trusted you half an hour ago?” Her eyes lit with humor, but he recognized the truth in her jest.
His breathing eased as he focused on her guarded expression. “You offered me lunch and gave me the key to your father’s woodshop. At least I’m on the right track.”
*
Lola clipped along the rough boards on her way to Anthony’s General Store. The sun’s long rays soaked into her soul.
But thoughts of Bridger cast a cool shadow. He seemed determined to tear her down the middle. How dare he cast doubt on Pete’s character! The nerve he had, being able and willing to help when she wanted nothing to do with him! And then offering a sincere apology when he ruffled her, only to make her hearken to the window every time a wagon rumbled, hoping to talk with him again. Even his church attendance brought a sense of irritation. Her mind had never been so divided.
She drew a breath, sifting through the mingled scents of melted snows, mountain breezes and early growth. She determined to put the handsome carpenter from her mind.
Her heart lightened with thanks for the early spring. Papa would have been itching to turn ground for their small garden, though it remained too early for that yet. She looked at the rugged peaks and forced a smile. Papa wouldn’t want her to be gloomy or vexed, especially on a day as lovely as this. She swung an empty basket on her arm and opened the door. A soft jingle announced her arrival.
“Miss Lola!” Mr. Anthony greeted her. “How-a you doing this fine day?”
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Anthony. It is a beautiful morning out there.”
“You come to order your seeds?”
Lola laughed. “I was just thinking about that. Maybe next week. Today I’m only here for some staples.”
“Ah, and perhaps to take a look through the new spring catalog? Just arrived last-a week….” Mr. Anthony drew his words out in a cajoling tone. “Latest ladies’ fashions for any stylish young girl.” A young woman of twenty-three could hardly be considered a girl by anyone in Quiver Creek other than Mr. Anthony, who had been an old man as long as Lola had known him.
She leaned over the counter and patted his meaty fist. “No wonder you’ve managed to stay in business so long, sir. You certainly know how to charm your customers into purchasing more than they intended. You know all too well I’ll have to take the time to look through that catalog today, don’t you?”
“I only know you always look-a so stylish, and that warm spring days make the ladies itch for a fresh touch to their wardrobe. My dear Maria, God rest her soul, she say to me every year about this time, ‘Cecil, when you going to get those new bonnets for the window?’ Then, soon as they come, she make the display in the window, and one of those-a bonnets come home with her and never make it to the window.” He smiled fondly, rubbing strong hands along the counter and giving it a gentle thump. “My Maria, she always such a beautiful woman.”
Lola squeezed his hand. She never knew the late Mrs. Anthony, save through the love this man still held for her. “Then you must have made quite the handsome couple.”
“Beh!” Mr. Anthony waved a gentle hand at her. “You charm an old man. Anything else I can do for you?”
Lola stepped among the tables and shelves, picking up the toiletries she needed. “Not today. I only need a few things, but I will take a look at that catalog.”
M
r. Anthony bent to pull the thick volume to the end of the counter. Often the latest trends weren’t practical for any woman of Quiver Creek, let alone a woman of her profession, but she still enjoyed looking to see if there were any she could accommodate for her own wardrobe. She thought of women like Mattie, her flamboyant style, compared with her own plain shirtwaists and skirts. No wonder men like Bridger Jamison took more notice of Mattie than her.
Lola stopped short, glancing at Mr. Anthony as if he read her thoughts…or noticed the blush crawling across her face. Instead, she found his back to her as he dusted cans stacked on high shelves behind the counter. The twinge in her chest caught her off guard. Why should she be jealous of Mattie? Or of anyone, for that matter, who could catch the eye of Bridger Jamison and rowdies like him who wandered through town?
But it did remind her, he had skills she needed. And Mr. Anthony had the supplies. “Has a Mr. Jamison been in to order pine boards? I told him they could go on my account. I’m anxious to have him start his work for me.”
Mr. Anthony’s head snapped around. “The order should be in by early next week.” He adjusted his spectacles over his firm gaze. “This man, he is doing a good job for you?”
“He needs the supplies before I can check his skill, but he appears to be a hardworking sort. He’s been in the shop for several days, cleaning and organizing the tools to his own liking. I know Ike keeps him busy with the hotel construction, too.”
Mr. Anthony landed his fist on the counter with a thud. “Oh, yes, Mr. Tyler keeps him very busy these days. Is he bothering you?”
Lola shook her head. She felt his care wrap around her like a grandfather’s sweater. “He only stops in to get the key and return it most days. He’s there for an hour or so, early in the mornings before he starts work for Ike. Longer on Mondays.”
“You a big girl, Miss Lola, a smart girl. But you watch yourself with this Mr. Jamison. He hides something, and he works for Mr. Tyler, and that’s two-a strikes against him already!”