Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband CampaignThe Preacher's Bride ClaimThe Soldier's SecretsWyoming Promises

by Regina Scott

  Grace bowed her head, and Lola thought she’d have curled into a ball if the roundness of her belly hadn’t prevented it. Lola rubbed a hand over her shoulders, soothing the muffled cries that escaped.

  Lola rested her head on Grace’s shoulder, shedding a few tears of her own. She battled through the same questions with no answers. But she had experienced the Lord with her through the sorrow. She’d also come to realize the depth of her selfishness, because her first response to the question had been an adamant yes. She still hadn’t reached the point where she saw any goodness in her father’s death, but her faith and trust in the Lord had grown.

  Moments passed before Grace shuddered in her arms and sat against the wagon seat. “I just miss him so. I’m sorry.”

  Lola patted her shoulder and handed Grace a handkerchief. “I know, and that won’t change. But with the Lord’s help, you can accept it and grow through the pain. That I can promise you.”

  Grace’s mouth wobbled, as if she intended to smile but her lips refused. “Your father once told me the comfort you provided families couldn’t be taught. He was right.”

  Warmth filled Lola at the gift of her father’s praise through Grace. “Do you have to hurry home? I could make some lunch.”

  Grace looked at the sky, judging the time. “No, I really ought to get home. Mother’s feeling a little under the weather and I don’t want to be away too long.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope? Maybe Dr. Kendall should check on her.”

  “No, no, nothing like that. Just the spring sniffles, I’m certain. I’m sorry I’ve taken our entire visit. How have things been with you?” Grace grasped her wrist as Lola stood to leave the wagon.

  Lola examined the trees standing like sentries on distant ridges, knowing Bridger rode among them. She sighed. “It’s been a quiet few days.”

  “No more strange noises?” Grace’s eyes squinted with concern.

  Lola’s gaze snapped to her house, the woodshop door barely visible from this angle. “Not exactly.”

  Grace tugged her to the wagon seat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Lola looked down rather than face her friend’s alarm. “Well, I haven’t heard anything, but I’ve had a fresh bouquet of wildflowers at my back doorstep every morning this week.”

  “Bridger’s still out of town?” Grace asked.

  Lola’s gaze flicked toward her friend. “He’s to meet with Jake Anderson on Saturday, so he’ll return by then.” Or hopefully sooner. “Why?”

  Grace smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “My heart has eased about him, you know. I’m glad he’s around to keep an eye on you. I guess I hoped he brought the flowers.”

  Warmth toasted Lola’s face despite the brisk air. “Why should he? I’m his boss, after all. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  Grace bit her lip. “I can’t help it if I’m a hopeless romantic.”

  “We hardly know him! He’s under investigation by a federal marshal!”

  “Yes, because you alerted the authorities. At the time, I thought it wise, and I guess I still do. But I’ve seen him in church, around town, and I’m telling you, Lola, he has a good soul. Don’t get me wrong, there’s dangerousness about him, but the kind that makes you think he’ll stop at nothing to see that right is done.”

  Lola stared at Grace, wishing a stiff breeze could blow the heat from her cheeks. “You’ve hardly spoken a dozen words to the man and you know that about him?”

  Grace nodded, the wisdom of experience shining in her blue eyes. “I saw it in Pete enough to recognize it.”

  “Ike’s been keeping an eye on my place, too,” Lola admitted.

  Grace’s lips drew a firm line. “But the flowers aren’t from him.”

  “No,” she said. “I discovered it in a roundabout way, but no, they’re not from him.”

  Grace huffed. “Not his style to give a woman something nice without gaining credit for it.”

  Lola thought of their conversation earlier that morning. “He’s trying to change, Grace. If the Lord won’t remember his sins against him, how can I?”

  “Because God gave you memory for a reason,” Grace said. “Ike had no right, what he did to you. It’s irksome to see him prospering, I’ll tell you that.”

  Loyalty and shame swirled in her chest so that Lola lacked the muster to provide a convincing defense. “He doesn’t expect me to forget that, only to give him a chance moving forward,” she said.

  “Then you be sure you use your God-given memory to stay wary. I don’t trust him.”

  Lola rubbed a hand over her wrinkled brow. “You’re telling me you feel better about a virtual stranger hanging around my place than you do Ike, whom we’ve known for years?”

  “Yes,” Grace said, her voice a harsh whisper. “Just as you have learned about care and compassion from watching your father in his line of work, Lola, I’ve learned from watching Pete. Sharing his experience and the Lord’s discernment have made me a good judge of character. Bridger may be facing some rough circumstances, but there’s something solid at the core of him.”

  “But not Ike?” Lola asked.

  Grace shook her head with vehemence. “The only thing solid about Ike is his bank account,” she said. “And that only adds to my reasons for not trusting him.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bridger jarred from a doze as the wagon bounced over a deep rut. He rubbed his jaw, feeling stubble that only added to his rough appearance. The lack of sleep didn’t help, either. He’d been a fool seven ways from Sunday, to have gone so long without figuring Ike’s scheme. How could he allow the lure of money to blind him?

  Still, more questions plagued him. The Axlebees had fallen on rough times with the mister laid up from a bad fall, when Ike swooped in to offer the loan they needed to tide them over. But it came at high interest and no room for delayed payment. How many others had fallen for similar deals? Or did Ike operate on a case-by-case basis, using whatever means necessary to gain control? How many people were being hustled? And did Ike have any partners?

  Bridger carried more questions than answers, but Ike’s bankroll blinded him no longer.

  He rolled into town in a dust cloud, all sluggishness drained from him in his frustration.

  He dropped the materials at the hotel site and stormed toward the boardinghouse. He froze at the top step. Ike waited at his door, and Bridger sent a silent prayer that Frank had slipped out or managed to remain silent until he left.

  “How’d the trip go, Jamison?” Ike asked, cigar swinging from his fingers.

  “You know that better than I would,” he said, not bothering to hide his irritation.

  Ike drew to full height with a cultivated sense of calm, adding to Bridger’s fury. “What’s all this? I understand none of the men like being away from the comforts of home, such as they are,” Ike said, waving the cigar toward his door. “But it’s my business transactions you were conducting, and—”

  Bridger stepped forward, hating that he had to tilt his head to look the man in the eye. “Let’s just say I learned a lot on this trip, Ike. More than I care to know.”

  Ike slumped against the doorjamb, twirling his cigar between his fingers. “It seems to me you didn’t learn as much as you forgot, if you think I’ll tolerate that tone from you or any of my men.”

  Bridger formed fists in either hand, muscles tense and ready to pounce. “I’ll grant you, I’m not the sharpest chisel in the toolbox, but you’re not as smart as you’d like to think, either.”

  Ike’s hand rested at his shoulder, cigar at Bridger’s ear as he drew closer.

  A solid punch across his chin a second later sent Bridger into the opposite wall, his advantage lost in fatigue, Ike’s greater height and the factor of surprise. He kept his footing and lunged, only to be shoved back.

  “Hold on, now,” Ike said, holding his hand up, palm toward him. His frustrating, controlled smile returned. “Before you go getting all riled, let me tell you why I’m here.”
<
br />   Bridger followed Ike’s gaze to the door of his room, and cold dread sank in his chest. “Go ahead. What are you doing here?”

  Ike took a slow puff, blowing a smoke ring toward the low ceiling. “It’s no concern of mine who a man keeps in his room, you understand…”

  Bluff! “I agree, but what’s that to do with me?” Bridger fought the urge to glance at the door, his heart beating hard, high in his dry throat.

  “Let me prove to you how smart I am. I don’t involve myself in the private lives of my men. I don’t expect them to involve themselves in mine, and it works out best all the way around.”

  If Ike detected the twitch of his fists, he chose to ignore it. “When a man works so hard to keep something…or someone…a secret, tucked and hidden away like a gold piece, well… A man doesn’t do that kind of thing without reason. That makes the secret a powerful one, and gives me a valuable commodity. Do you understand me now, Mr. Jamison?”

  Bridger squared his shoulders and widened his stance. Silence reigned behind the door, but he didn’t dare challenge Ike’s assumption by opening it. “I suppose I might,” he said, crossing his arms. “If what you’re saying is true. As for what I’m saying, a man can die for what he doesn’t know around here.”

  Ike smoothed his mustache over his growing smile. His laugh rumbled down the otherwise silent hallway. “I reckon you’re right, Bridger.”

  His shoulder shook at Ike’s slap, but he held his ground. Thoughts shaved off in all directions through his mind, but the solid core remained focused on protecting Frank…and Lola. Best to stay on as one of Ike’s men, for now. “I’m glad you understand my position. So tell me. What exactly have you hired me for? Stop keeping me in the dark.”

  Ike wavered upright from his over-calm lean against the doorjamb. He flicked the butt of his cigar and turned toward the stairway with a heavy hand at Bridger’s shoulder. “No rush, Mr. Jamison. Now that we understand each other, we have plenty of time to discuss the fine details.”

  *

  Ike sauntered down the narrow stairway and around the corner before Bridger opened his boarding-room door. The room remained dim in early afternoon, but Frank sat at the desk, solely focused on the paper and colored sticks in his hand. Bridger tossed his saddlebag onto the bed and moved to wash the top layer of grime off his arms at the dry sink.

  “Bridger! You’re back!” With a wide smile lighting his face, Frank looked like a child who’d found a lost puppy.

  Bridger dipped his hands in the lukewarm water and reached for the soap, fighting the fury in his chest with slow, deliberate movements. The heat it radiated could melt a candle. “Not a moment too soon, either. What have you been up to while I was gone, Frank?”

  His brother showed enough wisdom to avoid his direct glare, at least. “I walked away from town so’s no one would try to talk to me, and I drew lots of pictures. And I didn’t talk to one person the whole time.”

  Bridger winced. Being trapped in the room for long periods of time over the past weeks had been hard for a fellow who liked to talk as much as his brother. No other soul to run his mouth off to must have been nigh onto torture. Bridger scrubbed his face, groaning his frustration into the washcloth. Its mustiness drowned the soapy scent.

  Frank stood at his side in an instant. “You hurt, Bridge?”

  He stared a long moment at his brother’s pale, blank eyes, full of concern. Frank had no part in the problem he’d created. “Not like you think, no. But I’m in a big mess here, Frank. Bigger than the last one.”

  Frank’s gaze traced over his face before his big frame crashed to the bed with a bounce. His broad shoulders slumped and his whole being sagged. “You mean we got to leave here?”

  Bridger scooped water in his hands and raked it over his dusty hair, the ends dripping down his collar. “That’s part of the problem, you see. We can’t leave this time. Not yet, anyhow. But it’s not going to be easy to stay, either.”

  Frank’s face took on a slack expression that foretold a rare moment of clarity. “Are you worried about me?”

  Bridger nodded. He choked at the utter dejection on his brother’s face, forcing his thoughts over the grit in his throat. “I always worry about you. But even more with this.”

  “We ought to pray, Bridge. Ma would tell us to pray for what to do.” Frank’s firm declaration came on a husky whisper. “We ought to go to church, too. People could help us.”

  Frustration forced Bridger to the opposite wall. He groaned and rubbed rough fingers over his eyes. He swiveled to face his brother. “Did Ma’s praying ever save me from one of Pa’s whippings? Did her prayers keep Pa from drinking every spare cent we had?” Anger welled from his gut. His words burst louder, colder, more hateful than he’d ever allowed. “Where were those fine church people when I showed up at Sunday school with a black eye? Do you have any idea how many times I prayed to God that Pa wouldn’t find me for another beating?”

  He strode across the room, bending low into his brother’s face, grasping a meaty shoulder in either hand. “Where was God the night Pa sliced my face?” Words spat out like firecrackers in the flames, and his grip tightened. He leaned closer, his nose a breath away from Frank’s. “The night Pa turned on you?”

  Frank blinked, drawing back only a fraction before Bridger released his grip. “He was in me that night, Bridge. That was the night Pa might’ve killed you, and that was the night God gave me the strength to step in and call Pa out.”

  Bridger shook his head. “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t remember much about…before. But I remember some about that night. I know he hit you. Don’t know why he never took to me that way, ’cept I was bigger.” Frank drew a deep breath, his eyes lost in the long-ago nightmare. “I remember he beat you something fierce. Especially that night. I knew I couldn’t watch that no more—so I stepped in.”

  Frank blinked and shuddered. “I wish he hadn’t messed your face, Bridge. But I grabbed him right after he cut you with that bottle. Then I don’t remember much after, except waking up and seeing your face all bandaged, and Ma telling me Pa was gone for good.”

  “They found him drowned in the creek after that night,” Bridger whispered. “I was too little to remember much, but it was a long while before you woke up.” His chest constricted as he stared at Frank, thinking of all he had cost his brother. “God has a strange way of answering prayers.”

  “Lots seems strange to us, but He did answer,” Frank said.

  Bridger looked out the window, unable to face his brother’s faith any more easily than his flat gaze. “But look what it cost you!” he whispered into the glass.

  “I’d do it again, Bridge. I’d do it again. I just wish I had done it sooner.” Frank stood. “But you got no call to blame God, nor those people at the church.”

  “How can you not?” Bridger asked. Pleaded.

  “’Cause that hate makes me just like Pa was,” Frank said. “And I don’t want to be nothing like him.”

  Bridger leaned his pounding head against his arm at the window. Hadn’t he spent all his life trying to be anything except what Pa had been? He huffed a deep breath, feeling wearier than when he’d first ridden into town. “None of this changes the problem we have now. And church can’t fix this. I can’t take you, Frank. I’m sorry, but it’s how it has to be. Especially now.”

  “Why? We’ve been here a long while, Bridge. You have a good job and all, right? Can’t you tell folks about me even yet?” Frank’s tone came as close to whining as he’d heard.

  “No! That’s part of the big mess we’re in! Ike, my boss—he knows you’re in here.” He paced the narrow gap at the end of the bed.

  Frank’s brows curled. “How could he know?”

  “I don’t know!” Bridger moved to the only chair in the room and dropped, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “I mean, he’s not exactly sure, I don’t think, but he knows there’s someone here. You haven’t been snooping around Miss Lola’s again, have you?” />
  A slightly sick expression crossed Frank’s face, and he flinched at the accusation. “He didn’t see me!”

  Bridger read the truth. “Maybe he did, or maybe someone else did. The point is, I told you to stay away from her, but you had to do things your way.” He bit his tongue before he said more, feeling the anger press harder against his ribs. “You were careless, Frank, and now we’re in a bad spot.”

  Frank sat still for a long moment, and Bridger could fairly see the wheels of understanding start to crank, his wide eyes darting back and forth. “That’s not enough to put us in a bad spot, no worse than before, at least.”

  Bridger groaned, heat burning up his neck in what he couldn’t label as anger or shame for a certainty. Because even in his dimness, Frank hit this nail on the head. His brother’s infraction paled in comparison to the trouble he’d pounded them into.

  “Our only way out of this trouble is to—”

  A knock at the door interrupted what might well have been the dumbest, most unfair comment he’d ever make about his brother. But the sharpness of it jolted them both to high alert.

  *

  Lola could hear muffled odd scrapes and rattles through Bridger’s room door as she waited. She glanced along the dim hallway in both directions and shifted her feet. The stuffy air pressed against her, heavy with the smells of musty curtains, old cigars and cheap liquor. Hopefully no one would be about this time of day. She knew by the heat her face must be pinker than a wild rose.

  What had given her such a notion, to come to Bridger’s room? She’d been raking the flower bed for spring planting when she saw his wagon rumble by, loaded to the gills. He hadn’t acknowledged her wave, which sniped at her heart with sharp disappointment.

  But this was a business matter, she reminded herself. He’d been gone almost a week and she had not one spare casket. Didn’t she have the right to know when he planned to return to her job?

  A cough and rumble came through the door. “Just a minute,” Bridger said, his voice thick with exhaustion.