by Regina Scott
Her heart skipped, sensing more to his questions than idle curiosity. Her profession was hardly proper dinner conversation, but the drone of the busy crowd made the quiet corner where they sat feel cozy, far removed from the other patrons. “Possibly back East. Nothing like that here. Even if there were, a woman among the ranks would not be a welcome addition.” Ike sidled by with an interested stare. “I’ve only been able to operate here because people knew my father and need my services. Even with that, I know Ike’s had to run interference at several turns.” Gall burned bitter to admit it.
“What about general business associations? Would they invite you into one for Quiver Creek if it existed?” An insistent press echoed in his tone. Why would he be so concerned?
“One time, I overheard Papa talking with Mr. Anthony about some such organization, but I guess nothing came of it. Ike would play a hand in it, and neither of them were too impressed with anything Ike did. After Papa died, I heard nothing more about it.”
Mattie delivered steaming plates and set them on the table with a saucy wink. “You enjoy that, darling. And you needn’t worry about who’s to pick up the tab on this one. Mr. Tyler says your meal is on the house.”
Lola met Ike’s smiling face as he stood on the other side of the bar, pouring a drink. He raised it in toast to Bridger, who had swiveled to see him, too. She couldn’t see Bridger’s eyes, but his jaw worked into a stubborn set. Some unspoken message passed between the men as Ike crossed to his private door.
She gave a nod of thanks as Ike disappeared into his office. Bridger faced her again. “Suppose Ike had gone ahead and started an association? Would he include your father?”
She picked up her knife and fork to begin her meal but felt her wrist clamped in Bridger’s tight grasp. Her pulse jumped. “He’d probably try. But Papa relied more on what a body did than on what a body had to say, and it would take more than an invitation from Ike to convince him.”
Bridger released her and slumped back, his voice soft and muted as if he’d forgotten their meal or her company. “So he wasn’t involved.”
She backtracked the conversation in her mind, trying to find where she’d lost the path. “Involved in what?”
Bridger leaned close, his voice still low, his focus intent on her face. If she didn’t know better, she’d say the outcome of the world hung on her next words. “Did your father owe Ike or his men any money?”
“What are you talking about? Papa didn’t need a loan. If he had, he’d have borrowed from the bank, never from Ike.” Was he trying to accuse Papa of something? Protective anger left a bitter taste in her mouth. How dare he suggest—?
His hand shot forward, covering hers with a touch that held coolness and warmth at the same time, soothing. “Then why in the world did he make weekly payments to Ike’s men for the Quiver Creek Business Association?”
*
Bridger tilted in the saddle as his mount climbed the steep trail into the mountains, Jake Anderson close behind. The air cooled. A drizzle of rain slicked his skin, raising gooseflesh within his damp sleeves.
Riding around a sharp bend, Bridger searched the mountainside for the lightning-struck tree that marked his and Frank’s campsite that night.
He trotted a few feet ahead to the dip in the trail where they had found the sheriff’s body sprawled. “Here,” he said, jaw clenched. Moving stiff and solemn, he dismounted.
Marshal Anderson slid to his feet and joined him, staring at the dusty earth. “You’re sure?”
Bridger studied the trail, the trees, the rugged land. “Not exactly something you forget too easy, the spot where you find a dead body.”
The marshal nodded and pulled his notebook from his coat pocket, gaze intent on the ground. Trees overhead blocked most of the light, but Anderson held the paper close to his face and reviewed what he’d written before he surveyed the scene further. “That rock, it was there when you found Sheriff McKenna?” He pointed toward a heavy stone.
Bridger toed it with his boot. “Yes, it seems to run underground enough to anchor it.”
Marshal Anderson glanced from his writing. “A month past makes a cold trail, Mr. Jamison. What else looks to be disturbed?”
Bridger studied the area. He closed his eyes to recall the exact scene from that night. Lola no longer held suspicion against him, but did his mind hold any small detail to bring justice for the sheriff’s death?
“We picked this spot because there weren’t any signs of animals, but almost anything might’ve changed.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
Bridger stepped away and shoved his hands into his pockets to hide their shake. He glued his focus to the spot where the sheriff had lain. “My horse and I.”
A low chuckle rumbled in the man’s chest. “You’re in the habit of consulting your mount on such matters?”
Bridger shrugged, hoping to loosen the rigid muscles across his shoulders and appear relaxed. “You know how it is, Marshal. A man wanders these mountains, it gets terrible lonesome sometimes. You saying you ain’t never found yourself in a conversation with that gelding you ride?”
The man conceded the point with a smile, but his eyes gave nothing away. “Call me Jake, Bridger. If you’re going to point out a man’s foolishness, you might as well do it on a first-name basis.”
Bridger rubbed a hand along his scar and released a tight breath. He’d have Frank in jail alongside him if he weren’t more careful.
“I need you to show me how you found Sheriff McKenna,” Jake said, tucking his notebook away and falling to his knees by the rock. “Exactly how did he lie?”
The marshal leaned his shoulder into the damp ground, head against the guilty rock like a pillow, with his face toward the dirt trail. “Like this?”
“No, more on his back.” Bridger directed him with a twist of the hand. “That rock was more to the side of his neck.”
Jake jerked his broad shoulders around and dug into the spot where the earth came up around the boulder. Then he laid his head down and sprawled toward the upward side of the mountain, boots pointed toward its peak. “More like this?”
“Better. His head crooked to the side, made me realize his neck was likely broken.” He directed Jake’s head with a nudge from the toe of his boot.
“What about his arms and legs?” Jake lifted the limbs in question.
Bridger chewed his lip. He’d paid less attention to that once he knew the man was dead. What did it matter now? “He kind of lay toward his right shoulder, with his left arm more to the side. His legs pointed down the trail, the right bent a bit under the left.”
Jake moved into position. “Like this?” he asked, taking off his hat.
Bridger glanced over the scene. The marshal was a fair sight longer than the sheriff, but… “I believe so.”
Jake froze in place, his eyes closed and breath held. He looked dead himself. Then his eyes snapped open, facing up the mountain. Not one muscle moved out of place. A moment later he asked, “Any marks on him?”
“Cuts and bruises.”
“Bruises? Do you remember where, exactly?” Jake’s lips moved, but otherwise he remained still.
“He had a good-sized mark on his left cheek, near the eye, and another on the opposite side of his jaw. Otherwise, some scratches.” Bridger wondered why the marshal hadn’t talked with Lola. Surely she would have more information than he knew.
Jake rolled to his knees, scrabbling up the hill a ways before gaining his feet. “What about his hands?”
“What about them?”
Jake continued upward, only his outline visible in the diluted light from the drizzly sky above. “No marks on them, bruises?”
Bridger looked back at the spot where he’d found the sheriff, trying to see the details again in his mind. “I can’t rightly say that I noticed, I’m afraid.”
Jake nodded from his stance about twenty yards away. “You and your horse ever decide to cut through this way?”
“The trail winds around a far piece a
bove where you’re standing, and it’s steeper than the section you just climbed. Do you think he fell up there and rolled down?” It didn’t seem likely, but then, he hadn’t ever considered a man’s death much before.
Jake skidded toward him with long, awkward strides, trying to keep his footing. “What do you think?”
“I think if he had, he’d have run into some trees long before here.” Bridger adjusted his hat for a clear view of the marshal’s expression.
Jake met him on the trail but continued to scan his steps. “Where’d you find his horse?”
Realization dawned, but it didn’t brighten his chances. A cold lump thudded in his chest. He coughed. “I didn’t.”
“You suggested a horse threw him but didn’t see a horse?” Jake challenged.
His mind reeled. “I assumed his horse spooked, bucked the man off and headed for home. You haven’t found it?”
Jake’s eyes narrowed and Bridger felt his chances for help from this man crush under the scrutiny. “I did. The livery owner found it outside his stable, looking clean and cared for, two days after you brought Pete McKenna into town.”
Bridger drew to full height and squared his shoulders. “I don’t know anything about that.”
Jake brushed his hat before replacing it on his head. “I thought Ike Tyler’s men knew most everything going on in Quiver Creek.”
Fire blazed in his gut. “I’m not one of Ike’s men.”
“Is that right?”
Bridger bit the inside of his cheek and flexed his fingers, considering his next words. “Yes. I needed a job, and Tyler offered one. That’s all. But what he’s doing is part of the reason I was so anxious to talk with you alone.”
Water collected in drops over Jake’s badge, giving it a gleam in spite of the frail sunlight. “What do you know about Tyler?”
“Plenty.” He winced at the heat in his tone. “Enough, anyway. And I’m willing to learn more if it will stop him. But I need your help.”
Jake stepped closer, a curious gleam in his eyes. “What are you thinking?”
Bridger drew a step closer, too. “I’m more interested in your opinion, Marshal.”
Jake leaned to the side, a slow smile pulling his mouth with it. “I didn’t think you had any hand in the sheriff’s death when I asked you here, if that’s what you want to know.”
Relief filled him, like the first draft of fresh air after a blizzard. It hadn’t been the intended question, but he appreciated the answer. “So then why did you want me to come?”
“The more I know, the better,” Jake said. “Seeing the place of the crime, even a month later, often tells me information I’d not have found otherwise.”
“You don’t believe it was an accident.”
Jake ignored his statement. “But I will say your offer to help with my main investigation is surprising. What exactly do you know about Tyler’s operation?”
“I know he cheats people, and he preys on folks in several little towns around here. He controls several businesses and collects money from many of them.” The dam of anger he held toward Ike started to crack. His breath heaved. “I know he’s hurting people and needs to be stopped before things get any worse.”
“Do you have proof?” Jake asked, his tone tinged with excitement.
Bridger shook his head. “Maybe. I found a ledger Lola’s father kept of transactions he made with the Quiver Creek Business Association—which doesn’t legitimately exist, far as I can tell. I think Mr. Martin was gathering proof against Ike. But there’s more.” He rubbed his face, strain from his time on the trail catching him in a sudden flood. “He’s given me a promotion of sorts.”
“Bringing you up the ranks?” Jake asked.
As hard as it is to admit… “Yes.”
Jake’s arms darted out, pounding his shoulders with a crushing shake. “This is the break this case has been looking for!” A broad grin split across the man’s face. “You’re already on the inside. Right now we have some complaints, but any time we go to investigate, folks decide not to talk.”
“They’re afraid. You can’t blame them,” Bridger insisted.
Jake smacked him on the back. “But you’re not?”
“Only a fool wouldn’t be,” Bridger admitted. “But once he’s out of business, we’ll all rest easier. I want to help.”
Jake sobered as he started a restless pace. “Before you agree to that, you need to know we think Tyler’s behind several deaths in Quiver Creek already—including the sheriff’s.”
“So you don’t believe it’s an accident?” he asked again.
Jake ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “No sign of a tumble as far as I could see. The body wasn’t found until many hours after death, even though this is a relatively well-used trail.”
Bridger’s mind pulsed. “So there are too many things out of place.”
“And similar accidents happen to some of the folks filing complaints against Ike Tyler. I’d send the whole citizenry of Wyoming Territory against the man that says Tyler isn’t connected to Pete McKenna’s death.”
Bridger released a breath into the moist air, long and low. He fought notions of Frank’s—and Lola’s—threatened safety from his mind. “Tell me what to do.”
Chapter Seventeen
Lola shook the blanket from the line and folded its worn softness. “He wants to clear his name.”
Grace stopped short, pulling the basket away. “Hasn’t he done that already?”
Lola focused on a precise fold in the tablecloth she held. “Of course he has. I’m certain even Jake has no reason to suspect him by now. Bridger went this morning to show him…” She let her voice trail off. “To help him finish his official report on Pete’s death.”
But Grace smiled with satisfaction, lips smug and eyes gleaming. She raised the container for the next pins to drop. “I knew from the start.”
“Knew what?”
Lola jostled from Grace’s playful push. “I knew he was a good man.”
Lola focused on removing the next linen from the line, thankful the full sheet hid her face a few moments. “I concede your point. Bridger Jamison is a fine and upstanding man. But what does it matter to me?”
Grace tugged on the sheet. Lola grasped the corner before it fell to the dust, but it no longer shielded her from Grace’s too-knowing gaze. “Because I see the way you look at one another, and it does my heart good to see my best friend falling in love.”
“Love?” Lola grasped the sheet in a twisted roll, wishing she could wipe the heat from her cheeks. She fumbled with the cloth and her words. “He’s been very helpful, and I appreciate that, nothing more.”
“You had supper with him last night.” Grace gave a knowing smile.
“That was business!” Lola plunked the last sheet into her laundry basket and strode toward the door.
Grace stopped her with two hands grasped against her shoulders, the bucket of clothespins bouncing against her arm. “You’re not honestly going to stand there and tell me you aren’t the least bit interested in him otherwise. We’ve been friends too long for that.”
Lola twisted for the breeze to blow strands of loose hair from her face. She caught sight of the woodshop door before looking her friend in the hopeful eye. Was Bridger becoming more than she could admit, even to herself? The memory of his smile in the lantern light across the table last night filled her with warmth and spoke truth to her heart. “You’re supposed to be too preoccupied to notice such things,” she said, feeling flushed.
Grace sobered. Lola dropped her basket to the ground and wrapped her friend in her arms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know, and it’s all right. But just because I’m grieving doesn’t mean I stop feeling joy in seeing other people drawn together.” The hint of a smile pulled her pink lips. “Perhaps it makes me look for it all the more. I’m happy for you!”
Lola picked up the laundry again, glad to have it off the line before gray clouds over the mountains
made good on their threat of rain in town. “I know so little about him. I’m not even sure where he stands with the Lord.”
“There’s time for that. You’re not betrothed…yet,” Grace said, following behind.
Lola winced at the reminder. Her record of courtship carried tarnish already. “I’m not so sure I can trust myself again,” she said, plunking to the step outside the back door.
Grace lowered to the space next to her, and Lola shifted over. “God allows us mistakes to increase our wisdom sometimes. It’s not like when the two of you shared a tutor and Ike seemed like the only eligible man on earth.”
She slid away so Grace could follow her inside. “You make it sound as if I were desperate.”
“Maybe you were, then. But look at you now. A beautiful, kind, intelligent woman of business in a bustling territory town where women are gaining opportunities all the time. You’ve come into your own, Lola. Your papa would be so proud.”
Lola glanced around the tidy kitchen. The sturdy cupboards and smooth sideboard carried her father’s keen workmanship and attention to detail. “You make it sound as if Papa’s death improved me.” Hurt lingered in her tone and grief ached in her chest.
“Oh, Lola,” Grace said, drawing her as close as her expanding middle allowed. “Not that! Not at all! I’m saying there is no great loss without some small gain. God never takes something from us that He doesn’t use to draw us closer, to mold us into the people He wants us to become.”
Tears escaped from Lola’s clenched eyelids as she held her friend close. She thought over the hurt, grief and loneliness of the months since Papa’s death. Over the new sense of confidence and satisfaction in her work, her secret hopes and her plans to somehow find a way into medical school. Would she ever have had the gumption to send those applications to the Woman’s Medical College of Pennsylvania if Papa were still here? Would she have had reason to meet Bridger Jamison?
Lola leaned back, wiping her tears. “Isn’t it shameful to be…glad?”
“Oh, honey,” Grace said, drawing a handkerchief across her own damp cheeks, “it’s not that. I believe it’s what they’d want for us, your papa, my Pete…. They loved us so much, they wouldn’t want us to just go on living…but to go on living better.”