by Regina Scott
A sudden knock at her front door drew their attention. Lola pulled away to answer it. Doc Kendall’s eyebrows quirked at her appearance, and she forced a cheerful smile. “Hello, Doc. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Silas doffed his hat with a hasty glance through the door to Grace before nodding a brief greeting. “I’m afraid it’s business and not pleasure today, Miss Lola. I came from Myrtle Stiles’s place. She’d been feeling poorly, and her ranch hand rode to fetch me. She passed away this morning. Weak heart. The problem is, I’ve been called to help Mrs. Garrett deliver her baby. She lost her first only a year ago. I have to get there right away. I know it’s asking a lot, but can you manage to bring Myrtle into town?”
Myrtle Stiles was no small woman. She weighed nigh onto three hundred pounds and stood almost six feet tall. Lola glanced at Grace, knowing she could offer no help. “Will her ranch hands be there to assist?”
Silas shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I was hoping you could find someone in town.”
Lola’s mind sifted through the men she knew who could offer a hand, but somehow she felt less comfortable asking Ike than she had in the past. Still, she pushed the doctor on his way. “I’ll find someone,” she told him. “You go on and help Mrs. Garrett. I wish I could be there to assist.”
“I know,” the doctor said. “But duty calls us in different directions this time, I’m afraid. I thank you, Lola.” He hustled off with a quick wave.
“Let us know how things go with the baby!” she called after him. He mounted his horse and tore off through town, black bag bouncing against his horse’s flank.
Lola closed the door and turned to Grace. “I’m not sure who—”
“Get Bridger,” Grace said. “He would be back by now, I would think, and he’d be glad to help you. I know it.”
Lola grabbed her cape and satchel, pausing at the mortuary door to gather her things. “I can’t! What if he takes my request as a sign of interest? I don’t want to push things if it’s not what the Lord wants for me.”
Grace stepped toward her, squeezing from the side with one arm draped across her back. “I’m certain,” she said, a smile and a gleam lighting her face. “After all, this is ‘just business,’ is it not?”
*
Lola slipped into the boardinghouse and listened as the door creaked closed before making her way to Bridger’s room. Heavy tread echoed through the crack as she raised her hand to knock. She released her pent-up breath, a smile escaping with it.
They’d had supper together last night, so why such eagerness to see him so soon? Lola squared her shoulders. This was business. She rapped her knuckles against the coarse wood and waited.
Silence.
Lola leaned her ear toward the door. She’d been certain she heard him inside. She waited only a moment before she heard another shuffle. She knocked again. “Bridger? It’s me. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your help.”
A sharp creak of mattress ties sounded muted through the wood, and she regretted bothering him. Dark lines of exhaustion had ringed his eyes last night. And something more—worry, tension…she wasn’t sure which. “I’m sorry, Bridger. I know you need your rest, but I didn’t know where else—”
The door swung open, filled with the frame of a man much taller and definitely broader than Bridger’s lanky build. Her heart thudded once, hard against her ribs. She jerked. “Who are you? Where’s Bridger?”
The large man shifted his feet, glancing into the room and over her shoulders with an anxious gleam in his blue eyes. “I’m not supposed to answer the door,” he explained.
So why had he? She sized the stranger up, his strong back, wide shoulders—a large, strapping man who would be able to lift Myrtle Stiles single-handedly. “Who are you?” she asked again.
He bent low, almost as if she were a small child. “You’re that pretty lady Bridger works for. I know you,” he said, his voice soft.
“Where is Bridger?” she asked. “What have you done with him?”
“He went with that marshal fella up the trail to show him where we found that lawman.” His stilted manner of speaking drew her curiosity.
Confusion swirled in her mind with her eagerness to complete the task at hand. What did this man know about Pete? Why would he be in Bridger’s room? Dear Jesus, she breathed. “Who are you?”
“Shh…I’m Bridger’s brother, ma’am,” he whispered. He closed the door so only the wedge of his wide face could be seen. “You shouldn’t know, though. Bridge’ll be mad.”
She understood the feeling. Why hadn’t he mentioned a brother? “Bridger keeps you trapped here, all by your lonesome?”
The man nodded. “Just for a while longer.”
Something both simple and foggy in his tone tugged at her heart. Bridger must have his reasons for hiding his brother. Had this lumbering fellow killed Pete? Perhaps accidentally, forcing Bridger’s plan for protection?
She stared into his blank eyes. Somehow she sensed this man was too guileless to lie. Guide me, Lord, she prayed.
“Did you hurt that sheriff, mister?” she asked.
He slid back and the door opened wider. “No, ma’am. I’d not hurt him anyhow. God says we have to love folks and treat them kind.”
Lola felt her spirit ease and puffed out her held breath. “Then I need your kindness now. What’s your name, sir?”
He laughed, shaking his ruddy head. “I ain’t no ‘sir.’ My name’s Frank—Frank Jamison.”
“Well, Frank,” she said, peace and necessity forging clarity to her mind, “I came to ask your brother, but you’re a big, strapping fellow. Will you help me since Bridger’s not here?”
His dull eyes widened, his gaze shifting. “He wouldn’t like it, ma’am. See, we’re a scary-looking pair, only I’m even scarier.”
Seconds ticked away on the timepiece at her neck. His desire to help her and escape his prison fought against fear of his brother’s reprisal on his open face. She sensed his innocence. Was she taking advantage of that?
Bridger certainly would not be happy, but what right did he have to treat his brother this way, even if it were to protect him? Besides, she needed help he’d be well able to give. “I promise to smooth things over with your brother. What do you say?”
Still he paused, weighing her offer against his brother’s ire. Then a smile grew on his face, showing a fine set of white teeth so like his brother’s. “If you explain it to him, he’ll see I had to, ma’am. Pretty lady like you, he’ll have to see I didn’t have any other choice.”
*
Bridger trudged the steps to his room. Days of travel, late nights and early mornings exacted a toll, but maybe now he could rest. Jake Anderson believed his story, and together they would bring Ike to trial. He had worried the marshal might not allow him to have a part in it, but once they’d developed a plan, Jake had agreed.
Bridger opened the door, the room already dim as the sun slipped down, and tossed his saddlebag on the bed. He had to clear his name. Not concerning the sheriff’s death, but for all those people he demanded money and goods from in the course of doing Ike’s dirty work. Not to mention he’d never be able to look a man in the eye again if he didn’t have a hand in bringing his boss to justice. He’d never be able to face Lola.
Lola…and Frank, he pondered. He slumped to the bed, rubbing gritty hands over his stubbled face. They were the real snags in the plan. Ike already monitored his interaction with Lola. Would he hurt her if they grew too close? The thought brought him to his feet, restless. He poured tepid water into the bowl of the dry sink and rubbed lye soap into calloused hands. No, Ike seemed to care for Lola in his own twisted way. That should provide enough protection for her.
But what of Frank? Bridger shook water and grabbed a dingy towel, wiping dampness across his weary face. He blew a frustrated huff. Trouble just seemed to work its way through Frank first.
But not this time. He owed Frank a big apology. He didn’t know how, but the damage Pa had caused h
is addled brain cleared Frank’s manner of feeling for people in a way Bridger couldn’t hope to match. If he’d had a stronger sense of people as Frank did, they might not be in this mess at all.
Bridger stared through the window across the rooftops of town, glazed by rays of evening sunlight. Where had his brother gone? He should be back anytime now. Darkness came around six o’clock.
Moments passed. His sole focus on Frank, Bridger paced until the walls crushed against him, oppressive in the darkness. Frank hadn’t failed to miss the chime of their grandfather’s pocket watch, he reminded himself. Frank would saunter through the door at any minute, and Bridger would be the grateful fool for his worry.
He hung his coat and hat and stretched out on the straw tick with weariness in his bones. “Lord Jesus, we’re in a mess. Frank sets a lot of store in talking to You, so I’m trying the same. Keep my brother safe,” he said. “And Lola, too. I’m not asking for myself, mind you. But I sure wouldn’t mind the extra help watching over the two of them.”
His muscles eased at the notion of having backup with the power Frank so fully believed in. Who knew? Maybe before this was all over, he’d believe a little more, too.
Bridger smiled and closed his eyes. Minutes passed as his limbs sank into the mattress beneath him. Frank might be forced to use the blanket on the floor tonight, because Bridger wasn’t sure he could move.
The tiny clock on the wall chimed half past, rousing him from a light doze. Breath caught, ragged in his chest. Frank was late. And right now, Ike was the only cause he could think of for it.
Chapter Eighteen
“You were a great help to me today, Frank,” Lola said. “I would never have been able to move the body without you.”
His wide smile shone amid the reddish stubble on his chin. “I helped, huh?” he said, pride in his tone. “I wasn’t scary-looking to you at all! I’m glad I opened that door, even if Bridge will be mad.”
She bit her lip, suddenly unsure. Nothing to do for it now. She patted his thick arm as they rounded the final bend into town.
Lola pulled her wrap close as the sun dropped behind ragged peaks. Frank held the reins of her wagon loosely in his hands, and the horses seemed to float above calloused ruts in the road that might jar Myrtle’s wrapped body on the wagon bed.
What would make Bridger want to hide Frank away? Such a large, rough-looking man to be so gentle. Sure, folks weren’t always understanding of anyone…different. But wouldn’t the people of Quiver Creek be willing to give him a chance?
*
Bridger raked his hair and replaced his hat with a frantic huff. Where could Frank have gone? He’d looked around every corner of the saloon, walked the length of town and searched through the empty and almost finished hotel. No sign. He’d visited the mercantile under Toby’s curious glare then wandered to the creek’s bank and followed it through a line of trees to the clearing near church.
Surely his brother wouldn’t explore farther. The sun sank well below the mountains, leaving only a brilliant gleam of pink behind the peaks as twilight fell. Maybe Frank waited for him in the room, and his worry stood for naught.
Maybe he’d gone farther and been hurt—accidentally, or by someone who preyed on those of feeble mind. Bridger rubbed his tight chest. Maybe Ike had found him.
Bridger increased his stride to reach the church. It held his last hope.
He found the glow of a lamp coming from the rear. Surely Frank hadn’t sneaked inside? Or perhaps the minister had seen him. He knocked softly at the back door.
Pastor Evans’s eyes blinked in surprise above spectacles perched on his nose. “Yes?” he said. The same peaceful smile he wore every Sunday morning lined his face. “How can I help you, son?”
Bridger grabbed his hat and held it clenched in his fist. “Are you here alone, parson?”
The man’s bushy eyebrows drew toward his eyes, which held a skeptical stare. But he opened the door wide and nodded him through. “That I am. Just the Lord and I chatting a bit this evening. I like to have this time to prepare for the morning message.”
Bridger moved toward the warm lantern light of the simple room before realizing his intrusion. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you, either. I’m looking for a…friend, and I wondered if you’d seen him.”
Pastor Evans adjusted his glasses as he padded his way to a tiny desk and sat. “This is certainly the place for seekers to come, friend. Would you refresh my old mind as to your name? I recognize you from my congregation but can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of a formal introduction.”
“Bridger Jamison, sir.” He glanced around, hoping Frank would appear in the midst of the tiny room.
Pastor Evans snapped his fingers. “That’s right! You’re the man Lola hired. She speaks highly of your work.”
The mention of her name caught him off guard. “She’s a fine lady, and I’m glad I can be of assistance to her.”
Pastor Evans’s gaze bored into him until Bridger figured the man had a sense of everything about him. From the way he lived to the way he took his coffee in the mornings. He shifted his feet and searched the room, noticing an open Bible on the man’s desk and a hand-whittled cross on the wall behind. He should’ve kept looking outside.
“Your friend, he’s the type that might be found at the house of God?” Pastor Evans asked.
Bridger shrugged. “I suppose not this time of night. I looked everywhere else, though, and hoped.”
“Well, I haven’t seen anyone since I came over around five o’clock, but it’s plain to see how important it is that you find your friend. Nothing dire, I hope?” The minister rubbed his slender pale fingers together at the tips. “I’d be glad to pray with you, that you find this person.”
Bridger scoffed before his brain kicked in to where he stood, and to whom he spoke. “I’m sorry. I am worried for my friend. I’d pledge to never miss a service again to know he’s safe at this point.”
Soft laughter rumbled from the little man. “So often we wish the Lord worked that way. I suppose because it would give us some measure of control over things, we think. Don’t take this wrong, but you seem to me a man who’s lived his life trying to control things. How’s that worked out for you?”
He stared at his hat. He wasn’t here to discuss himself, only to find his brother! But he had been the one to ask for help. “To be honest, it ain’t working so well at the moment. But if you haven’t seen my friend, I really need to be on my way, to keep looking.”
Pastor Evans nodded, slipping his glasses farther up his nose. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there, son. But how about a quick prayer that you’ll find who you’re looking for? Can’t hurt, right?”
Desperation clawed in his chest as he noted the darkness pressing harder at the window. He worried the brim of his hat between his fingers. “I reckon not. What do I do?”
“Stand there and talk to God, son.” The pastor bowed his head and started before Bridger could think to close his eyes. “Heavenly Father, I come and ask for help for my friend Bridger Jamison. He’s feeling terrible worried for his friend and hopes to find him safe and sound, if that be Your will. We trust he’s safe in Your care. While I know all is in Your timing, Lord Jesus, it would ease our hearts considerable-like if Bridger were to find him before it gets any darker. In Thy Holy Name we ask this, Amen.”
Bridger stepped toward the preacher. “That’s it?”
Pastor Evans smiled. “That and faith are all it takes. Though the Lord and I would both be glad to see you here every Sunday, regardless.”
He swallowed hard, remembering his promise. But if he found Frank, that was all that mattered. He shifted his feet, boots scuffing against the plank floor and antsy to leave, but more at peace than when he’d arrived. “Thank you, then, parson. I’d best be on my way.”
The minister closed the door behind him, warm light only a glimmer in the window again. Spring peepers along the creek announced the fullness of the season, bu
t they only served as a reminder that the time grew late. Where else might he look for Frank?
Bridger rounded the church. He’d make one more loop through the boardinghouse and see if Frank had returned to their room, then get a horse and ride out. He didn’t know what he’d do if anything happened to his brother.
“Bridger!”
Jake Anderson rode along the street, his eyes constantly searching. Bridger glanced around. It wouldn’t do for Ike’s men to catch him talking too friendly with anyone outside of Ike’s posse. Even if Jake’s true purpose wasn’t suspect yet.
He lowered his voice. “Everything look all right tonight?”
Jake leaned over his saddle horn. “I make my own rounds before I turn in. Helps me think, and you’ve given me plenty to keep my mind occupied. What are you doing out this way?”
“Bridge!”
Frank’s voice startled him, coming from the darkness of the road ahead. And nothing had such a welcome ring. He stepped away from the dirt path as Frank drove the wagon closer. Lola perched at his side and his relief became squashed with fear. What was Frank doing with her? How had Lola found him? Why were they sitting there together smiling when Frank should be in their room right now, staying out of sight?
He met the wagon in three strides. “What in the wide Mississippi are you doing out here?” His voice rose only steps away from a yell. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you?”
Bridger waved his arms to the inky blackness above, then thrust a finger in his brother’s face. “We had an agreement, Frank, and I trusted you to abide by it. Who knows what might have happened to you out there, gallivanting around this town like you’re the founding father of Quiver Creek?” Stars burned in the sky above, matching the fire in his chest, and provided a canopy for the rage inside him. Frank’s lips formed a stern line, but he didn’t attempt to speak.
Bridger lowered his voice to a bare rumble. “I’ll lock that door from the outside next time, Frank. You hear me? I can’t believe you’d be stupid enough to—”