Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (77 page)

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 use 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

B
ridger 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.”

“Sure-a thing, sir. Let me get an order slip.” Mr. Anthony reached under the counter and pulled a pencil from behind his ear. “What sizes you need?”

“I hoped you could help me with that. Do you have records of what you ordered for Mr. Martin in the past? I'm to make coffins for his daughter, and—”

“You're the man a-helping Lola?”

“I guess so, sir. She hired me to build them, providing my work meets her approval.”

Anthony slapped his pencil next to the tablet on the counter and nudged glasses down his Roman nose. His bushy eyebrows drew together and the man's stare pinned Bridger in place. Though his head tilted down to meet the old man's gaze, he dared not break from it.

After a long moment, the shopkeeper leaned away and picked up the pencil again. “Humph! You're a-going to do a fine job for Lola, or you'll find a new place to do your business, you hear? Don't you be bothering that fine girl, either. You understand-a me?”

Bridger bit back a smile. He had youth and strength on his side, but somehow, he didn't doubt if he bothered Lola in any way, this man would dole out justice. “Yes, sir. I only aim to do a good job for her. Strictly business.”

Mr. Anthony harrumphed again, pushed his glasses into place and pulled out a ledger from behind his counter. He made little musical clicks of his tongue as he searched through the pages. “Here we are, sir. I can duplicate the last order I placed for Mr. Martin, God rest his soul. It's about-a time—he gave me an order every six months.”

The shopkeeper shuffled to a supply room behind shelves at the back. “I understand her business has been better than she'd like of late,” Bridger said, by way of conversation.

Mr. Anthony swung around with a fiery glare. “And what would you know about-a that, sir? Who are you?”

Bridger gulped, sticking his hand in the pocket of his slicker. “Bridger Jamison, sir. I meant no disrespect. I heard it from my boss, Mr. Tyler. See, I'm new in town and I—”

“Then you had-a better speak more carefully about things you're only learning about, Mr. Jamison. You're one of Ike's boys, is that it?” His tone made Bridger thankful for the empty shop. He felt as if he'd been caught with his hand in the candy jar.

“I suppose that's right, sir. As a matter of fact, Mr. Tyler asked me to pick up his weekly order. I'm the new man,” he offered weakly.

“Has you out handling business for him already? He must see something special in you that my old eyes are missing.” Anthony's scowl deepened and his fists grew stiff at his sides. Then he spun on his heel and disappeared in the back room a moment before returning with his notepad and a thin envelope.

Bridger stood silent, confused about the sudden cold fury bursting from the man. Mr. Anthony came to the front of the counter, shoving the envelope under his nose. “Here's Tyler's ‘order.' Burt Sampson didn't have everything, but he's expecting to make up for it next week.”

Bridger stared at the envelope, slowly reaching to pull it away from the end of his nose.

“If that's a problem, you tell Ike he can come and talk with me himself. You got-a that?”

Bridger shook his head. “I'll tell him. I supposed his order would come in a box or a crate, something for the hotel he's building, that's all.”

Mr. Anthony stared at him a moment, then shook his head, tramping to his place behind the counter again. “Oh, that-a be something for his hotel, all right.” He stretched his arms along the counter, knobby hands grasping at the smooth, weathered wood.

Bridger held his breath in pause, not sure what Mr. Anthony might be doing. He tried to think of what he'd said to offend the man and wondered if it were age or temperament that affected his change of tone. Bridger shifted his feet, dusty boards squeaking around his boots.

The older man blew a long, forced breath. “I'll place the order you need, for Lola's sake,” he said, his voice low and graveled. He looked up, fire shooting from his eyes. “I suppose I ought to be glad you can do what she needs you to do. Ike, he'll make sure you treat-a her right.”

“You have my word, Mr. Anthony. The last thing I'd do is hurt any woman.” If Mr. Anthony detected something in him to be wary of and talked to Lola about it, he could lose the job before he even tried.

The man flapped his hand as if swatting at a fly. “Beh! So you say.”

“Yes, sir.” Bridger rubbed a hand along his face, feeling the rough need of a shave and every moment of the long day. He adjusted his hat and took another step away from the counter. “If you could let Lola know when the supplies are in, sir, I'd appreciate it. I'm anxious to get started. You'll have to trust me on this, but I'm the last thing you need to worry about.”

Mr. Anthony slammed the ledger closed and returned it to a shelf under the counter. “And you trust-a me, Mr. Jamison. Should you do anything to harm that girl, you'll have more than-a Mr. Tyler to look over your shoulder for, and that's a promise.”

* * *

Lola rinsed a lone plate and set it to dry. The sun grew brilliant and warm through the windowpane, but this morning had started late. A scratching sound at her back door had startled her as she drifted off last night, leaving her restless far into the wee hours of the morning. Now, in the bright daylight, she felt silly for the way she'd allowed her imagination to run wild. But her thoughts slogged through fog, and her steps lacked the vigor sunlight usually brought.

A knock at the house door interrupted her thoughts. Lola hastily dried her hands and smoothed her hair before answering.

“Good morning!” Grace's soft voice greeted her. She smiled as Grace waddled through the door. “I got word early this morning that my parents are arriving on the first stage. I know it's a little early, but I thought— Lola, are you ill? You look exhausted.”

“No, nothing like that.” Lola greeted her friend with a hug and motioned her into a chair in the front room. “I didn't sleep well, that's all. Then I overslept. I've only been up a short while, I'm embarrassed to say.”

Grace paused at the chair. “I don't want to steal your time if you're busy. I only thought I'd take the chance to visit you a bit while I wait.”

“Of course. Don't be silly,” Lola assured her. “I have all afternoon for chores. Work is the one thing guaranteed to wait without complaint. Besides, I haven't had my morning tea, and it will be nice to share it with you.”

A knock sounded at the front door—a business call. She snapped to her feet, nearly upsetting the teapot. Grace's cup rattled in the saucer and she looked ready to bolt. “Please wait, Grace. No sense in rushing off to sit at the depot alone. I'll be back soon as I can.”

Lola took pains to close the partition door with a solid latch before donning her special apron by the second knock. A tall man with brilliant blue eyes swept off his hat as she swung the door open. A quick flip of his lapel revealed a burnished badge.

“Jake Anderson, U.S. federal marshal, ma'am. We received a report from the undertaker of Quiver Creek about a suspicious death. I was told I could find him here.”

“You can. I'm the undertaker. Won't you come in?”

The man adjusted his hat and pulled a telegraph from his front pocket. “I'm sorry. I'm looking for a gentleman, surname Martin.”

“Would that be ‘L. Martin'?”

The man peered at the paper closely, as if convincing himself. “Yes, ma'am.”

“That's me, Lola Martin. I sent the telegram last week.”

The marshal stepped back with a gentle grin. “Well, I'll be. Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I wasn't exactly expecting...”

Lola smiled. “People usually don't.” The man glanced up and down the street, where wagons bounced around the curve and into the thickest part of town. Indecision flashed across his face, and Lola found herself with similar pause.

A man coming into her home without a body might not bode well for her reputation if the wrong sets of eyes witnessed it. Grace made a perfectly suitable chaperone, but to hold this discussion in her presence...would be awkward, to say the least. On the other hand, Mr. Anderson might have questions for Grace. And wouldn't she want to know what transpired with the investigation?

“Please, come in. Mrs. McKenna, the sheriff's widow, happens to be visiting. You might as well meet with her. She'll be sufficient to stop any wagging tongues.”

Jake Anderson rubbed dark fingers over his scruffy jaw. “If you're certain it suits you, ma'am, that will be fine with me.”

Lola led him through to the parlor, praying his arrival wouldn't upset her dearest friend. “Let me introduce you to Mrs. Grace McKenna,” she said. His towering form bowed slightly, hat held across his chest. His eyes lit up as Grace held her hand out with a wan smile. Even draped in black, sallow with grief and well along in her pregnancy, Grace McKenna was a beautiful woman.