Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (86 page)

His eyes grew wide. His gaze darted around before spearing her. His throat bobbed as he drew a deep breath. Then a grin tipped his lips just enough to tug at his scar. “No dead bodies here, Miss Lola,” he said.

She stepped away, slipping in a tangle of boots, and certain the skin on her face blistered at this point. “Oh! Of course not! I'm so sorry. I—”

An odd groan rumbled from his lean chest and he wobbled as though he'd been kicked in the shin by a mule. “No need for apology. It's you who's owed one.” He coughed, gripping the door with thick, tan fingers. “I should've stopped on my way into town, let you know I don't plan to get back to the woodshop until Monday.”

Her heart thumped once and then returned to a sluggish rhythm of disappointment. “I wondered—”

Another groan came from Bridger, this time followed by a wince as he quirked to the side.

“Are you all right? You weren't injured in your travels, I hope?” she asked.

“Nothing like that,” he choked out, as if the breath had been poked from his lungs. “This isn't the best place to talk, though. No sense in giving folks reason to question your propriety over me, not like this.”

“I understand.” She backed away, hands fluttering for a place to go that didn't add to her awkwardness. “I'll see you Monday, then—”

“Wait!” Bridger slipped one shoulder through the door, arm stretched toward her. “Maybe we could talk over supper?”

Her bustle bumped into the opposite wall of the narrow hall, halting her flight and stopping her short. “Supper?”

“Next door. I know it's the saloon, but Mattie's the best cook in town, so...?”

Mattie's a fair cook compared to me.
She argued in her mind, but it didn't prevent the delight that helped cool her face. “I'll meet you outside. Say five o'clock?”

A wide smile of even teeth seemed to relax his whole stance. “Let's make it six,” he said. “I will need to clean up first if you're going to sit at a table next to the likes of me.”

* * *

Bridger tucked the string tie into his pants pocket. He and Frank had debated for half an hour whether the situation called for him to wear one, and he'd left the room in agreement with Frank. But by the time he'd reached the bottom of the stairs, he'd realized it went too far. The necessary bath made him feel at least worthy of her company again. But he didn't want Lola thinking he believed this to be anything more than business, a chance to hammer out a better arrangement regarding his absence.

Finding her on the other side of his door had blown sense away like sawdust in the wind. Frank's nudges hadn't helped. But she'd seemed too focused to notice. He hoped.

She had to wonder how he expected to manage both jobs when he'd left her high and dry for almost a week. She had the right. Thankfully, she hadn't needed another casket in the meanwhile. Once he managed to work ahead and complete a stock, he knew he could handle it. He had to convince Lola to give him the chance. Not only to maintain the appearance that nothing had changed for him with Ike, but to keep an eye on her.

Toby met him before he rounded the corner into the main area of the saloon. “Just the fellow I come to look for,” he said, a sneer on his swarthy face. “Ike wants to see you.”

Bridger huffed. Lola would likely be waiting for him as it stood. But he couldn't ignore Ike. He had to play along. “What's he want?”

Toby laughed and pounded him on the back. “Well, well, looks like the blinders are off, huh? No more ‘yes, sir, Mr. Tyler, sir' from you.”

Bridger threw Toby's sweaty arm off his clean shirt. “I had the right to know from the start. But I'm still here, aren't I?”

“Of course you are,” Toby said, stepping close enough to choke him with his foul breath. “I reckon Ike thinks you're more useful now. He told me he has big plans for you, boy.”

“I'm no one's ‘boy,' but I do want in,” he lied, meeting Toby's leveled gaze.

“Then you'll hightail yourself into Ike's office before you meet that pretty little undertaker's daughter.” Toby stepped back, sweeping his arm toward the door in a grand gesture. “You keep your mind on what Ike tells you. Otherwise I'll be babysitting you the rest of your born days.”

Bridger headed straight for Ike's office. He didn't bother looking to see if Lola waited. His mess with Ike took priority. He stepped in without a knock.

Ike's head snapped from the papers he studied when Bridger creaked the door open, but he showed no other signs of surprise. “Have a seat,” he said, directing Bridger to the chair opposite his wide desk.

He sat, and Ike did the same, leaning back in his leather chair and steepling his fingers. “I've given your position a lot of consideration lately, Bridger. I debated how to pull you into my organization on a more permanent basis and decided this little trip made the perfect initiation. So tell me, how did you figure it out?”

Bridger rubbed the polished wood trim of the cushioned seat. The fear in Mr. and Mrs. Axlebee sprang to mind. With them as a scapegoat, who knew what added pressure they might face? “I'm not an idiot.”

Ike stroked his mustache, not bothering to hide a smirk. “Come, now, don't be cross. Someone had to tip their hand.”

Bridger leaned forward. “Fine. I figured it out from Mr. Anthony, weeks ago.”

Ike's smile dropped off his face and he lurched forward, shifting the papers into a single pile. “That old man never knew when to call it quits.”

Bridger filed Ike's reaction away. “I assume you wanted to talk about something more than how long I've known about you.”

Ike paused, lost in thought. Then he shook himself to attention. “Certainly, but it is worth consideration. I wanted to tell you about your new opportunity working for my outfit. I think you're ready for a regular route. You hit these businesses once a month.” Bridger took the paper Ike passed his way. “That whole ‘just doing my job' act may work for you a good long while.”

Bridger studied the list. The Axlebees were on it, along with others he'd visited on this journey, plus several more. “This will have me gone a full week every month. Why so far?”

“You're the new man. In time, you work your way closer. Besides, you won't always have supplies to haul, so you'll be faster on horseback,” Ike said.

Bridger folded the paper twice to fit it into his pocket along with the tie. “What's in it for me?”

Ike tilted his head back with a hearty, high-pitched laugh. “I liked your style right from the start. I'll take guts over brains any day, and if you're telling the truth, I can assume you might have some of both.”

“So, what makes this better than what I've been doing?”

“Better pay, mainly. What would you say to ten percent of what you deliver, on top of your regular pay? That will increase by one percent a year for five years, plus additional routes.”

Bridger skimmed dirt off the sole of his boot and lowered his gaze to hide surprise as he calculated the total in his mind.

Ike smirked. “I told you I take care of my men.”

Bridger fought to school his features. “What if I want out?”

“Do you?”

Bridger shifted to narrow the gap between them and faced his boss. “Not now, but I might not take to it. I haven't been tied down in a long while.”

“When you leave my employ will be contingent on when I'm inclined to relieve you of your duties,” Ike said.

“Aren't you worried about the authorities?”

Ike laughed. “In case you haven't noticed, my good man, there aren't any ‘authorities' around here.”

Bridger knew that had been part of Ike's plan. “That federal marshal is to come around, right? What of him?”

“Federal marshals aren't all that interested in the little happenings of these territory towns. Even if one bothers to venture our way, he won't give more than a cursory investigation and be on his way back to civilization. So you needn't fear for your stellar reputation. Besides, most of these folks owe me for legitimate loans.” Ike's feet clapped on the gritty floor. “But I have a feeling you aren't in any hurry to leave my employ.”

Bridger stood but didn't dare tip his hand by mentioning the high interest rate Ike charged, impossible for most businessmen to pay. “Not for that kind of money, I'm not.”

Ike shook his hand and pulled a cigar from his pocket. “See? Smart. And I like that. Now, you go on out there and find what Lola needs you to do. I appreciate you keeping an eye on her. I really do.” His handshake tightened to a crushing grip. “But make sure that's all you keep on her, you understand? Or all your newfound wealth will be used to pay the balance on your funeral.”

“I don't move in on another man's girl,” Bridger said. Revulsion for Ike's oily personality curdled his stomach.
But a lady has a right to choose for herself....

“Glad we reached an agreement. We'll talk more soon,” Ike said, following him to the door.

Bridger stepped out, scanning the growing crowd. He spotted Lola waiting at a nearby table. Her glossy hair streamed down her back, glorious in its thickness, with small twists framing her face as she turned to send him a small wave. A deep green dress matched her eyes, and she smiled with a rosy blush against her cheeks.

Bridger choked, his next breath forgotten.

He should've listened to Frank.

Chapter Sixteen

L
ola's breath flew like a dry winter wind at the sight of Bridger Jamison. His brown hair gleamed in the lantern light, wonderfully straight and still damp, but combed with a careful part to the side. His skin had darkened over the days he'd been gone, his eyes bright in their brown depths. A stiff white shirt accented his coloring and rangy frame.

He skirted the crowded tables of the saloon with ease, lips quirked as he drew close. After a slight bow he sat in the chair across from her. The scent of wood and soap and fresh air still clung to him. “You look lovely this evening, Lola, if it's all right for me to say so,” he said. His smile widened to show even rows of white teeth.

She took a sip of cool water from the heavy tumbler. “Thank you. I hope it's not too overdone. Ike's saloon doesn't require fuss, but I don't often have reason to dine out.”

Mattie slipped behind Bridger with pencil and paper to take their order, trailing long fingers across his shoulders before standing between them. Her fitted shirtwaist, little more than a corset with sleeves, accentuated her womanly figure. The satin skirt sported a small bustle but ended just below her knees, exposing slender legs. “Well, now, sugar, what can I get for you and the lovely miss?” she said, a broad smile on her painted lips.

Bridger's glance held a scant moment before his attention returned to Lola. She knew it had to be a struggle. Mattie's beauty caught the eye of most men in town, without her even trying. Did Mattie deem Bridger worth a little effort?

“We should be early enough to have our pick of the menu,” he said. “I'll take the thickest, juiciest steak you can fire up, with the largest baked potato you can dig and a big scoop of buttered carrots on the side. And a cup of coffee as strong and dark as you can make it.” His eyes danced and Lola's breath caught when he leaned toward her with a charming, crooked grin. “What about you, Lola?”

She glanced around the crowded room, thankful she'd chosen a table near the wall, where dim lighting better hid her blush. The new green dress she'd pulled out for the evening sagged matronly compared with Mattie's flounce. Served her vanity right, she supposed. “Roast chicken and vegetables, please.”

“Sure thing, sweetie.” Mattie's tone matched one she might use with a very young girl, instead of a community businesswoman. “You want this on your tab, Bridger?”

“Yes, thank—”

“No! I'll take the bill.” She was the employer, after all.

Bridger and Mattie turned stares at her as if she'd sprouted wings. “Mr. Jamison and I have business to discuss,” she explained.

“We can talk about my work as you like, Miss Martin. But our meals will be added to my account. I'm celebrating.” Bridger's gentle gaze never left her face.

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Mattie said, tucking her pencil into the belt wrapped at her narrow waist. She patted Lola's shoulder. “You do look lovely tonight, sweetie. That green really brings out the fire in your eyes.” She left with a swish, sashaying off to the next table.

“You don't have to do this,” Lola said, picking at her napkin. She wasn't sure which irritated more—the fact she couldn't compete with Mattie, or the fact she wanted to.

Bridger made a show of placing a napkin on his lap, a teasing gleam in his eye. “Do what? Eat? I'll have you know I spent four long days dreaming of this steak, and boss or no, I aim to have it.”

“You know what I mean. I am responsible for your business expenses, and—”

“I don't want this to be just a business expense, if you don't mind. It's not often an old tumbleweed like me has the opportunity to share a meal with a beautiful lady.” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper. “You wouldn't steal my rare opportunity to pretend I am a gentleman, would you?”

His finger tapping on her hand shot warmth along her arm and across her shoulders. She lost her resolve in his shy grin.

She nodded. “I don't suppose I could.”

He glanced around, profile strong in the warm lantern glow of the room, then drew his elbow to the table to lean closer. “Besides, I need to convince you not to fire me. I apologize for leaving before I had a stock of...work...completed, but it shouldn't happen again. If you'll give me a chance, I can—”

“Hard to say ‘casket' isn't it?” she asked.

He flushed, sitting upright. “I don't suppose your job is easy for anybody to accept or understand. I didn't mean to offend you.”

Lola dismissed him with a wave. “I'm the one who is sorry. I didn't mean to snap.” Sometimes the loneliness of her profession and the reasons for it were so clear, they pricked her like a needle. The worst of it was, she understood. Who would want to court a mortician?

“I admire what you do, honestly. My squeamishness is my own shame.” He leaned back, nodding thanks to the girl who brought his steaming mug of coffee and a fresh cup of water for her. “But seeing what you do and how it brings comfort to people... Why, it's a testament to the person you are, Lola.”

Warmth filled her from golden sparks in his eyes. “The kind of person I am is one embarrassed by her curtness. You are very kind, and no one has any business judging you as anything more than a fine gentleman. Now, shall we start again? Tell me, what are you celebrating?”

He paused for a large swallow of coffee. He savored it on his tongue and closed his eyes. “A return to town, keeping my job—I hope.” He paused long enough to show an impudent grin. “Enjoying a meal with a fine woman...”

She laughed, lacing her fingers together at her waist. “Enough flattery, sir. You may keep your job, provided you can start first thing Monday morning and complete three coffins before your other job calls you away from Quiver Creek again.”

“Consider it done,” he promised. “I meet Jake Anderson tomorrow morning, then I should be in town until the first part of next month, at least. I'll see you don't run out of caskets while I'm gone by that time.” Pride in his word choice tinged his voice.

“Very well.” Looking at him now, eyes alight and shirt crisp, she wondered how she'd ever been so mistaken about him. Even his raw scar took a softened look in the muted lighting around them. “I wish I hadn't jumped to conclusions about you. I'm sorry to have brought you extra trouble.”

“No offense taken,” he said. His voice grew distant. “I'm a scary-looking character, especially given the circumstances of that night. You were wise to contact the federal marshal's office. In fact, I'm grateful you did.”

Somehow she sensed he no longer spoke with idle flattery. “You'd think in my line of work, I'd be beyond the effect of ‘scary-looking characters.'”

“I'd like to hear more about your business.”

Lola rimmed the edge of her glass with her fingertip. “You know what I do. The science would bore you, I'm certain.”

“But there are a lot of different angles to your job—the science, the caring for families, the accounting and business end of running a mortuary.”

She shrugged, unsure where his questions were leading. How much could he care to know? “I've done so much of it with Papa for so long, I don't think on it in that sense.”

“Are there any, I don't know—guilds, organizations—for your profession?” he asked.

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.”