Читать книгу Wyoming Promises - Kerri Mountain - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Dawn slipped over the sharp ridges to the east of town as Bridger rode the slopes north of Quiver Creek. His brother, Frank, rode beside him, half-asleep. The few hours in a real bed had done wonders, but Frank hadn’t had that luxury. Thankful for the moonlight, Bridger had headed back up the trail to wake Frank and clean up the meager camp they’d set the night before, not far from where they’d found the sheriff’s body. He needed to get Frank into town before folks started stirring. It would be much easier to get Frank into their room undetected.

“Frank? You with me?” Bridger asked, his whisper echoing in the silence of the morning.

Frank shifted in the saddle, rubbing beefy fists into his eyes. He blinked dully and breathed deep, drawing himself awake, then turned his ruddy face to Bridger with a wide smile. “Good morning.”

Bridger couldn’t help but smile back. “Morning, Frank. We’re almost there.”

“Good. I like town, seeing all the people.”

“Shh!” Bridger warned. “Remember what happened in that last town? We need to stay put for a while this time, Frank. We can’t do that if you get too nosy again—”

“I didn’t do nothing!” Frank protested. “I didn’t do what that lady said, Bridge—”

“I know. I know you didn’t. But sometimes...well, people don’t understand what a great brother you are. They think—”

“I know, Bridger. We’re a scary-looking pair, right?”

“Right. Me with the scar, you all big and strong... We have to be...careful, that’s all. I have the promise of a good job here, a chance to make enough money so we can afford a place of our own like we’ve been talking about.”

“With horses?” Frank asked.

“With horses,” Bridger conceded. He knew enough about farming and ranching to hold an odd job now and then and enough to know he wanted something different. But all Frank wanted was horses to care for. He’d never seen a man who knew the beasts better. “But to do that, I need you to help me. You have to do as I say.”

“I always try, Bridger. You’re smart. I know that.”

Bridger winced. Frank did know that, just as well as those folks who saw fit to judge him. Frank’s brain worked slower, and his speech was thicker and simpler, but not enough to make him unaware of his own deficiency. Then, too, Frank’s looks didn’t help him—tall, broad, rawboned—everything like their father. Before Frank’s...before his brother lost that part of himself, a keen, teasing wit and sharp mind had kept the young ladies back home plenty impressed with Frank Jamison. The familiar knot twisted in Bridger’s chest.

“I’m just saying I need you to do your job. It won’t be forever, Frank. Just until we save enough for a little spread. Nothing fancy—a few horses for you, a woodshop for me. Away from town, but close enough I can sell my furniture to those fancy outfits back East...”

“And some chickens and a dog.”

Bridger looked at his brother, smiling at the dream they’d been talking about ever since he’d made it back home from the war. “The way you keep adding animals to the list, we’re going to need a bigger barn.”

Frank grinned and rubbed his sleepy eyes again. “I’m tired.”

“I know you are. We’re almost there, and then you can sleep in a real bed and get a good rest.”

“Real beds cost lots of money,” Frank said, eyes closed again.

“Not this time. It’s part of the pay for the job I found. Meals, too, I think.”

“You don’t have to cook no more?”

“Nope. They have a cook.”

“Better than you, right?”

Bridger glanced from the trail to his brother’s dozing form. Every so often, hints of Frank’s old, teasing self would slip out. But never at his whim. Still, sometimes it was hard to tell.

“Not just better than me—good.”

They wandered onto the main thoroughfare in silence, Bridger thankful for the quiet that greeted them. The town felt deserted.

“We’re here,” he said, sliding down and tying his mount. Frank did the same. “We have a room upstairs here.” Bridger nodded toward the dilapidated boardinghouse. It had to have been one of the town’s original structures. But it seemed sparsely used, if not quiet. A saloon next door made for a rowdy neighbor, but it beat the hard ground and would have to do. He only needed to convince Frank. “You can get a good sleep, in a real bed. How’s that sound?”

Frank nodded, eyes still heavy from his early-morning wake-up call.

Bridger motioned him to follow as they walked toward the rear entrance, which lay in shadows from a few spindly aspens. Between the trees and the distractions of a lively saloon next door, Frank would be relatively free to come and go. The notion of this dingy building and the tiny room they’d share being Frank’s new prison gnawed on him. But only for now, just until he settles in—

“What’s this place? People drink here!”

Bridger pivoted, hand on the doorknob. He had hoped the dimness would disguise the nature of the establishment next door. It would be easier to have this debate once they were tucked away in the room upstairs.

“Listen, Frank,” he said, moving to his brother’s side. He raised his hands to his brother’s shoulders and tried to draw him away from the narrow alley between the boardinghouse and the saloon, filled with broken amber bottles and litter.

“I’m not working there,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. “But the man who gave me the job, he owns this place. He’s building a hotel, Frank, and I’m going to help him with that.”

“Saloons make people mad, Bridger. Folks drink too much and get loud and fight, and—”

“The owner, he keeps it from getting to that. I watched him throw a man out last night for causing trouble. It gets loud, maybe, but with music and people, Frank.”

“God doesn’t like people drinking and fighting. I don’t want to stay here.”

Frank’s voice grew louder. His eyes darted while his breath heaved. Bridger knew he had to calm him before he bolted.

He pressed his hands on either side of his brother’s head, acting as blinders to everything except his own face. “Listen! Calm down and listen to me, all right?” Frank’s breathing eased as Bridger spoke in low tones. “It’s going to be all right, you hear me? We’ll be together, and it’s only for a little while. We’ll sock away every penny and get those horses. I don’t like living here any more than you do, pard, but it’s the first sign of work I’ve seen in weeks.”

“Mama wouldn’t like it, Bridge,” Frank said, his voice soft, quiet, still tinged with fear.

Bridger sighed. Frank was right, but she hadn’t exactly stopped Pa from spending the majority of his time in such a place, either. No sense in bringing that up to Frank, though. “She’d be sad to know if we were going the way Pa did, but we’re not. This is only a place to rest up, lie low awhile, until we can afford our own place.”

His brother’s dull eyes shifted, trying to see beyond Bridger’s hands, but he held firm. “With horses?” he finally asked, his voice softer and not so panicked.

“With horses.”

Frank shook his head, pulling away. “No drinking, either, Bridge.”

“Nothing Mama wouldn’t approve of,” he promised. He hadn’t ever been a drinker. But Frank had reason to be suspicious, given what they’d grown up with.

“I miss her,” he whispered. “Can we go to church?”

Bridger lowered his arms, taking a step toward the stairway. “You know we can’t. Folks don’t—”

“You can. You can go and tell me about it.”

Bridger took his hat off and raked his hands across matted hair. “I can’t promise, Frank. But, well...I’ll try, all right?”

Frank beamed. “Thanks.”

“So you’ll stay here?”

“I have to stay with you, Bridge. We’re a scary-looking pair, remember?”

“I remember.” He grabbed his brother’s thick arm and led him up the dark stairs to their room. Frank had sacrificed his independence for Bridger’s life. He never mentioned it, and maybe the fact was lost in his muddled thinking. Or maybe he chose not to remind his little brother of it. But Bridger could never forget.

* * *

“We often ask the Lord ‘why’ in cases such as this,” Pastor Evans said. “And the simple answer is ‘because it’s the Lord’s Will.’ When our pain is fresh, that answer leaves us hollow. It’s only with time and faith that we can come away from grief stronger and, at the same time, with greater reliance on God.”

Lola shivered in the morning mountain shadows as Pastor Evans gave the eulogy for Pete McKenna. She stretched her arm around Grace, who stood shrouded in black with a heavy veil to hide her tears. Had it been only six months ago their positions had been reversed when Papa died?

Lola squeezed Grace’s shoulders in support as a soft wail broke from under the black veil, and she scanned the crowd standing silently around the gaping hole in the ground. The Rigger family looked almost as sorrowful as Grace. They lived farther up the pass and had asked for Sheriff McKenna’s help in tracking the mountain lion bent on killing off their herd. Mrs. Rigger squeezed her husband’s hand and gathered their two little girls close, no doubt thinking how easily it could have been her husband’s body that man had found.

Lola rocked Grace as Pastor Evans guided those in attendance in the 23rd Psalm. Her eyes settled on that same man in question. He stood behind Ike, shovel in hand and hat pulled low. But she recognized the deep, angry scar that crossed his face.

Her heart jumped as his gaze locked on her, surprising her with a warmth she’d missed at their first meeting. But she didn’t turn away. Let him know she recognized him. She hadn’t expected him to still be in town, let alone be here as they buried Pete, but she was glad to see him. It would make the U.S. marshal’s job that much easier when he arrived.

She had sent a request early the very next morning after Pete had been brought to her door. She was sure the marshal would have questions for him when he arrived. She’d like to ask a few of her own, but patience reigned. The law would prevail.

Lola gave Grace a parting hug and kissed her cheek with a promise to visit soon. Her heart ached to watch her friend leave with Pastor Evans to deliver her home.

She waited for the crowd to clear before turning to Ike and his men. Ike Tyler had been especially helpful in the months since her father’s death. For as much as Papa had disapproved of their courtship, Ike had proved himself a good friend even after she ended that part of their relationship over a year ago. Papa didn’t trust him but hadn’t refused her from seeing him. He didn’t push the cut deeper by reminding her of his reservations when she’d found Ike kissing Mattie, either. After she broke their engagement, Ike had bought the saloon, and she realized how very wrong she had been about him.

Ike had assured her it all meant nothing, insisting it was “only part of business.” While wisdom prevailed, it didn’t help that Ike Tyler was a handsome cut of a man and had done everything in his power to help her in her grief.

She tilted her head to see his hazel eyes peering at her. His long fingers stretched out as if to grasp her arm, but he caught himself and held back with a soft smile. “Anything more you need?”

“No, thanks, Ike. I’ll gather up the flowers to lay across the grave when you’re finished and place the cross.” She wiped a tear that rolled unbidden down her cheek. “I wish there were more I could do for Grace, that’s all.”

Ike took her hand with a gentle squeeze. “I know you do. You will, in time. Why don’t you let my men tidy up when they’re finished so you can join her now at the church?”

She caught his hopeful smile. He always found a way to give her what he thought she needed most. “You’ve done so much already, Ike. I don’t want to take advantage.”

“Nonsense.” A smile touched his narrow lips before he set his men to task with a nod. “I’ve hired an extra man. They’ll have things finished in no time.”

She watched the men shovel dirt back into the hole they’d dug earlier that morning. The man with the scar was lean and about a head shorter than the men he worked with, but he carried himself with a strength his size belied. Dark sinewy arms poked out from long sleeves he had rolled to his elbows. “What do you know about your new hire?”

“Not all that much—you know how it is. His name’s Bridger Jamison. He’s new in town and needed work. That’s about it.”

A breeze caught spring leaves on the trees nearby, brushing her ears with their gentle music. “He’s the one that brought Pete in,” she said. Her voice sounded hard and flat, revealing more than she’d intended.

“He did mention something about that. I’ll keep an eye on him, Lola. You don’t have anything to worry about.” Ike smiled, drawing her from the shadows and into the sunlight closer to the church.

“I’m not worried.” Well, she didn’t want to be worried, anyway. “The U.S. Marshals Office will be sending someone to check his story very soon.”

Ike stopped. “Why is that?”

“Because I sent a telegraph. We have no sheriff now, and with the trouble we’ve been having here, I thought someone ought to check into it.” Into the stranger with the scar.

A long huff of air came from Ike’s tight lips. “I wish you’d asked me first, Lola. We don’t need any trouble stirred up with a stranger nosing around town.”

Fire rose in her chest. “A man died, Ike. The sheriff. We can’t handle this ourselves.”

“Do you really reckon the man would have gone to the trouble of bringing him in and getting the body to an undertaker if he’d had anything to do with his death?”

Lola glanced sideways at the men working. It did sound a little far-fetched, she supposed.

“But what if he did?” She pulled away and crossed her arms around her waist.

Ike stepped away, taking a look at his workers. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, a long habit she recognized. “Then it’s good I hired him. A job will hold him in town.” He faced her with a smile. “But you need to check before you go off trying to handle these things on your own. That’s what I’m here for.”

She sighed. Maybe it was foolish to wire for a U.S. marshal to come all the way out here to investigate without consulting anyone first. Maybe the hour and the man’s appearance and the memory of her father’s death had made her too skittish. “Well, it’s done now. I guess I wanted to make sure there was someone looking out for this town. Especially now that Pete’s gone.”

Silence surrounded them as the last of the mourners left the cemetery. “My men and I can do that, like we helped Sheriff McKenna before. Once that U.S. marshal clears out, they’ll hold an election. Maybe I’ll run for sheriff myself. Something nice and respectable like your pa would have liked from the start.”

Lola winced. Papa wouldn’t have approved of Ike even if he’d been governor of the territory.

“I’ll talk to the marshal when he arrives in town. Maybe if I explain things, he won’t need to waste any more time than getting here will cost him.”

Ike drew closer, his head bowed toward her. “You always were overcautious, Lola. But your beauty made up for it.”

She stepped away, staring him in the eye. “It’s good you realized my downfalls before we made it to the altar, then.” Her voice rose, clipped and sharp.

She caught Bridger Jamison’s form in the corner of her eye. He punched his shovel into the dirt, arms crossed loosely over the end of the handle, brown eyes glittering in the moving shadows caused by the waving tree limbs over his head. His scar looked deeper when his jaw tightened.

Ike started. “Lola, I didn’t mean—”

“Never mind, Ike. It’s just been a hard few days. Forgive my sharpness. I have a lot on my mind.”

“Any help I can offer? Say the word,” Ike said, his voice soft and over-warm.

Lola squared her shoulders. “Not unless you know a good woodworker. I used the last coffin Papa...Papa made, for Pete.”

“You know, it just so happens, I do know a man. I can’t vouch for his skill, but he says he does like to build things with wood.”

Lola returned his smile. If anyone would know the skills of a new man in town, it would be Ike. She warmed. “That would be wonderful! If you introduce us, I could make the arrangements.”

“Whenever you like, Lola. I know where he lives. You can stop by anytime and I’ll be glad to make the acquaintances.”

“Stop by? Where?”

Ike gave the grin he used when he thought he had the upper hand. The one she hadn’t recognized as a little frightening until after they’d parted company. “In a room at my boardinghouse. It’s Bridger Jamison, my new man.”