Читать книгу Wyoming Promises - Kerri Mountain - Страница 13

Chapter Five

Bridger pulled the horses to a halt as the sun dipped below the mountains to the west, peeking between snowcaps. He spotted the large lot in the center of town where Ike planned to build his fancy hotel, with supplies guarded by his men. Bridger’s jawbone ached, riding all the way from Wilder Springs with Toby’s cantankerous load growling in the seat beside him.

He set the brake and hopped from the seat. “This is the rest of them, fellows.”

Toby scowled and shifted his bulky frame to the ground.

“Get on. Tell Ike I’ll be along shortly to give my report of the day.”

Toby stalked down the dusty street, the sharp rays of sunset hiding his heavy tread. No matter how it came about, a break from Toby merited every particle of gratitude Bridger could muster.

Bridger washed his dusty hands in the trough and slicked limp hair back under his hat. He’d done what he’d been asked to do, and done it well, which only added to Toby’s ire. The man probably thrived on delivering less-than-stellar reports on every new man.

It made no matter to him. All he wanted was a hot meal. Frank would be starving about now.

Lola’s home sat out of sight of the hotel lot, around the bend leading away from town. Awful strange vocation for a woman. Bridger felt a certain uneasiness to wonder how she could sleep in that house alone with a dead person in the next room. He shook his head. He had no call to judge. The idea of home depended on what a body grew used to, he supposed.

Many times a dead man would’ve been preferable to sharing a home with his father growing up.

Dusk settled over the town. The sky above still held the brilliance of a clear day, but the mountains already blocked the sun’s long rays. No street fires had been lit yet, but Ike would probably set his men on it before long.

Bridger nodded to Mattie as he ducked into the slow-filling saloon. “Hey, sugar, Ike’s in his office. He told me to send you in straightaway.”

“Sure thing, ma’am. That’s where I’m headed.”

“‘Ma’am’? I sure ain’t no friend of your ma, darlin’. You’d best call me Mattie, same as everyone else.” She stepped around the counter and grabbed his arm in one hand while her other slid across his chest, her eyes gleaming. “Most fellows around here are happy to be on a first-name basis with me,” she said with a wink.

He couldn’t help but smile at her. Mattie had spark. Add to the fact she knew how to dress her beauty to her own advantage, and it wasn’t hard to see why Ike’s tavern packed folks in until the wee hours. But he had more on his mind than playing her games, tempting as they were.

He hoped this meeting with Ike didn’t last long. It wouldn’t do for Frank to wander in search of his own meal. It wasn’t fair to keep him confined there for so many hours. But in Frank’s case, not much was fair. It’s only for a time, he reminded himself.

Bridger knocked on the door to Ike’s office and opened it at his muffled invitation.

Tyler waited behind his desk, reading some kind of ledger by lantern light. “I’m on my way out to greet the crowd. How’d it go today? Any trouble?”

“No more than what you expected. We brought back all you ordered, sir. That’s the main thing.” Bridger removed his hat and stood, feeling drops of water from his still-damp hair sinking into his dusty collar.

“So Johnston gave you trouble?” Ike asked, and the eagerness of his tone grated on Bridger’s frustration.

“I handled it, sir. And I appreciate the warning.” He smacked his hat against his leg to air it out. “Toby and the others are unloading supplies now, but you said you wanted to see me as soon as we made it back.”

Ike grinned and stood. “I wanted to hear how things went and to give you this for today.”

Bridger opened the envelope Tyler handed him. Five dollars? “What’s this for?”

“Today’s pay. Starting tomorrow, you’ll be on the roster, get paid regular every Friday. Today was the start of those extra jobs I mentioned. Thought it might help if you had a little cash in your pocket.”

Bridger slipped his hat back on his head. “Five dollars for one trip?”

“I told you, I treat my men well. If you brought back everything on that list, it’s nothing compared to what you saved if Mr. Johnston had decided not to honor our agreement. Regular wages are a dollar a day, plus room and board, but you show me you can handle it, I’ll have plenty extra jobs to pass along.”

“I’d appreciate that, sir.” Bridger stretched his arm over the desk to shake Mr. Tyler’s hand. Ike’s grasp crushed, but not a callus to be found on those long, pale fingers. The overall effect lacked strength but not force. “It means a lot to me to have the opportunity.”

“I hope so.” Ike slid a cigar out of a large wooden box on his desk.

“Well, sir, unless you have something more for me, I plan to grab some supper and head to my room. I’ll be ready for an early start tomorrow morning.”

Ike’s smile pulled to one corner as he lit the cigar. “Come on back over later. The night’s young and you’ve earned yourself a good time this evening.”

Bridger shifted as Ike shook out the match and took a long draw. “Unless you need me, I plan to see Miss Martin about those coffins before I turn in. I’d like to check out the tools and materials I’ll need so I can start early next week.”

Ike glanced out the window by his desk. “Not quite dusk yet—you ought to have time. You’re in a lot of hurry, though, son. All work and no play—”

“All due respect, Mr. Tyler, you ain’t near old enough to be my pa, so I’ll thank you to not call me ‘son.’”

Fire blazed across Ike’s face, but he ground out his cigar with deliberate slowness, snuffing his anger out with it. “Merely a manner of speaking, and I apologize.” Ike’s stare penetrated in a way that made Bridger’s anger build. “You seem in an awful big hurry to make money. How much do you owe?”

Bridger stepped closer, tilting his chin to meet Tyler’s snide glare. “I told you, I don’t owe any man. But I do have plans for that money, and the sooner I can earn my way out of here, the happier I’ll be.”

Ike moved to the edge of his desk and leaned against it. “You’re planning on leaving already?”

“Not exactly.” Bridger stepped back, pulling his shoulders straight. “But there’s nothing wrong with a man having plans for something more, and I have some of my own.”

Ike crossed his arms and stared at his feet a moment, as if considering. “I understand that drive myself, Bridger, and I like to hire men who have ambitions. Keeps them focused. But hold those aspirations in check. Nothing interferes with my plans.”

“You won’t have any complaints about my work, Mr. Tyler. I guarantee you that. But you also won’t stop me when I’m ready to move on.”

Ike stood and smiled, giving Bridger a hearty pound to the shoulder. “Well, then, I guess it’s my job to be sure you’re in a position you can’t walk away from.” He smiled in a way that didn’t connect with his tightly controlled anger of moments before. “I can do that, Bridger. I can. And I have a whole crew out there to prove it.”

* * *

Bridger trudged up the stairway and creaked open the door of the room he shared with Frank. It wasn’t large by any standard, but it held a bed, a battered desk and a dry sink with a mirror, along with the two of them, without anything getting knocked over every time one of them turned around. The cleanliness of the room surprised him, even if the walls sorely needed to be planed and painted, and stood paper-thin. All told, they hadn’t had a nicer place to stay since they’d left home—and maybe before then.

Frank sat at the desk near the window, scratching pictures of horses into the old copybook he’d carried with him all the way West. Bridger peered over his shoulder, admiring the graceful lines of ink seeping into the thick pages. “For such a big guy, you sure can hold that tiny pen well.”

Frank wiped the nib and carefully stopped the ink bottle before turning. “I was just here waiting on you, Bridge. I sat by the window so I wouldn’t need to light no lanterns.”

“All right,” Bridger said. He set the covered plate he carried onto the desk next to Frank and turned to the dry sink. Frank never lit the lantern. He’d been afraid of fire ever since the night of the accident. Bridger shook his head as he washed. He’d tried to get his brother to strike a match once he’d...recovered, but after a while, Frank’s continued fear made him give up.

“That’s okay. I shouldn’t be this late most nights. I can light it before I head over to Miss Martin’s place. You want supper? Might as well eat while it’s still hot.”

Frank beamed and peeked under the cloth covering the plate. Bridger watched his face light, then fall as he flipped the cloth back.

Shaking his hands and wiping them dry, Bridger pulled the napkin away. “What’s the matter? There’s plenty here. Pull out the camp plate and we’ll split it.”

Frank sighed and moved for the plate and utensils they kept on the tiny shelf over the bed. “Steak and baked potato again?”

“Yep, and what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothin’.”

“I like steak. I’d eat it every day if I could.” Bridger cut the steak and potato and slid half onto the spare plate. “You don’t like it?”

“Sure.”

Frank sat on the bed and took his plate, staring at it with resignation. “I like fried chicken and mashed potatoes, too, Bridge.”

Bridger cut into the steak and sampled a bite, cooked through and fairly tender. He cut another bite before answering. “I’m sure the menu changes. I’ll ask Mattie, okay? Now eat before it gets cold.”

“Wait! We have to say grace first.” Frank laid his plate to the side and bowed his head. Bridger wiped his mouth with a guilty nod. Frank never forgot to say grace—even for a meal he wasn’t particularly fond of.

“Jesus, thanks for this food, and for my brother, Bridger, who doesn’t get mad when I do dumb things and who got this food for us. Amen.”

Hair prickled down Bridger’s neck. “What ‘dumb thing’ did you do, Frank?”

His brother, suddenly interested in the meal, avoided his glare. “Nothin’ special.”

“How about you tell me and I’ll decide.” He felt frustration wave up. After spending the day with Toby, trouble was the last thing he needed.

“You said I could go for a walk during the day.” Frank didn’t go so far as to point at him, but Bridger heard it in his tone.

Bridger pushed his plate aside and drew a deep breath. He’d long learned that getting angry with Frank only made the problem worse. “That’s right—I did. So where did you go?”

“Around the field by the church...”

“And?”

“And back through the town, the way we rode in...past that lady’s house.” Frank’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“What lady?”

“The lady with the pretty black hair, who lives in that house around the bend.” It came out in a whoosh of soft breath.

“Miss Martin?” Bridger looked out the window and across the roofs of the businesses next door. “What happened?”

“Nothin’, I promise! She didn’t even see me.” Frank always managed to tell the story through his protests.

“Why would she? You weren’t anywhere near her, right?”

“But I had to help the cat and that’s all, Bridger. I didn’t mean to fall and crash her door.” His brother looked at him with a curious mix of determination, fear and truth.

“‘Crash her door’? Hard? Did she hear you?”

“She didn’t leave the porch or nothin’. I ran away quick. I know you said—”

“Calm down, Frank.” He stood and settled his brother with a hand to his shoulder, his thoughts flying like a racehorse. “She probably didn’t even hear you.”

“Yes, she did! I heard her tell the other pretty lady.”

Bridger groaned. “If you’re close enough to hear, you’re too close, Frank!” His anger echoed against the bare walls, and he forced his tone to ease.

“I’m sorry, Bridger. Don’t be mad. I know what you said. It was dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”

Bridger slumped to the bed next to his brother and wrapped an arm around his broad shoulders, swaying a little until his mind cleared and Frank’s breathing returned to normal.

“I’m sorry, too, Frank. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s been kind of a long day for me. I’m not really mad.” He stood, looked at his brother’s repentant face and grinned. Frank would never intentionally frighten anyone or cause trouble. “Listen, I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. Miss Martin didn’t see you, right?”

Frank nodded. Bridger breathed a sigh of relief.

“Good. And I’m to go and talk with her this evening, anyway. I’ll see if she says anything about today. It’s probably slipped her mind already. In any case, she wouldn’t know it was you. But you have to promise me, Frank. You have to promise you’ll stay away from the busy part of town. And no going near people’s houses, all right?”

“All right.” Frank nodded with vigor, eyes gleaming with promise.

Bridger sat down again and bumped shoulders with Frank. “It will be all right. We scary-looking guys have to watch out for each other, that’s all.”

* * *

Lola started at the faint knock outside her front door. Another late-night guest? She marked the book she read, smoothed her hair into place and wound her way through the empty preparation room. Blue sky peeked through the window, but muted gray crept over the buildings as the sun sank below the mountains.

With a deep breath, she opened the door. “Mr. Jamison?”

“Bridger, ma’am.” Though his stance took full advantage of what height he had, his eyes drooped with fatigue. “I hoped it wouldn’t be too late to take a look at your father’s workshop. I’d like to find plans and see what supplies are on hand. Then, if I think I can do the job, I’ll start next week, if that’s agreeable to you.”

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.