Lily surveyed the crowd of raggedy men. Half looked as if they had fleas, but they were her and Delia’s best hope. “Could I trouble a few of you to carry our trunks to the hotel? We’d be ever so grateful.”
Several pairs of hands gripped the trunks and valises on the street, even those belonging to Mrs. Phipps. Before Lily could direct them, Jackson Bridge handed his daughter to Mrs. Phipps and strode into the mix.
“Where do y’all think you’re taking those? Wildrye doesn’t have a hotel.”
Lily might cry after all.
“Oh yeah.” One man dropped his end of her trunk with a thump.
“Thought we’d take ’em to the White Ox.” Another fellow scratched his hindquarters. “They want to go to the saloon.”
“Saloon,” Georgie echoed as she played with the brooch at Mrs. Phipps’s throat.
Mrs. Phipps tugged the child’s hand from her neck. “Ladies do not repeat that vulgar word, Georgia.”
Even though, as Mrs. Phipps had insisted the entire way from Massachusetts, that vulgar word derived from the Italian, sala, and had been used for a hundred years to denote public gathering places? Lily laughed. Couldn’t help it. A few tears of mirth squeaked out of her eyes. Mr. Bridge’s gaze narrowed again.
At least they were free of Uncle Uriah.
“Miss?” Jackson Bridge peered down at her. My, he had nice eyes.
“I’ll take care o’ her.” A sweat-stenched fellow retrieved the trunk.
“I saw ’em first.” The itchy man shoved the other’s shoulder.
“Stop. Now.” Mr. Bridge’s voice rang with authority. The men dropped the trunks.
Dabbing her eyes with the back of her hand, Lily shrugged at Delia. “We might as well visit the, er, White Ox. The proprietor may want to hire us, and we must repay Mrs. Phipps before we leave town. If that is acceptable to you, ma’am?”
“It’s uncouth to speak of monetary matters in public.” Mrs. Phipps’s tone was as severe as her hold of little Georgie was awkward. “But as we are about to part company, I suppose we must forego propriety. Jackson promised to reimburse my travel expenses, as well as the songbirds’ expenses, so do not trouble yourself.”
But Mr. Bridge had meant he’d pay to ship birds, which cost pennies on the dollar compared to what it cost two women to travel by train, steamboat, and coach. He hadn’t anticipated such expenses. Lily would have to do the right thing and repay him. Somehow.
Not just for the travel costs. For the fee Uncle Uriah charged Mrs. Phipps, too, because an honorable fellow like Mr. Bridge would make sure he repaid his aunt that hefty sum. Lily’s innards sank to her toes.
Mr. Bridge stood among their trunks. His glare sent a few men scurrying like rodents, and she couldn’t help but be grateful for his imposing presence. She hadn’t felt protected too often in her life, but this was… nice.
I need a protector, God. Then she remembered He’d left her to fend for herself. Casting aside thoughts of Him, she approached Mr. Bridge. “Mrs. Phipps paid our travel expenses and such, expecting your reimbursement. It’s not your fault there was such a misunderstanding, so you shouldn’t be obliged to suffer. I’ll pay you what you’re paying her, so you come out even.”
He shook his head. “You mean travel costs? I say let’s call it even. I appreciate you keeping Aunt Martha company on the journey. Seems a fair trade.”
“Not just that, although your offer is generous.” And gallant. “The fee.”
“Fee?”
“Seventy-five apiece. You mentioned the amount in your letter.”
His broad shoulders shrugged. “Seventy-five cents? That’s nothing.”
Here we go again. “Dollars. Uncle Uriah convinced your aunt it was a brokering fee for our singing services. I tried to persuade them it was a mistake, but she can’t hear, he’s a greedy fool, and neither appreciated me interfering.”
His face turned red under his tan. “Never mind the money. Forget it.”
How wealthy was he, that such a loss wouldn’t decimate him? “I will not.” At his sigh, her hands fisted on her hips. “Is it because I’m a woman? I will earn it, I assure you.”
“No offense, but it’ll take years for you to earn a hundred and fifty dollars.”
Not if she could get to New Orleans or St. Louis. Why, Jenny Lind made that much performing on a single evening—
“Hey, Red Lady.” The man who’d spit in his hand pointed. “There’s Frank from the White Ox. He’ll hire you right quick.”
A mustachioed man ambled over from a storefront across the street, where two female faces appeared in the doorway. Even from this distance, bags were visible under their eyes. One half-dressed woman with mouse-brown hair stepped out onto the building’s narrow porch. A blotch darkened her arm. Bruise or shadow, Lily couldn’t tell.
She’d never seen a soiled dove before. Ma always told her not to look, but now she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Something about the thin woman’s haunted-looking eyes drew her.
Mr. Bridge stiffened as Frank approached, carrying the odor of tobacco on his person. “Welcome to Wildrye, ladies.”
“Th–thank you.” She couldn’t smile, even though this man owned the saloon and was her lone hope for employment.
“I hear you two fillies might be wantin’ jobs?”
“We sing.” Lily’s voice was steadier than her shaking legs.
“Miss Kimball.” Mr. Bridge’s warning tone sizzled her cheeks.
“I’d be happy to audition.” Anything to get the job. How else would she repay a staggering sum like a hundred and fifty dollars to Mr. Bridge? Her thoughts flew through the numerous musical compositions she’d memorized. What should she start with? Maybe a rousing Stephen Foster tune.
Frank laughed. “No need to demonstrate, songbirds. I’d love to hire y’all.”
Lily’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, missy. I can use more gals. But not the singin’ kind.” The meaning of his words curdled her stomach. “From where I’m standin’, you two don’t got much other choice. What say you?”
He waited, arms extended. For the moment, however, Lily was rendered speechless.
“Enough.” Jackson gripped Miss Red’s elbow and led her back toward her sister. The Kimball gals were foals compared to a wolf like Frank, and the thought of them in his employ twisted his guts into a honda loop. “You won’t be working for him.”
“Not that it’s your concern, but I wasn’t going to accept. My sister and I are not—that is to say, how insulting.”
She’d wanted a job in a saloon. What was he supposed to think?
“Is that a no?” Frank called after them.
“Yes,” Jackson said over his shoulder.
“No,” Miss Red said over hers.
They looked at each other. “Yes?” Her eyes narrowed.
“No. I mean, yes, the answer is no.” He wasn’t typically tongue-tied around females. Then again, he didn’t talk to too many, except for Georgie.
“And I meant no as my answer.” She shuddered. “Not that he deserved a response.”
“No decent female would want to work there.”
“Nobody wants to work there, Mr. Bridge, but some might not feel they have another choice.” With a gentle twist, she extricated herself from his light hold on her elbow.
Heat burned up the back of his neck. Who was this filly? She dressed and spoke like a lady, but she’d come to work in a saloon. Part of him wanted to figure her out, but she wouldn’t be in town long enough for that to happen. Just as well. He had two females to contend with now—Georgie and Aunt Martha—and they were enough.
Aunt Martha still sniveled. “This is not my fault. Even Mr. Beadle read saloon.”
“I know.” Miss Red patted her shoulder.
“You girls are so kind. I shall miss you when you go home.”
“Home?” Miss Red uttered the word as if it were foreign.
“We can’t afford to return.” Miss Y
ellow sniffed into Fred’s bandanna.
Jackson’s innards unlooped in his gut. Aunt Martha, however, smiled serenely. “Jackson will pay for the return trip.”
Money didn’t grow on mesquite. He removed his hat and ruffled his hair. “All talk of money aside, the stage won’t come in for two weeks. This isn’t a regular stop.”
Miss Red laughed. “Of course not. Well, we couldn’t leave anyway, not owing you so much money. We’ll find a way to repay you. Meantime, we need a place to stay. Since there’s no hotel, how about the jail?”
“We don’t have one yet. Nor do we have a church or any families who aren’t already stuffed to the chinks of their houses or down with measles.” He shut his eyes for a second, praying a familiar line. Not my will but Thine, Lord. “You’ll stay at Bridge Ranch with us.”
Georgie clapped. Miss Yellow beamed like sunshine. Aunt Martha blinked, as if not quite sure what just happened.
Miss Red, of course, scowled. “I don’t think so.”
“You want to pitch a tent in town?” He beckoned to Fred. “Let’s get the trunks in the wagon. C’mon, Georgie.”
His daughter climbed one of the clover-green wheels into the bed while they loaded the trunks and valises. While Jackson assisted Aunt Martha into the seat, Fred helped Miss Yellow beside Georgie, climbing in after her. That left Miss Red.
Her arms folded across her chest. “Staying with an unrelated man isn’t proper.”
Neither was working in a saloon, but he didn’t press it. “We’ll keep it proper.”
At last she nodded and trudged to the wagon bed. Maybe he feared she’d change her mind, or maybe he was a blame fool, but he took her by her narrow waist and hoisted her up beside her sister, as dispassionate as if she were a bag of grain. But oats didn’t smell like violets or remind him he hadn’t touched a woman’s midsection since Paloma died.
His face was probably as red as her hat when he climbed into the seat. All he’d wanted was two birds. It was as if God heard the “two” and ignored the rest. Jackson was out at least two hundred dollars between the gals’ so-called fee and transportation tickets. Out of his house for two weeks while they sheltered there, because he couldn’t leave them on the streets of Wildrye.
And now he was surrounded by two times the females he thought he’d go home with.
That means I need two times the patience, God. Twice as fast.
Chapter 3
Orange-red as flame. Or her too-vibrant hair. Lily had never seen a sky like this, set afire by sunset. Wispy streaks of coral and pink clouds stretched from the vermilion horizon, casting a golden glow over the prairie past and the whitewashed outbuildings to the east. Jackson Bridge, who owned everything she could see except for the sky itself, was more blessed than he knew.
She shook out the damp towel she’d used to dry supper dishes and positioned it over the veranda banister. It shouldn’t take long to air out in the warm wind stirring the grasses and rustling the leaves of live oaks near the house. How different from Boston this was. No elms or sugar maples, but multitrunked sandpaper trees, cactus, spiky yucca, and a yellow-blooming tree Fred called huisache dotted the grassy landscape. Beautiful, but foreign.
And so quiet, with naught but birdcalls, cattle lowing, and the occasional word of a ranch hand breaking the stillness of the evening.
Lily leaned against the veranda, breathing in the sage-scented air. Jackson Bridge had done well for himself. Fred had talked the whole ride here from town, sharing details of Jackson’s purchase of the vast rancho and accumulation of feral cattle and horses left behind by the Spanish. Now Bridge Ranch bustled with activity, employing hands and a bunkhouse cook named Ol’ Bill. It was a community. And, yes, a home.
Not that a house made a home, of course. Their cramped rooms above Uncle Uriah’s store could have felt like home. But they hadn’t, not with his resentfulness and foul temper. So she’d decided she didn’t want a home, if it meant suffering.
Standing here, though, fingers pink from washing and drying a sink full of dishes while the others’ laughter carried through the open windows, brought back memories of home before her parents died. It ached and pleased all at once.
How foolish, thinking of such things. Lily blinked and forced thoughts of the future. She’d be sleeping in fancy hotels soon enough. She just had to get out of Wildrye.
She turned back to the kitchen door, but voices carrying through the open windows forestalled her. It wouldn’t do to be caught eavesdropping. Still, Mrs. Phipps’s loud volume couldn’t go unnoticed.
“Shall we put the kettle on? You have decent tea here?”
“Yes’m, we have fine tea.” A trace of amusement flavored Jackson’s reply. Lily smiled.
“I wasn’t certain, what with your inability to reimburse me for the girls’ fees.”
Lily gripped the banister. She shouldn’t be hearing this. But if she descended the porch steps to the yard, they’d see her and know she’d overheard.
“I can pay you back.” His tone was patient, as if he’d explained already. “I just don’t have cash on hand. I’ve got a buyer for fifty horses, fifteen dollars a head. Once I finish breaking them, I’ll have funds.”
Seven hundred and fifty dollars. Lily’s stomach swooped. Maybe she should learn to break horses.
“I wouldn’t have brought the Kimballs had I suspected you owned that sort of saloon. Do you think they thought they were coming to work in such a ribald establishment? Was I deceived by their decorum?”
Lily cocked her head, straining to hear. His reply, however, was lost with their retreating footsteps.
It didn’t matter. Jackson Bridge’s opinion was nothing to her. She slipped back inside the house, retrieved her mending bag from her trunk, and joined the others in the salon. Mrs. Phipps occupied the rocking chair before the hearth. Georgie teased a black-and-white cat with a tangle of sky-blue yarn, and Fred and Delia sat at a small table, a chessboard between them, Fred regaling her with the schematics of his half-built house a mile yonder. The last available seat was next to Jackson on the red velvet sofa, facing an empty bird cage—a stark reminder of the mess they were all in. They wanted birds and got us. Females of questionable decency.
Jackson peeked up from an almanac, his polite smile so winsome that Lily looked down in a hurry. The situation was awkward and he didn’t want her here, yet her veins thrummed when the man offered a civil greeting. She sat and hid her sure-to-be flushing face by bending over her sewing box. The buttons on one of Delia’s gloves had come loose.
“Have you a slate, Jackson?” Mrs. Phipps’s tone held a decisive, schoolmarm quality. “Georgia should start her ABCs.”
Nodding, Georgie hopped up and ran out of the room, leaving the cat to its yarn.
Jackson scratched his ear. “She’s but four, so she doesn’t know much.”
Mrs. Phipps greeted Georgie’s return with strict instructions on forming a proper A. “Pitched like a roof, there you go. A satisfactory attempt. Attempt starts with A. As does apple.”
Lily leaned forward. Delia’s glove was far less interesting than Georgie, who scrawled a substantial A. Lily chuckled. Jackson did, too. Their eyes met, but this time he looked away, somewhere in the direction of his almanac’s spine.
“Thank you for supper,” he said. Polite and awkward.
It hadn’t been hard to fry beef and potatoes. “Thank you for letting us stay the night in your beautiful home,” she said, just as polite and awkward.
It was a fine frame house with black shutters. Not extravagant, although, like the land, it testified to Bridge Ranch’s success. He’d mentioned how his wife had decorated the salon in dark woods and red accents. The woman had created a comfortable space.
The master bedchamber, likewise, was well furnished. She and Delia would be sharing the bed tonight. “I apologize for taking your room. It doesn’t seem right.”
“Neither does leaving you out on the street.” He seemed more relaxed now. “Georgie’s been be
gging to sleep in the barn, anyway.”
“I’m happy we could give her an excuse, then.”
Instead of laughing, he scrutinized her hair as if a spider crawled over it. “Aunt Martha was right about one thing. Your hair is red.”
Maybe it was the tension of the day. Maybe it was because that was the last thing she expected to hear, but laughter overtook her. “So I’ve been told.”
His earlobes pinked, but he grinned. “Just in case you forgot, I thought I’d remind you.”
“After the day I’ve had, I might need assistance with my own name.”
“Now, B,” Mrs. Phipps instructed Georgie. “Barn starts with B. So does biscuit.”
“And bird.” Georgie traced the letter. “I want two of ’em, but they didn’t come today.”
Lily chewed her lip. Mr. Bridge’s lips twitched. “Working on it, Georgie.”
“I’m sorry about the mistake.” Lily’s voice was quiet, for him only. Georgie moved on to C and informed Mrs. Phipps her cat’s name was Cat. Delia and Fred giggled over their game. No one overheard, allowing Lily and Mr. Bridge a moment to speak—if he’d take it.
He did, resting the almanac on his thighs. “Things happen. And I appreciate you keeping Aunt Martha company on the journey. She thinks she’s here for a visit, but I’m hoping she’ll stay. She’s alone, and I could use someone to care for Georgie. Who better than family?”
That’s what her father had thought, naming Uncle Uriah as her and Delia’s guardian. What a disaster that had been. But Mrs. Phipps was not at all like Uncle Uriah. She was kind, if somewhat stern. Lily tied off a knot in the thread. “Who watches Georgie now?”
It had been almost a year since Jackson’s wife died, according to what Fred had told Delia while they bounced along in the back of the buckboard.
Jackson’s gaze fixed on his daughter, and a smile twitched at his lips. “Some of the married hands’ wives help some, but I’d prefer a more consistent arrangement. In the meantime, I try to keep her with me.”
Georgie dropped the slate to pat Mrs. Phipps’s furrowed cheek. “How old are you?”
A question Lily had entertained numerous times but would never have dared ask.
The Cowboy’s Bride Collection: 9 Historical Romances Form on Old West Ranches Page 8
