by Regina Scott
“I know.” Grace’s whisper rasped with sorrow. “But I want to know what’s happening, what people are doing in town. It hurts, but in some ways, I like hearing that Pete was so respected, so vital to this town, that he’s still connected with it, even after his death. Right now it hurts so bad that not much helps, except to know that. Am I making any sense?”
Lola nodded. Tears slipped from her eyes and she grasped Grace’s hand with a fierce squeeze. “I’m just so sorry I couldn’t do something for him.”
“Oh, Lola!” Grace slid to her feet and came around the table to embrace Lola in her tired arms. “Even if you had been the greatest doctor in the world, he was gone by the time you saw him. Trust me, I thank God you could do what you did. You spared me from seeing the tragedy of his death. Instead he looked restful, at peace, the way his spirit looks before the Lord.”
Grace’s warm tears mixed with hers against Lola’s cheek. She squeezed her friend’s arm. “This isn’t how it’s to be, you comforting me. What kind of friend am I?”
Grace slid back into her chair and took a sip of tea. “The kind who wants to spare me and everyone else around any hurt. You do that very well. But I want to know what you’ve been doing. I’m not ready to join into the lively rush of town yet, but I can’t shut myself off from living. I want to, but Pete wouldn’t want that for me.” She smoothed her dress over their growing baby. “He wouldn’t want that for us.”
Lola patted the ruffled edge of a doily lying in the center of the table. “A U.S. marshal should arrive early next week to talk with the man who brought Pete to me.” She sipped her cooling tea without looking at her friend.
“U.S. marshal?” Grace’s eyes were wide, and her face grew a shade paler if that were possible. “What’s going on, Lola?”
Lola abandoned her teacup with a wave of her hand and grasped Grace’s wrist with the other. “Nothing, Grace. I panicked. Papa’s gone, it was late, a frightful-looking stranger brings the sheriff to my door… I sent a telegraph first thing the next morning.”
Grace slumped in her seat, taking a deep, calming breath. “I can understand that. But you don’t really think…?”
What did she think? Did she believe Bridger Jamison to be a murderer? Not really. But she wasn’t always the best judge of a man, either. And some of Pete’s bruises seemed…odd, not quite consistent for a man thrown from a horse. Not unusual enough to point any fingers, but something definitely felt out of place. Without facts, though, she didn’t dare share those concerns with Grace.
“I acted without thinking things completely through. It won’t hurt to have a U.S. marshal investigate what happened, though.” She took another drink of her tea and looked Grace squarely in the eye. “But, no, in talking more with Mr. Jamison, I can’t find anything overly suspicious about him regarding Pete’s death. And the fact that he’s sticking around town, I suppose, holds greater weight for his innocence than anything else.”
Grace held a hand to her mouth and breathed deep, eyes closed. “Good—that’s good. It was hard enough losing your father that way. I wouldn’t want…”
Lola let the words fade. “I hired Mr. Jamison. Papa never taught me the woodworking aspect of… I never learned how…” Everything about her business sounded cold and crass in her thoughts. Why hadn’t she chosen weather as the topic of conversation?
“Your father never taught you how to build the coffins,” Grace supplied. She smiled again, briefly, a narrow moon of teeth peeking through this time. “He always said you’d nail your own thumb to the casket.”
Lola smiled, too. “He was probably right. He just always figured he’d be around to do the job, I guess.”
“He knew you’d be able to find someone to do that. The part you do takes something that not everyone has.” Grace stretched across the table to squeeze her hand, looking her in the eye. “I’m glad it was you, Lola. I know it wasn’t easy for you, but I’m glad that man found a way to bring Pete to you.”
An odd scrape from outside jolted them. Lola started to her feet and made short, clipped steps to the rear door. She glanced at her friend, standing by the table with hands twisted in front of her, and motioned for Grace to stay quiet. Slowly she lifted the latch, then jerked the door wide. “Who’s there?”
Magpies chatting on the fence were the only sound to greet her. She poked her head out and searched the shadows around the lone shed where her father had his woodshop. After a few moments she returned to the cozy room and shut the door.
“Whew!” Grace let loose a nervous giggle, fingers laid against her long throat, her other hand resting on her stomach. “Do you feel as silly as I do?”
Lola brushed long, loose hair behind her ears. “I’m not so sure it’s only silliness.”
Grace gripped the table and sat down. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing,” Lola said, shaking her head. “Just my overactive imagination, I suppose. I’ve been more nervous than I ought to be lately—”
“Thinking you’re here on the end of a town that no longer has a sheriff to keep his eye on you. Is that it?”
Grace always could make the right conclusions about her, before she said a word about the problem. She laughed. “Probably the neighbor’s cat I never paid any mind to before, that’s all.” Lola peered at the lengthening shadows as afternoon slipped away. “God will be my protection now, same as always. I’m in His hands.”
Grace took in the lowering sun outside the window, too, and stood again to gather her things. “That’s all that can be said for any of us.” Grace’s cool kiss pressed against her cheek. “This visit has done more for me than you know, my friend. But if I want to be home before dark, I need to head out now.”
“The Lord has comfort and wisdom for you, Grace. Hold on to that.”
“I will. Please say you’ll come out for a visit next week,” Grace said, pulling a shawl over her shoulders.
“Your folks will be there. I don’t want to intrude,” Lola said.
“You’re the sister I never had, Lola. You’re my family, too, and I’m inviting you for lunch next Thursday. How’s that?”
Grace’s determination to stay cheerful and strong couldn’t be denied, and Lola wouldn’t do anything to take that from her. She couldn’t promise what next week would hold, but she couldn’t bear to bring up her work again. “I’ll try.”
Grace focused on the door leading to the mortuary for an instant, then forced her gaze away. “I know you will. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Lola walked her to the side door and watched her rumble into the cart, hefting the reins in her gentle hands. “See you next week, then.”
“I’ll expect you unless you send word, all right?” Grace called.
Lola nodded.
Grace moved to slap the reins, then pulled them taut. “I’m glad you’ll have a man working around here. If he’s a trustworthy man, he may scare off any who aren’t, make you feel safer.”
Lola smiled, thinking of Bridger’s strength in helping her that night and the gentleness he had shown both to Pete and to her. Yet her wariness also raised caution. “And what if he’s not the trustworthy sort?”
Grace grinned, a hint of her old teasing self peeking through the grief that shrouded her. “Then it may be just as well you have him where you can keep an eye on him.”
Lola laughed and waved her off. She moved back into the house, leaning against the door and saying a swift and silent prayer for her friend.
She added one for herself, then bolted all the doors.
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.
“Th
at’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.
