by Regina Scott
“Sure-a thing, sir. Let me get an order slip.” Mr. Anthony reached under the counter and pulled a pencil from behind his ear. “What sizes you need?”
“I hoped you could help me with that. Do you have records of what you ordered for Mr. Martin in the past? I’m to make coffins for his daughter, and—”
“You’re the man a-helping Lola?”
“I guess so, sir. She hired me to build them, providing my work meets her approval.”
Anthony slapped his pencil next to the tablet on the counter and nudged glasses down his Roman nose. His bushy eyebrows drew together and the man’s stare pinned Bridger in place. Though his head tilted down to meet the old man’s gaze, he dared not break from it.
After a long moment, the shopkeeper leaned away and picked up the pencil again. “Humph! You’re a-going to do a fine job for Lola, or you’ll find a new place to do your business, you hear? Don’t you be bothering that fine girl, either. You understanda me?”
Bridger bit back a smile. He had youth and strength on his side, but somehow, he didn’t doubt if he bothered Lola in any way, this man would dole out justice. “Yes, sir. I only aim to do a good job for her. Strictly business.”
Mr. Anthony harrumphed again, pushed his glasses into place and pulled out a ledger from behind his counter. He made little musical clicks of his tongue as he searched through the pages. “Here we are, sir. I can duplicate the last order I placed for Mr. Martin, God rest his soul. It’s about-a time—he gave me an order every six months.”
The shopkeeper shuffled to a supply room behind shelves at the back. “I understand her business has been better than she’d like of late,” Bridger said, by way of conversation.
Mr. Anthony swung around with a fiery glare. “And what would you know about-a that, sir? Who are you?”
Bridger gulped, sticking his hand in the pocket of his slicker. “Bridger Jamison, sir. I meant no disrespect. I heard it from my boss, Mr. Tyler. See, I’m new in town and I—”
“Then you had-a better speak more carefully about things you’re only learning about, Mr. Jamison. You’re one of Ike’s boys, is that it?” His tone made Bridger thankful for the empty shop. He felt as if he’d been caught with his hand in the candy jar.
“I suppose that’s right, sir. As a matter of fact, Mr. Tyler asked me to pick up his weekly order. I’m the new man,” he offered weakly.
“Has you out handling business for him already? He must see something special in you that my old eyes are missing.” Anthony’s scowl deepened and his fists grew stiff at his sides. Then he spun on his heel and disappeared in the back room a moment before returning with his notepad and a thin envelope.
Bridger stood silent, confused about the sudden cold fury bursting from the man. Mr. Anthony came to the front of the counter, shoving the envelope under his nose. “Here’s Tyler’s ‘order.’ Burt Sampson didn’t have everything, but he’s expecting to make up for it next week.”
Bridger stared at the envelope, slowly reaching to pull it away from the end of his nose.
“If that’s a problem, you tell Ike he can come and talk with me himself. You got-a that?”
Bridger shook his head. “I’ll tell him. I supposed his order would come in a box or a crate, something for the hotel he’s building, that’s all.”
Mr. Anthony stared at him a moment, then shook his head, tramping to his place behind the counter again. “Oh, that-a be something for his hotel, all right.” He stretched his arms along the counter, knobby hands grasping at the smooth, weathered wood.
Bridger held his breath in pause, not sure what Mr. Anthony might be doing. He tried to think of what he’d said to offend the man and wondered if it were age or temperament that affected his change of tone. Bridger shifted his feet, dusty boards squeaking around his boots.
The older man blew a long, forced breath. “I’ll place the order you need, for Lola’s sake,” he said, his voice low and graveled. He looked up, fire shooting from his eyes. “I suppose I ought to be glad you can do what she needs you to do. Ike, he’ll make sure you treat-a her right.”
“You have my word, Mr. Anthony. The last thing I’d do is hurt any woman.” If Mr. Anthony detected something in him to be wary of and talked to Lola about it, he could lose the job before he even tried.
The man flapped his hand as if swatting at a fly. “Beh! So you say.”
“Yes, sir.” Bridger rubbed a hand along his face, feeling the rough need of a shave and every moment of the long day. He adjusted his hat and took another step away from the counter. “If you could let Lola know when the supplies are in, sir, I’d appreciate it. I’m anxious to get started. You’ll have to trust me on this, but I’m the last thing you need to worry about.”
Mr. Anthony slammed the ledger closed and returned it to a shelf under the counter. “And you trust-a me, Mr. Jamison. Should you do anything to harm that girl, you’ll have more than-a Mr. Tyler to look over your shoulder for, and that’s a promise.”
*
Lola rinsed a lone plate and set it to dry. The sun grew brilliant and warm through the windowpane, but this morning had started late. A scratching sound at her back door had startled her as she drifted off last night, leaving her restless far into the wee hours of the morning. Now, in the bright daylight, she felt silly for the way she’d allowed her imagination to run wild. But her thoughts slogged through fog, and her steps lacked the vigor sunlight usually brought.
A knock at the house door interrupted her thoughts. Lola hastily dried her hands and smoothed her hair before answering.
“Good morning!” Grace’s soft voice greeted her. She smiled as Grace waddled through the door. “I got word early this morning that my parents are arriving on the first stage. I know it’s a little early, but I thought— Lola, are you ill? You look exhausted.”
“No, nothing like that.” Lola greeted her friend with a hug and motioned her into a chair in the front room. “I didn’t sleep well, that’s all. Then I overslept. I’ve only been up a short while, I’m embarrassed to say.”
Grace paused at the chair. “I don’t want to steal your time if you’re busy. I only thought I’d take the chance to visit you a bit while I wait.”
“Of course. Don’t be silly,” Lola assured her. “I have all afternoon for chores. Work is the one thing guaranteed to wait without complaint. Besides, I haven’t had my morning tea, and it will be nice to share it with you.”
A knock sounded at the front door—a business call. She snapped to her feet, nearly upsetting the teapot. Grace’s cup rattled in the saucer and she looked ready to bolt. “Please wait, Grace. No sense in rushing off to sit at the depot alone. I’ll be back soon as I can.”
Lola took pains to close the partition door with a solid latch before donning her special apron by the second knock. A tall man with brilliant blue eyes swept off his hat as she swung the door open. A quick flip of his lapel revealed a burnished badge.
“Jake Anderson, U.S. federal marshal, ma’am. We received a report from the undertaker of Quiver Creek about a suspicious death. I was told I could find him here.”
“You can. I’m the undertaker. Won’t you come in?”
The man adjusted his hat and pulled a telegraph from his front pocket. “I’m sorry. I’m looking for a gentleman, surname Martin.”
“Would that be ‘L. Martin’?”
The man peered at the paper closely, as if convincing himself. “Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s me, Lola Martin. I sent the telegram last week.”
The marshal stepped back with a gentle grin. “Well, I’ll be. Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I wasn’t exactly expecting…”
Lola smiled. “People usually don’t.” The man glanced up and down the street, where wagons bounced around the curve and into the thickest part of town. Indecision flashed across his face, and Lola found herself with similar pause.
A man coming into her home without a body might not bode well for her reputation if the wrong sets of eyes wit
nessed it. Grace made a perfectly suitable chaperone, but to hold this discussion in her presence…would be awkward, to say the least. On the other hand, Mr. Anderson might have questions for Grace. And wouldn’t she want to know what transpired with the investigation?
“Please, come in. Mrs. McKenna, the sheriff’s widow, happens to be visiting. You might as well meet with her. She’ll be sufficient to stop any wagging tongues.”
Jake Anderson rubbed dark fingers over his scruffy jaw. “If you’re certain it suits you, ma’am, that will be fine with me.”
Lola led him through to the parlor, praying his arrival wouldn’t upset her dearest friend. “Let me introduce you to Mrs. Grace McKenna,” she said. His towering form bowed slightly, hat held across his chest. His eyes lit up as Grace held her hand out with a wan smile. Even draped in black, sallow with grief and well along in her pregnancy, Grace McKenna was a beautiful woman.
“Grace, this is U.S. marshal Jake Anderson.”
“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am, although I’m sorry for the circumstances. From all I’ve gathered, few men lived up to the honor of the badge like Pete McKenna. You have my sincerest condolences.”
Grace nodded as the marshal took the offered seat. His large frame looked almost comical folded into the flowered chair with gilded edges.
“I beg your pardon for my appearance, ladies. Had I known I would be meeting with such fine company so soon, I would’ve taken greater pains to clean up before coming. I like to talk to the source of the initial complaint before I make my presence in town known, if possible, and I came off the trail just this morning.”
“No matter, Marshal. Would you care for some coffee?”
He waved her off. “No, thank you. I won’t stay long. I only need to get some preliminary information for my inquiry.”
Lola sat and leaned forward. “I hadn’t expected you so soon, sir. Law enforcement isn’t usually high priority in the little towns around here.”
He grimaced as he pulled out a small pad of paper and a pencil from an inside coat pocket. “To tell you the truth, I was already headed this direction on another investigation. But my superiors passed your telegram along to me, so I wanted to start with your case.”
Lola swallowed the knot of unnamed fear in her throat. “Do you think they’re connected?”
The marshal’s smile calmed her. “That’s what I’m here to find out, ma’am. I’m sure hoping they aren’t.”
Lola studied Grace, rigid in her chair, teacup frozen at her lips. Did she also suspect something?
“From the telegram, I gather the body was discovered on the evening of April 17. Is that right?”
Lola nodded. “That’s when the—Pete—was brought to me. The man found him out on the trail late that afternoon, from my understanding.”
Marshal Anderson nodded, glancing at Grace. “Did you know the man who discovered the body?”
“No.” Lola shook her head.
“Not a local? Did you get his name?”
Lola scooted to the edge of her seat, pinching her fingers together. “Bridger Jamison.”
The man jotted some notes. “Can you describe him for me?”
“Dark…brown hair in need of a trim, brown eyes…a scar that cuts across his face. Slight to medium build, but strong—he carried Pete in over one shoulder without trouble.”
“Scar, you said?”
“Yes, old, but very distinct. Runs from his temple to his lip.” Lola traced the path on her own face to demonstrate. The memory of his stance in the dimly lit doorway brought a shiver.
Jake Anderson paused in his writing to stare at her. “Any chance you know where he went from here? It would be helpful to talk to him and learn the details of how and where he found the sheriff.”
“He’s still in town,” Grace said, finding her voice. “He’s working for Ike Tyler.”
“Tyler?” The marshal flipped farther back in his notebook and tapped his pencil against some notes. “He’s the saloonkeeper, right?”
Lola looked at Grace, her eyes reflecting the same curiosity she felt. She nodded slowly. “That’s right.”
Jake made further notes and then turned to Grace. “I know it’s not easy to answer questions like this when grief is so fresh, Mrs. McKenna. But do you know of anything in particular your husband was working on in regard to his position as sheriff? Did he mention any cases he had conducted, or particular trouble with anyone in town?”
Grace took a sip of tea, then settled the trembling cup in her other hand, as if trying to draw warmth. “No, he hadn’t. He rarely discussed his job with me. He thought I’d worry too much.” She glanced out the window. “He was right, but I worried anyway.” Her voice ended in a whisper-soft break.
“I reckon that would’ve been the case regardless of his job title, ma’am,” the marshal said kindly. He stood abruptly, tucking his notepad back into his coat. “I may have questions for you later on, as the investigation progresses. Again, my sympathies for your tragic loss.” The warmth in his eyes conveyed a depth of sincerity that seemed to bolster Grace.
Lola smiled at her and faced the lawman. “I may have been premature in bringing this matter to your attention, Marshal Anderson. Mr. Jamison’s sudden arrival late in the evening, along with his appearance at the time…”
“Never hurts to be cautious, ma’am. I have to testify for a case in Billings next week, but I plan to return and continue looking into other matters. It won’t hurt to have a talk with Mr. Jamison and have him take me to the place where he found Sheriff McKenna, make sure his story checks out.”
Lola stood to see him out. Grace also rose, teacup clattering to the saucer on the table at her side. “I really must be going, if you’ll pardon my hasty departure, sir. My parents are arriving with the stage, and it’s due anytime now.”
The marshal took her hand and bowed slightly over it. “Of course, ma’am. I’d see you to your destination, but for now, it’s best folks don’t know who I am or what I’m doing here. It’s easier to get the truth if people believe I’m a drifter passing through.” Lola felt the quick grasp of his hand around hers as she held it out. “To that end, I’d appreciate if the two of you didn’t mention our visit to anyone for now. Rest assured, I’ll inform you of anything I learn about your case when I’m certain the matter is closed.”
Lola walked her guests to the back entry. Grace reminded her to come for lunch next week as she left.
Grace tugged into the wagon and gathered the reins. Holding them taut in her inexperienced hands, she gave a tremulous smile and a tiny wave before slapping the horse’s rump into motion. They watched her continue around the bend deeper into town.
Marshal Anderson followed her with his gaze from the bottom step. “Strong woman. She seems to have the determination it will take to survive, though it won’t be easy.”
Lola nodded her agreement. “I hope I haven’t waylaid you, sir. This is probably a goose chase I’ve set you on, being too hasty and allowing my imagination to carry me to the telegraph station before good sense could catch up.”
“Please don’t concern yourself with that. It only makes sense to look into the sheriff’s death while I’m here. But please, call me Jake. I don’t want to tip my hand too early. I’m asking you to not betray this trust until the time is right.”
Lola tucked a hair behind her ear, pulled loose by the breeze wafting from the cool peaks. “You have my word, Jake. Believe me, I’m anxious to have this matter settled.” The memory of Bridger’s gentle voice and kind brown eyes sent a warm ripple across her shoulders. “Because it gets more complicated by the day.”
Chapter Seven
Bridger slipped into the end of the row, third from the rear. Sometimes sitting in the farthest pew made a man as conspicuous as the man seated on the front bench. He placed his hat next to him on the seat and brushed dust from the brim. Given the length of time since he’d sat in a sanctuary, he felt a mite dusty himself. A tiny woman with snow-white hair nodded and smil
ed as she passed along to a pew nearer the front. The music had started, and Bridger smiled at his fortunate timing as the minister came in through a door behind the pulpit.
He studied the church, grand in its simplicity. Cedar lent its red-gold luster to the walls and exposed rafters, giving the meeting room a rich hue. A pine altar made with simply designed spindles spanned the front. Directly behind that, a narrow pulpit with a beveled front stood before the pastor. A small cross made of dark mahogany hung above. Tiny panes of real glass blocked together to allow a view of the sunrise sweeping over the mountains. It couldn’t be easy for a minister to compete with that kind of distraction.
The sheriff’s widow, dressed in black, played a tiny organ off to the side. A slight pause in the music brought everyone to their feet, and Bridger grasped the smooth wood of the pew ahead as he joined them.
“Welcome to the Lord’s house this glorious day!” The reverend smiled over the crowd, his head and shoulders barely seen behind the pulpit. His thinning gray hair was carefully groomed, and kind brown eyes peered over small spectacles situated at the end of his nose. “I’m Pastor Rhett Evans, and whether you greeted me on the street yesterday or I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing your face before this moment, I hope you’ll feel at home here and that you’ll return often, as the Lord allows.”
Bridger would’ve been tempted to chalk such cheery talk up to a clever method of filling the offering plates later, if he were more cynical. He glanced away. It had been too long since he’d been in a church service, among other believers. Besides, strength radiated from this man—his hands, his stance, his gaze. His demeanor spoke of integrity and peace. Bridger ducked his head in shame, shifted his feet and added his voice to the others singing “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee.”
A sweet, lilting soprano drew his attention to the other side of the sanctuary. Lola Martin stood, hair delicately rolled along the side of her face, ending in that long, black cascade at her back, her slender neck graced by a high lace collar. Directly behind her stood Ike, hymnal opened in one hand, more show than song.
