by Regina Scott
Lola bit back a smile. Mr. Anthony didn’t approve of Ike Tyler any more than her father had. Ike had proved himself a philandering cad, and to have discovered it before a walk down the aisle with him flooded her with gratitude.
But men could change. Ike had been nothing but helpful and supportive of her decision to continue her father’s business after his death. Sometimes she wondered if he was giving her time to mourn before suggesting they take up where they’d left off. While she could not entirely forget the heartbreak he’d caused, nor excuse his choice of business, she couldn’t deny he had done more than a mere friend would have in the months since Papa died.
“Miss Lola, you hear me? You watch yourself, and you don’t trust Mr. Tyler nor any of his men any further than you can-a throw them.”
“You know I’ll be careful. Ike has looked out for me, just as you have, Mr. Anthony, but we’re only friends.” Lola smiled and moved her basket to the counter. “I appreciate your concern, though.”
“They cause you problems, they have-a problems with me, you hear? I refuse their business!” Mr. Anthony’s tone grew louder and more adamant.
“Please, don’t do that! It would mean your retirement, and I’d hate to see it.”
“Ah, Miss Lola,” he said, placing warm hands over hers. “There are too many others who need me here to retire now. God has-a given me strength and health well into my years. I may not be able to do what truly needs done in this town, but I still am spry enough to make things not-a so easy until that man comes along.”
Lola laughed. “I’m sure that’s so, sir.” She watched as he tallied her order. After paying the bill, she settled on the high stool at the end of the counter. She smiled, thankful for Mr. Anthony and other townsfolk the Lord had surrounded her with. “Now, let’s see what the fine ladies back East are calling fashion these days.”
Spring styles might be frivolous enough to tear her thoughts away from Mr. Jamison for a while. His lean image and dark eyes formed in her mind’s eye. She shook her head. Because something certainly needed to.
Chapter Nine
Bridger rested against the headboard on his bed, the box and sheaf of papers from Lola’s place beside him. He turned the lantern up as the skies became dark and the town grew quiet outside the window. Soon the rumble of Quiver Creek would be confined to the space next door. But with late nights and early mornings this past week, he doubted it would keep him from sleep.
Frank worked in his sketchbook at the desk. Sighs of frustration and tones of glee mixed with the sound of pencil scratching across the heavy paper. Bridger took advantage of Frank’s preoccupation to take a closer look at Mr. Martin’s information. He had wanted to get a feel for the work space first. Now that he’d organized the shop, he needed specifics to do the job right.
Not sure what he’d find, Bridger delved first into the box. The patina of the wood aged it more than the barely yellowed papers. It wasn’t large, but even dovetails and sanded edges marked a quality of workmanship that matched the care of the woodshop in which he’d found it.
He sifted through several letters inside the box, among the cedar lining, which appeared to be from Mrs. Martin to her husband or perhaps her beau at the time, given the dog-eared corners. He flipped through the stack, amazed a man would hang on to such a memento.
“Pa never held on to anything so worthless. And anything valuable, he sold to buy more whiskey,” Bridger said aloud.
Frank started, pencil held tightly above the picture of a flower he’d been focused on. “You ought not speak of him that way, Bridge.”
His jaw clenched. He never knew if Frank sometimes forgot what Pa had done or if his forgiveness honestly extended that far. But it only upset him for anything bad to be mentioned about Pa, and living every day knowing Frank had been the one to suffer most at their father’s hand in the end, he kept his thoughts to himself. Bridger set the letters aside.
“What are you working on?” he asked, hoping to distract his brother back to his drawings.
“Pictures.” Frank moved his pencil gracefully over the paper, sometimes pushing hard and other times with a light hand that belied his size.
“Do you still have room in that book?”
“Lots of room.”
They fell into silence again, and Bridger returned his attention to the box. He couldn’t say he expected to find much in the way of instructions. Most carpenters worked in the same line as great cooks—without a recipe. But Lola seemed to think her father had plans written down somewhere.
Flipping through the pages of a worn copybook, he found neat capital letters written purposefully on the pages. Certain pages folded into the binding to mark different sections. Bridger noted titles such as Basics of Human Anatomy, Burial Preparation and Business Accounting Practices written along the creases—Mr. Martin’s school notes. Bridger scratched his head. “I hadn’t really thought about a man needing schooling for undertaking.”
“You need school for all kinds of important jobs, Bridge.” Frank never glanced up from his artwork.
Bridger continued reading the headings, reluctant to search too far for fear he’d learn more than he cared to about preparing a body to be buried. Had Lola gone to a school like this? He shook his head. It seemed unlikely for a woman to be permitted into such a school, if they did exist.
The final section was labeled simply Coffins. The narrow section contained few words but several sketches with numbers for measurement.
He sat up in surprise. “Here it is, Frank. Doesn’t look like Mr. Martin used it much after he took his course, but it gives me some idea of how to get started. Who’d have thought?”
“I knew,” Frank said. He slashed the pencil lightly back and forth over the center of the page.
Bridger smiled. “You knew how to build a coffin and didn’t tell me?”
“Nope, Bridge. But I knew you’d find how to do it, ’cause I prayed Jesus would help you find out how to do it.”
He slid from the bed to peer over Frank’s shoulder. The detail in the spray of flowers caught him by surprise. “That’s good, Frank. Even better than your horses.” He sniffed the air. “I believe I can just about smell them, they look so real.”
“Except they aren’t colors. I saw a bunch down by the creek today when I was going for a walk—I didn’t bother no one, either,” he defended.
“I didn’t say you did,” Bridger said.
“You would have, though. I know.”
Bridger thought back over the number of times he’d reminded his brother not to be in anybody’s way or to attract attention in the weeks since they’d settled into Quiver Creek. Too many to count. Maybe he should back off a mite. Between the mess in the last town that could have landed Frank in jail and his own repeated warnings, maybe the message had finally gotten through.
“I guess I have been telling you that a lot, and I’m sorry it’s got to be this way for a while yet. But we barely escaped big trouble last time. I have to keep you safe.”
Frank turned back to his work. “I know, Bridge. We’re a scary-looking pair, and I’ll do what you say. But I still have an idea that Miss Lola would like a pretty bunch of flowers like that. Except she’d want colors.”
Bridger punched Frank lightly on the shoulder and slouched on the end of the bed. “We can’t really be thinking of giving flowers to Miss Lola or any other lady around here. But I might be able to do something about finding some colored pencils.”
Frank’s face lit up like candles on a Christmas tree. “Honest?”
Bridger nodded. “Anthony’s General Store has a lot of different things, and if he doesn’t carry them, I’m sure he could order them for you. I’ll see if I can place the order when I stop in Monday to check on the wood I ordered.”
Frank looked doubtful. “But they cost lots of money, right? And we can’t eat them or wear them, even.”
Bridger felt his insides twist. Apparently Frank remembered more about Pa’s teaching than he figured. Their fa
ther had often pointed out that if a purchase wasn’t something to be eaten, or worn, it was a waste of money. Except, of course, the alcohol that Pa claimed kept him warm enough to save the price of a coat and filled his gut better than flour and steak. Only it hadn’t done much for the rest of the family.
“I have money for it, Frank. I told you, this is a good job. Mr. Tyler pays better than anyone I’ve ever worked for, and with what I’ll make once I get started on those coffins for Lola…why, we’ll be out of here with our own little spread in no time.” Though maybe not too far away.
The time he spent with her, helping her, had become the best part of his days. Even after leaving his job with Ike, wouldn’t Lola still need his skills? Would she want him to stay?
He shifted on the saggy mattress, feeling the thrum of new opportunity for the first time in a long while. “But I know it isn’t easy for you staying hid around here. If some colored pencils for your drawings make it easier, well, I think we can spare a few bits to get them, all right?”
A broad smile bloomed on Frank’s face. “Thanks, Bridge! You’re the best!”
“Well, it may be a while before we can get them, so don’t go puffing me up just yet.”
Frank stood and threw beefy arms around Bridger’s shoulders, almost knocking him back to the mattress in his excitement. “That don’t matter. You’re the best for even thinking of it. I wouldn’t trade you for the handsomest brother out there!”
Bridger laughed as Frank settled down at the desk again and turned to a fresh page. He made a mental note to add a new sketchbook to the list but didn’t mention it. He wasn’t sure he’d survive another dose of Frank’s gratitude.
Bridger copied information he needed from Mr. Martin’s notes onto a separate sheet. Then he unclasped the sheaf of loose papers. It only made sense to look through everything, in case Mr. Martin had made changes or noted what to do for various sizes that might be needed. He shuddered. Hopefully Lola would never have need for any tiny ones a young child might require. Too sad to think on, let alone build.
The pages contained the same precise writing, but now they were numbered to maintain their order. Here he found information he could use on figuring amounts and prices of supplies to buy ahead, should he need them. He’d keep them to study further.
Continuing to flip through, he found copies of business statements for families Lola’s father had helped over the years. Mr. Martin ran a modest business—several slips marked paid before the balance read zero. Toward the bottom of the stack, Bridger found a thick set of papers in a separate, smaller folder marked Sheriff McKenna.
He fiddled with the clasp for only a moment before curiosity got the better of him. Inside he found loose ledger sheets of some sort. The top of each paper had Q.C. Business Association written. The dates ran from about a year before to about six months ago—right around the time Lola said her father had been killed.
He ran his finger down the smooth pages, noting the amounts deposited at monthly intervals. Next to most payments, a name listed someone from Tyler’s outfit. Who would trust Ike to handle finances for such an organization?
About halfway through, he noted other names occasionally written in all capital letters. Some were scratched out with a steady black line ending in moved out. Names like Mr. Anthony’s he recognized as other business owners in town.
He flipped to the front of the folder again. He’d be the first to admit he knew little about ledger sheets and less about business associations, but a group that ran with a bottom line of zero classified as unusual, and seeing the file labeled for local law enforcement seemed downright strange. Did Lola know anything about this? Whatever this was?
She seemed adamantly sure about the sheriff’s respectability. Then again, he doubted she knew about this file, either. Why would her father keep it hidden in his workshop, mixed in with everything else?
“What’s wrong, Bridge?” Frank’s look told him he’d been frozen for a moment.
“I found some papers that look funny.”
“Like a joke?” Frank asked, reaching for the papers with thick fingers.
Bridger waved him off. “No, no, not laugh-at-it-funny, just strange-funny, the way this arithmetic looks.”
“Funny numbers?” Frank asked, his brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Maybe.” Bridger checked the clock. He stashed the papers, placing the separate sheaf on top. “I have to get over to the hotel site for guard duty. Listen, you watch yourself walking out there this evening. The sun’s sticking around a little later every day, makes you easier to spot, you know? Just don’t—”
“Bother nobody. I know.” Frank pulled his cap low over his eyes. “I never do.”
Bridger tied his holster securely to his leg and covered it with his long coat. “Sorry. I guess I can’t help worrying enough for the both of us. Just…be safe, all right?” He blew out the lantern, leaving them in almost complete darkness.
“All right.” Frank nodded solemnly.
Bridger checked for a clear hall, but rarely saw the other men, to the point he wondered if most didn’t take rooms elsewhere. “Remember, I’ll be late, but I’ll try not to wake you. You try to do the same until the sun’s up, at least.”
Frank’s grin shone from under his cap brim. “In time for church, though, right?”
Bridger thought about a comfortable pillow and what it must be like to sleep until a body had its fill.
“Yes, in time for church,” he said. If it kept Frank content for a few weeks longer, he could sacrifice a little shut-eye. But the cost of Frank’s safety grew by the day.
*
Lola fastened the last of the bedclothes on the line with a wooden peg as it caught the breeze and billowed. The snap of the wet corners blended with the rhythm of pounding inside the woodshop.
Bridger had worked like a desperate man from the day the supplies arrived, starting early in the morning and working through lunch before heading over to work on the hotel, which had made excellent progress over the past few weeks. Lola had not been in favor of the plan for such a large, ornate building. But a fine hotel likely attracted a more respectable crowd than the seedy rooms of the boardinghouse. And didn’t it prove Ike’s interest in moving toward a more respectable business?
She swiped loose hair from her forehead where it clung from the steam of hot, soapy wash water. She checked the time on her brooch. Early for lunch, but some cold lemonade would taste good.
Bridger’s soft whistle carried through the air. Perhaps he’d enjoy a break, as well.
Inside, she squeezed the tart fruit, arrived fresh from California, and stirred in sugar. She remembered the molasses cookies she’d made the day before and placed some of those on a tray, too.
Sharing a lunch or at least some midmorning refreshment with Bridger had grown into a daily routine. Lola took a deep breath as she carried the tray out the door. A brief flutter of sanity cautioned her every day. She held more questions than answers about this man and prayed every evening for Marshal Anderson’s quick return—surely his investigation would settle her anxious thoughts.
On the other hand, Bridger worked diligently, and his soft-spoken conversations—though mainly filled with appreciation for her father’s work and questions about the town—gave her a sense of companionship she’d lost after Papa died. Walking the balance of caution and neighborliness wore on her nerves.
Setting the tray on a stool just off the porch, she heard a bark of pain echo inside the shop. She paused, but only muffled sounds of rattling tools followed as she stepped closer.
She waited only a moment after her sharp rap at the shop door before creaking it open. In the light filtering through the windows, Bridger’s lean frame curled around his hand. One end of a white rag hung from his teeth as he tried to tie a knot, but blood quickly spotted it.
“What happened?” she asked, turning him with a shove to get a better look.
“Just a scratch. I got it.”
“Let me see,�
� she said, pulling the loose bandage away. A deep gouge cut across his middle finger, from the joint to the fingernail, almost clean through. Blood streamed across his hands and spattered on the workbench. “A scratch?”
“I got it.” His tone called her attention to his face, pale and determined.
“Sure you do.” She shook out the rag he used and folded the loose scrap of skin into its place before wrapping it tightly. Then she squeezed—hard. Bridger’s cheeks grew paler, accentuating the jagged scar.
“Come on!” She dragged him outside and pushed him to a stool. Grabbing his rough right hand, she placed it over the rag and squeezed it hard with both of hers. “Hold that tight, you hear me?” He nodded, still looking dazed and a little woozy. “I’ll be right back.”
She raced into the mortuary and selected materials she needed from the cabinet, tossing them into a pan as she moved through the door. Outside, she watched Bridger’s jaw clench and his eyes blink furiously, head tipped back.
She grabbed his hand as she fell to her knees and pulled him upright. “Not that way. Are you light-headed? Going to pass out?” she said, removing his fingers pressed to the wound. She slowly unraveled the cloth.
He nodded. “Don’t much like the sight of blood, ma’am.”
“Tip your head low, like this.” She tugged his head down below his shoulders. The soft hair at his nape tingled warm against her cool fingers.
She laid a fresh rag across his hand and replaced his other hand on top for pressure. Dumping the supplies from the pan, she ran to pump cool water into it.
“Here,” she said, returning to his side. “Put your hand in this. It’s cold, but that’ll help slow the bleeding and clean it out.”
He did as she bade, his normal dusky tone returning. “Sorry about this, Lola. I didn’t mean to cause a fuss.”
She added carbolic to the water and rubbed more over her hands. The flow of blood slowed before she pulled his hand from the pan and covered it with another dry cloth. She rinsed the bowl and returned with fresh water, added more carbolic and placed needles and scissors in to disinfect.
