by Regina Scott
“You’re looking better,” she said, blotting his hand dry with the cloth that covered it.
His smile returned, growing with the flush along his jaw.
Dousing her hands with carbolic one last time, she threaded the needle with catgut and stabilized his arm between her elbow and ribs in a firm hold. She wedged her left hand around his fist, raising and separating the torn finger to work on.
Blowing loose hair from her eyes, she pursed her lips and pulled the needle through his skin, gently tugging the loose edges together. Another stitch. “You still with me?” she asked, glad to avoid his view, but concerned with his silence.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. A chuff of laughter blew warm against her neck. “Although, some doctor you are. No whiskey to dull the pain of the needle.”
She smiled, though she knew he couldn’t see it. “I figure the pain of whatever sliced this finger had to be worse than this little needle. What happened?”
“Let’s just say your father’s chisels are plenty sharp.”
She nodded but still couldn’t picture exactly how he’d done it. She kept adding stitches, forming a perfect hook along the edge and across his finger.
His solid chest warmed her shoulder as he peered over it, watching her work.
“You’re pretty good at this. You ever think of being a doctor instead of the undertaker?” he asked.
“To be honest, I have,” she said, even more grateful to not have to look him in the eye. Not even her father had known. “But there’s a lot more to it than a few little stitches in a clumsy carpenter’s finger.”
She made her final stitch and tied off the end before moving to her feet and facing him. “There you go. Try to move it—gently. Make sure there isn’t more damage.”
He drew his fingers into a claw a few times, but his brown eyes focused on her face. “Why didn’t you ever try to go to school to be a doctor, Lola? Any woman as smart as you, doing what you do, why, you’d be a fine one.”
She broke his gaze with a laugh. “Nice as it might be to try and keep folks away from the job I do now, it’s not that simple. Colleges that allow women are rare as it is, let alone medical school. And even if one could be found, they are plenty expensive to attend.”
“So how’d you get into this?” His square chin pointed to her home, her business, his voice still steady and serious.
“Papa taught me. His uncle was an undertaker back in Boston, and he learned by helping out as a boy, I suppose. But there wasn’t as much to it then, from all Papa said.”
“You do more than most,” Bridger said. “How’d he learn all that?”
“Papa tried a lot of things, but folks always called on him when someone passed on, even before Mama died. When the War Between the States broke out, Papa felt called to help, though he was old for the fight. Uncle Joseph and Aunt Betty came and lived with me here, and Papa went to war.”
Bridger shifted on the stool. “A lot of young men didn’t come marching home again.”
“You?”
“I fought,” he said.
When he offered nothing further, she continued. “They put Papa to work with the doctors as a medic, due to his age and background. If a soldier died in camp or not so far from home, sometimes they or the family would try to get him home for burial. After the war, Papa heard of a school opening up to teach the science behind it, all they’d learned over the course of the war. The teachers traveled around the country, I guess, offering classes. Not everyone goes about it that way, of course. Most towns, I suppose, just wake and bury the dead right quick.”
Bridger nodded. “That’s been my experience.”
“Anyway, with more people heading West but having family back East, greater need for Papa’s services came. Without Mama around, he needed my help, and so I learned.”
“You do a fine job, too.” Bridger held up his fist and examined her work. “You’d make a pretty fair seamstress, as well.” His lopsided smile teased her and his conversation brought familiar warmth.
She grabbed his wrist and cradled his hand, scrunching her face, feigning close inspection. But she couldn’t hold it when he roared with laughter.
“I must apologize for interrupting this cozy scene—”
Lola jumped to her feet as Ike sauntered around the corner of the house. “Ike, you startled me!” She dropped Bridger’s hand, and heat blazed her cheeks.
Bridger also stood, though not so fast. “I cut my hand up pretty good, Mr. Tyler. Miss Lola stitched me back together, you see.”
Ike smirked, that all-knowing expression she recognized from their days of courtship. It still set her teeth on edge. “I saw enough to assure me you’ll be in fine shape for longer hours on my projects,” he said.
“He’ll need to keep an eye on that hand, make sure it doesn’t get infected,” she said. She crossed her arms in front of her. “Was there something particular you needed, Ike?”
He brushed his mustache with a finger and stepped closer. He looked down at her, eyes sparkling and lips quirked at the corner in that way she’d found so appealing years ago. “I always need to make sure you’re well and have all the assistance you require. After all we’ve been through together, and for friendship’s sake, you know I’m only teasing, right?”
His sincere, kind tone always brought that queasy flutter to her chest. He teased as a brother might, but really, wasn’t his concern from the heart?
“I know, Ike.” She gave him a warm smile that faded as Bridger’s gaze drew blank. “I also know you have the propriety to come to my front door if you’re looking to speak with me.”
He tipped his hat and laughed. “I’m caught! I heard Mr. Jamison’s voice as I walked up, so I hope you’ll pardon me this once.”
“Oh, I see,” Lola said. “You gentlemen go ahead and discuss what you need to. I’ll pick up my things and get out of your way.”
“Here, I’ll get it,” Bridger insisted, stooping to gather the bloody rags at his feet.
She bent to pick up the materials she’d been using. Her hands brushed his as they grabbed for the pan together, and Lola found herself staring into his eyes, no longer dull and closed, but deep brown with golden flecks lit by the sun. Her breath caught.
“There,” Ike said, tossing the remaining ball of catgut into the pan. He glanced between them. “Send me the bill for your service to his hand. After all, he is my employee. Besides, you’ll both be busy for a while. Bridger, I have another delivery for you. And, Lola,” he said, looking her square in the eye, “you have a body to care for. We found Cecil Anthony dead this morning.”
Chapter Ten
Bridger steadied a nail with his bandaged finger and pounded it into the boards. Standing on top of the second-floor roof gave him a good view of the town, and he imagined what it would look like from the third and final story. Tall building for this town, but given the number of folks moving in and about Quiver Creek, it wouldn’t be the last.
He wiped his sleeve across his forehead, peering across to Lola’s place. Her tears at Ike’s callous announcement had proved his undoing. Guilt and gratitude had swelled together when Ike had ordered his escape and sent him to help Toby retrieve the body and deliver the old man to Lola’s place.
By the time they’d returned, she’d donned a fresh apron and enough determination to cover her grief and do her job. She’d pulled the white sheet down to reveal purple bruises covering the storekeeper’s face, and her fingers had traced the edge of his head with loving care.
Given the fierce protectiveness the man had shown for Lola, their relationship had been a close one. How could Lola bear to do her job, when it came to preparing loved ones for burial?
“How long you think one nail will hold that beam, Jamison?” Toby called from the ground.
Bridger refocused and reached for another nail. Ike had sent the other men on extra patrols around town, leaving him to deal with Toby’s grumpy disposition alone. “We’d finish twice as fast if you’d come on up an
d pound a few yourself.”
“I got things to attend to on the ground,” Toby said. He’d never set foot on the second floor until they completed the walls, and his tone confirmed Bridger’s suspicion: the man feared heights.
Ike sauntered along the street, clearing the bend from the mortuary. Frustration spiked in Bridger’s chest. He pounded another nail in two heavy swipes and moved for another board.
“You’re making good progress,” Ike said from the street, hand shielding his eyes as he tilted his head. “Good to see your injuries aren’t holding you back from the work you’re being paid to do.”
“How’s Lola?”
“I just left her, poor thing. That old man meant something to her, I suppose.”
Bridger glanced down before setting another nail. “He watched out for her, that’s for sure. Between her father, the sheriff and now Mr. Anthony, she’s had a lot of tough work lately.”
Toby grunted. “Woman like that best get used to it.”
Bridger dropped the board he held and hunkered down to get as close as he could at this height to Toby’s swarthy face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t reckon she has any business taking on a man’s work like she done. She gets a mite more personal with her ‘guests,’ like she calls them, than Mattie does with ours. She ought to find a man and get married like any respectable woman—”
The hammer flew from Bridger’s hand, narrowly missing Toby’s head. “You lousy, judgmental—”
“Whoa, now!” Ike raised hands toward him, stepping closer to Toby and picking up the tool. “Back off, Jamison. A man has a right to his opinion, and it’s not like half the town doesn’t agree with him.”
“You’re supposed to be helping her!”
“I do. Lola and I go way back. At one point, we were betrothed, and if I have my way, we will be again. That would be the greatest help she could get. She just isn’t of a mind to see it yet. But she will. Soon.”
Bridger’s finger throbbed with every heave of his chest. His jaw clenched until he almost choked with the desire to rage on. He stood and stepped away from the edge, never tearing his gaze from Ike’s. His memory burned with the knowledge of his father’s temper. “Miss Lola seems to be a woman of her own mind, if you ask me,” he said, taming his furious tongue.
“She’s in mourning now—her mind’s not thinking clearly. She’ll come around,” Ike said. He tossed the hammer high and it landed with a skid across the floorboards. “The point is, it certainly isn’t any of your concern either way. You’re hired—by me—to help her out. So don’t go thinking you’re anything more than the handyman, you got that?”
Ike’s fire lay low, but steady, like it had the night he’d been hired. Bridger recognized it and the warning it delivered. He couldn’t imagine the hows or whys of a woman with the class and beauty of Lola Martin even considering marriage to a snake like Ike Tyler. But Ike was right. He needed this job and the pay if he were ever going to provide something better for Frank than a stuffy room next to the noisy saloon of a growing town. He had no claim on Lola and no right to do any more than he’d been hired for.
He swallowed hard and nodded. Picking up the hammer, he turned for another board and some extra nails to tuck under the edge of his lip. “I got that—boss,” he mumbled around a mouthful of nails and began pounding. He’d be no better than Frank, getting involved where he wasn’t wanted. On the other hand, maybe Lola ought to be the one to say so. She certainly hadn’t given the impression she found his presence difficult to tolerate this past week or so.
“I’m glad you understand your position, Jamison,” Ike said. His smile shone below his oiled mustache, that instant calm as infuriating as his possessiveness. “It never pays not to follow my orders, though you’ll have to take my word on that. There’s no one still around that’s had the audacity to try.”
*
Lola returned her teacup to the saucer with a delicate clink. As much as she hated to burden Grace with more thoughts of death, the comfortable spot at her friend’s table soothed her sadness. “I’ll miss Mr. Anthony so much. I can’t imagine what happened,” she said.
Grace’s hand fluttered over her growing belly. “Where did they find him?”
Lola bit her tongue, thinking how weak her loss must seem compared to her friend. “The bottom of his stairs, Toby said. Like he’d fallen on his way down. But Mr. Anthony wasn’t a tottering old man, Grace. He wouldn’t just—”
“Accidents happen, Lola. You know that better than most, I’d say. Besides, our time is appointed by God, and when He calls, we go. We can take comfort in the fact that Cecil knew the Lord and was ready for Heaven.”
She couldn’t stop a small smile that grew with the thought of Mr. Anthony seeing his dear wife again, but glanced away to the window, the notion too heavy to share with her friend.
“I’m sorry to burden you with this all. It’s just been so…difficult these past few months, harder than I’d have thought. I know we had plans for later this week, but I needed to get away from my house for a while. Does that make any sense?”
Grace stretched a hand to pat her arm. “You were right to come here. I would have wanted to know, and sharing a sorrow lightens the heart.”
“But maybe not so much for you,” Lola said.
Grace shook her head, swirling her tea in the cup. “Losing Pete hurts so bad, nothing can make it worse.”
Lola squeezed her hands together as tears filled her vision and threatened to fall. “I’m sorry for being so selfish. We must discuss brighter things. How has it been, having your parents here?”
Grace sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “They’re a godsend. Pa’s management skills have transferred to the ranch as well as they worked in his store back home. I believe he’s gotten younger since they arrived, out surveying the herd and such, getting things ready to brand calves and move them to summer grazing.”
“How is your mother adjusting?”
Grace smiled. “Better than I expected. She’s never lived outside of town, but there’s something about the air and the mountains, she says, that gives her new vitality. I think she’s falling in love with Wyoming the same way I did. It’s been good to hear word from home, family and friends, too. She’s stepped in to care for me like I’m a little girl again, and maybe it’s wrong, but it’s been a great help.”
“I’m glad.”
“Me, too,” Grace said. “At first, I wasn’t so sure. But it’s given me time to grieve Pete without being overwhelmed by everything else.”
Lola nodded. She’d been more alone than ever after Papa died, and taking time to plan what she should do had proved impossible. She’d had to step into Papa’s shoes from the start, with he and the man responsible both to bury right after it happened.
She fingered the delicate crochet of the tablecloth. “That’s good news after this hard spring we’ve had in Quiver Creek. So much bad news…too much.”
Grace’s eyes widened and she slipped around the table to edge the curtain back from the window. “Speaking of—here comes that marshal!” She brushed her skirt and moved toward the door at a speed surprising for a woman with her baby girth.
Lola followed behind as her friend opened the door. Jake Anderson reined to a stop and dismounted, greeting them with a doff of his hat.
“I heard I might catch you here, Miss Martin, and was happy to take the advantage away from any prying eyes in town, if that’s all right. I won’t take long—I just wanted to let you know I’m back in town.”
“I’m glad to see that,” Lola said, squeezing past Grace to stand on the bottom step. “There’s been another death in town, and we wondered when you’d be able to return.”
Jake removed his notepad from an inside pocket. “I heard the local mercantile owner was found this morning. He was elderly, though, correct?”
Lola crossed her arms before her. “He had more years on him than most around here, but ‘elderly’ hardl
y suited him, either.” She thought of the round bruises across Mr. Anthony’s dusky skin. “It doesn’t seem right he should be taken that way.”
Jake gave a wry grin, rubbing his hand along his wide jaw. “All in the Lord’s timing?”
Lola sensed his question, thinking again on the pattern of black-and-blue splotches. “To be honest, I’m not entirely convinced, Marshal.” She glanced up at Grace, thin wisps of blond hair blowing across her hollow cheeks. Images of death slowly molded together in her mind. “What are the chances a young sheriff would die in the mountains the same way an old man died in his store?”
Chapter Eleven
Bridger shifted in the back pew as Pastor Evans delivered the eulogy for Cecil Anthony. While he barely knew the man and had not earned a fair impression from him, he attended the service to pay his respects. He hoped to have the same kind of fire in his belly at Mr. Anthony’s age.
Ike told all his men to be at the service, and they obeyed, standing in a gang at the back of the sanctuary, looking as comfortable as a cat in a pond. Bridger focused on the minister, glad he’d arrived on his own.
Mr. Anthony’s daughter, a petite middle-aged woman, had traveled with her son for the service. He heard she planned to take the body back East for burial next to her mother.
Bridger never considered anything further than being buried where he fell. Fighting in the war, men were fortunate to get a marker for their graves. Home had been the dust under his feet for so long he doubted a soul would remember him back in Indiana. But as he offered condolences to Cecil’s family, he considered the peaceful rest upon the businessman’s face. The coffin he’d fashioned, his first attempt, had turned out well. Lola did important work, and it gave him a good feeling to be part of it.
He caught Lola’s profile as she sat in the front pew, focused on the minister. The black velvet hat and cape she wore could not outshine her hair, the length of it curled and twisted in a rich mass at the base of her neck. Her dark lashes and wide eyes were noticeable even at this distance, and her pale skin spoke of the sadness she felt as well as her beauty. Who would look out for her now, with Mr. Anthony gone?
