by Regina Scott
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” She grinned in spite of herself. “But it is well that the cat came along when it did.”
Ike backed away to his horse and then stared at her a moment, hand on the pommel. “I’ll consider that a sign of hope for my future, then, ma’am. Good night, and rest easy.”
She watched him ride off and slipped into the warmth of her dark house. Her tired limbs ached, but at odds with her heart and mind. Easy rest would be an unlikely blessing tonight.
*
Bridger peered at the dented clock for the hundredth time since settling into his bedroll at the foot of Frank’s bed. He needed sleep for an early start.
Frank’s heavy tread finally echoed up the stairs. Bridger sat, hoping his brother remained unseen. He hadn’t noticed how loud Frank’s boots could be.
As Frank stepped through the door, breath ragged, Bridger turned the lantern wick higher. His brother flinched to find him waiting. “Where have you been?”
The door closed with a soft snick, and Bridger sensed Frank’s purposeful slowness. “Just walking, Bridge.”
“Just walking where, Frank? You’re usually in by now.” He hated his accusing tone.
Frank set his hat on the desk and moved to the bed, which groaned under his broad build. “Around town. I didn’t talk to nobody, either. I even ran—”
Bridger shot to his feet, gripping the foot of the bed frame in each hand. “Why did you need to run? What happened?”
Frank smacked his hand on the flat pillow and drew it across his midsection. “He didn’t even see me, Bridge. I’m fast. So don’t growl at me!”
Bridger gentled his tone against the frustration in his chest. “Who didn’t see you?”
“Mr. Tyler.”
Bridger rubbed a knuckle across his lips, holding back angry words that threatened to bolt. They would get him nowhere with his brother. “Where didn’t he see you?”
Frank stared at the door as if judging his chance of success for escape. “At Miss Lola’s,” he said, voice a bare whisper.
“I told you to stay away from there! What do I have to do, Frank, chain you inside this room all day?”
His brother flinched again and rubbed his head. The exact spot where Pa had knocked him with the skillet, all those years ago, still gave him fits at times. Memories flashed through his mind—the pinch of Pa’s tight grip around his arm, shaking so hard Bridger thought it would rip right out of the socket, while blood ran down his face from the cut of the broken bottle… Frank stepping in and breaking the hold, sending him into a sprawl against the rough wall…
“I said I won’t do it again, all right? Don’t be mad, Bridge. And don’t lock me in—please. I ain’t no dog.” Frank knelt in front of him, rocking the bed in his desperation.
Bridger stepped back. “I wouldn’t, Frank. I didn’t mean it—honest, I didn’t. You have every right to walk around here free as any other man. But you have to blend in awhile longer, you see? And snooping about the homes of beautiful ladies isn’t what men do if they’re lying low!”
Frank slumped, his chin bobbing in agreement. “See, I knew you thought she’s pretty, too!”
Bridger squeezed his temples between his thumbs. “But you don’t see me sneaking around trying to catch sight of her!”
“You sound like those men in the last town, like I have bad ideas about her,” Frank accused. “I never would hurt her, not any woman. I know what the Bible says about treating women right, and I remember what Grandpa taught, same as you. We got to protect ’em, right?”
Bridger’s ire cooled as he acknowledged, with shame, that his brother’s insight held more truth than he wanted to admit. “I’m sorry, Frank. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.” He knew better than any other soul on earth the lengths Frank Jamison stretched to offer protection for any living creature in need. His every breath served as proof.
“Besides,” Frank continued, “I was not either peeking at her. It was spying, like making sure she was okay.”
Bridger pulled the chair from the desk and sat, watching Frank unlace his boots and toe them off. “What makes you think she needs you to ‘spy,’ then?”
“She had sad eyes.”
“Well, she is sad. Her friend died, which is something else I have to tell—”
“That’s not the only thing.”
Bridger rubbed his neck. Of course it wasn’t the only thing. But he felt certain Lola hadn’t realized her former fiancé was under investigation by the federal marshal.
“What else?” Bridger asked.
“Mr. Tyler saw her.”
“You mean he was visiting her?”
“Talking to her. Out on her front step.”
“They’re friends. He probably checked on her,” Bridger said. He stood and moved to the window, as irritated at himself as toward Lola. Since when did her evening conversations make any difference to him?
“He looked real friendly, though. Like some of those men back home looked at Ma after Pa died, her being so pretty. He got to standing too close, so I—”
Bridger grabbed his brother’s shoulder and tried to look him in the eye, but Frank gazed at his stockinged feet. Worry flared. “What exactly did you do?”
“Nothin’!” Frank twisted his shoulder from Bridger’s grasp. “Well, nothin’ bad. I kicked the porch to make a noise.”
“Then what happened?” Alarm pounded in Bridger’s chest.
“Mr. Tyler came and checked, but I was out of sight, Bridge. Honest. He told Miss Lola it was a cat.”
Bridger released his breath in a tight whoosh. Now to hope Ike believed that, too. “All right, Frank. I’m glad you told me. I can’t smooth things over if I don’t know what you’ve done, so you need to tell me.”
Frank looked dejected, and Bridger’s conscience pricked him. His brother had to understand, somehow, how difficult this was, and how much more so it could get. Especially when he’d be gone for a few days.
“Listen, Frank. You have to be careful, and it scares me to think you could get into more trouble. I mean, there were those who wanted to hang you in that last town.”
“I know!” Frank said. His face puckered, tired and petulant.
“Then you have to do what I say and stay away from Miss Lola.” Bridger broke his brother’s focus. “’Cause I’m leaving town for a few days on a job for Mr. Tyler, and I won’t be around to keep you out of trouble.”
“Why are you going this time?”
“I’m to deliver Mr. Anthony’s body for the train back East. I head out early in the morning.”
“How long?” Frank’s resigned tone spoke more of irritation than acceptance.
“I should be back Friday afternoon if nothing goes wrong. Until then, I need you to stay put. No snooping around in town. Promise you’ll stay off the streets while I’m gone.”
Frank slipped off his shirt and stretched out on the bed in his undershirt and denim pants. “I won’t cause no trouble, Bridge, I promise. I know I’m a scary-looking fellow.”
His dejected tone curdled in Bridger’s chest. He patted Frank’s leg. “I know you won’t, brother. The problem is, you never do.”
Chapter Thirteen
Bridger slipped from the room while skies remained misty gray and Frank still snored.
He hadn’t bothered to light the lamp, afraid to disturb his brother’s hard-won respite. It served as a reminder that Frank’s hours in the room would be largely spent in the dark, fear of fire keeping him from lighting the lantern. And his meals would be reduced to trail rations—some jerky, crackers and a wedge of cheese, with water from a canteen filled daily in the creek. Frank wouldn’t starve, but he’d likely be a few pounds leaner by the time Bridger returned.
Bridger balanced his saddlebag across a shoulder and slipped into the saloon through the back door for some last-minute supplies. The long bar gleamed in the reflection of the mirror behind it, clean and at rest with the tables and chairs after another lively night.
The door of Ike’s suite creaked open. Mattie tiptoed through, hair disheveled and wrapped from neck to toes in a thin robe that in some strange way left less to the imagination than her usual costume. Bridger stood frozen, as heat blazed across his chest. He’d never considered himself a man to be swayed by a girl like Mattie, but she did hold her own charms. He cleared his throat so as not to startle her.
“Good morning, Bridger.” Mattie’s greeting came at a whisper, sultry and rough from smoke that filled this room each evening. She subdued a hank of curls behind one ear with a silky caress and smiled, her dimple flirtatious beneath sleepy eyes. “You’re up and at ’em early this morning, sugar,” she said, smoothing her robe over her hips. “Jasper leaves coffee for me, if you want some. It’s stale from last night, but plenty hot, and strong enough to stand a spoon.”
She wound past him, pulling the faded blue cloth tighter around her narrow waist, and moved toward the kitchen. Glad for dimness that he hoped hid his blush better than it hid her sway, he started to refuse. But she paused at the door to face him, her features bare and sweet, looking younger than he’d have thought her to be. “Please? It’d be nice to have a talk with you.”
Bridger nodded agreement and she flounced to the stove, her smile bright. He found it harder to stand his ground with this innocent version of Mattie than her usual flamboyant self. Sunshine struggled its way through the gray sky outside the swinging doors, likely a forecast of the rain he’d suffer through on the drive today. A few minutes to warm his gizzard shouldn’t cause much delay. His boots echoed across the floor.
Mattie returned with two chipped mugs, steam rising from the top of each one. Setting his coffee on the bar, she propped herself on a corner stool and patted another.
Bridger passed up the seat to lean against the bar. Mattie pulled a bottle of whiskey, doused her cup with a shot and raised her brow in question.
“No, thanks,” he said. “Kind of early, don’t you think?”
“Ah, but this is late night for me, sugar.” She replaced the cap and sipped from her mug, eyes closed as her smile melted into pleasure. “Besides, this is a habit from my grampa Finnegan.”
Bridger took a swallow, which burned a trail of fire down his throat. “Funny, I’ve been thinking of my grandfather a lot lately, too.” He coughed. “He tried to teach me to be a man. My father did all he could to undo it.” Bridger barked out a laugh.
Mattie squeezed his arm, her touch warm. “Your grampa must’ve done the better job, then, because you are one of the few gentlemen I’ve met in this town.” She slid her fingers away and wrapped them around the mug. “I know I’ve tried harder and been rewarded less with you than any other man.”
Her slim brows rose, and her alluring glance held hope.
“I got more problems than you need, Mattie,” he said. “Besides, Mr. Tyler might not take it too kindly.”
She waved her hand. “He doesn’t own me like he thinks he does, like he does half this town, anyway.”
“He does seem primed to gain a lot of money, the way this town is growing,” Bridger agreed. Maybe wealthy enough to fool a strong, beautiful businesswoman into believing he’d changed? The coffee churned in his gut at the notion.
“Ike does have a knack at pulling providence and timing together. Smart enough to play on the folks he needs to help him, too.”
Bridger looked across the room to Ike’s door, closed and silent. “You don’t sound too fond of him for someone who…”
She set down her cup and pulled her robe closer to her slender neck. “I work for Ike, but not like most folks think. This town doesn’t know it, but I run this place. Ike owns the saloon, but I’m the one to make sure it turns a profit.” She leaned toward him, her voice low and confidential. “It wouldn’t suit Ike for everyone to know, mind you. But it’s the truth. Anything else between us is, well, so we aren’t stuck being alone, I guess.”
“I suppose the Quiver Creek Business Association wouldn’t be so interested in having women on the board, is that it? Even if you could teach them a thing or two?”
Mattie blinked, drawing up on the stool as if she’d been struck. “I didn’t think Ike planned to tell you. He seemed to think it would be easier if you weren’t familiar with that part of his business.”
Her disappointed tone confused him. “He didn’t really tell me. I figured it out when I saw some records. I’m not as dumb as I look, you know.”
“I never took you for dumb, sugar, but I may change my mind if you tell Ike you know.” She raked long fingers through her silky curls.
“I don’t see the harm in me knowing.” Bridger tamped down his rising excitement. Something about the business association wasn’t on the up-and-up, and Ike Tyler’s hands were mired in it up to his elbows, at least.
“No,” she said, but the curl in her lip said otherwise. “I thought I judged a man’s character a little sharper than that, and I didn’t figure you for… Well, that’s neither here nor there. It’s not like I have any room to talk.”
Bridger scratched his chin. “Maybe you should talk more about what’s important, let the fellows who come in here know how smart you really are. You could do better than Ike, Mattie,” he said, keeping his voice low. The call of a magpie wafted through the air.
“Sugar,” she said with a laugh, “I can’t wait around forever for another cowboy like you to come through Quiver Creek. Besides, once he convinces that lady undertaker he’s good enough for her, well, I don’t suppose Ike will be interested in anything but business after that.”
Bridger buried his face in his mug, gulping the last of the bitter drink. Had Frank really interrupted something between Lola and Ike? Could Lola’s father have been part of Ike’s scheme? Somehow he couldn’t line up the daughter Mr. Martin raised with his growing certainty of Ike’s involvement in illegal gain. The marshal’s interest, Ike’s bottomless finances that failed to match a saloon’s profit and now Mattie’s comments only added to his nagging suspicions of the man. But he needed more. Marshal Anderson may have questions about Ike, but wasn’t it suspicion about himself that had actually brought the man to town? And what did it all mean for Lola? Bridger shifted his saddlebag again, avoiding Mattie’s gaze.
“Oh, no, sugar, not you, too.”
“What?”
“I’m not some blithering fool, honey, and I ain’t blind. You’re falling for her, too, aren’t you?”
Bridger pushed upright from the bar. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, Mr. Tyler has his own ideas about her. I’m only helping her the way he asked,” Bridger said. “He also wants me to run some deliveries, so I’d best be on my way.”
Mattie slipped off the stool and stood between him and the doorway. “Don’t rush off. I don’t blame you, you know. She’s a beautiful woman—smart, classy…respectable, you know? She’d be a heap further ahead with you than with Ike, that’s for sure.”
“I’m not sure she believes that.”
“She will,” Mattie said. She stood on tiptoe in her flat slippers and pressed her warm, soft lips against his jaw. “I can’t help it, Bridger Jamison. I still see you as one of the good guys.”
“Thanks, Mattie. Any man with eyes ought to see what a lady you are. A smart one, to boot!”
Mattie flushed. “It’s nice to know there are men out there who care to find out.”
He glanced at the angle of the sun starting to peek through the windows. “You’d best get to sleep, and I’d best get my delivery under way. I don’t want Mr. Anthony to miss his last train ride.”
More important, the sooner he left, the faster he could return. The press to get back already weighed heavier on him than it had a few moments ago. Until he figured out what was happening in this town, the closer he stuck to Lola, the better.
*
Lola dumped a mass of dried flowers behind the woodshed and pumped water for a fresh bouquet. This morning silvery lupine waited at her back door, still damp with spring dew.
Secret flowers didn’t seem Ike’s style. His grand conspicuous nature had once held her attention, like the striking flash of a long blade, until she found herself on its cutting edge.
Her first thought had been of Bridger. His rough exterior hid tenderness, but she witnessed it in so many little ways—the care he took with the tools, his soft knock at her door each time he came for the key, his adamant concern for maintaining a gentlemanly distance as he worked. How could she have dealt with Mr. Anthony’s death without his help? His comforting presence?
Heat flooded her face without another soul around. She had no business thinking of Bridger as any more than an associate.
She remembered his golden-brown gaze locked on her face and a tingle warmed its way up her spine. She shook her head. No business at all. But schooling her thoughts grew more difficult as the days passed.
The slender wand of purplish-blue blossoms waved and bounced as she clipped the bottom stems and slid them into her mother’s vase. Their delicate scent wafted on a breeze as she carried them into the kitchen. She set them on the counter and stepped back to admire them. Just lovely.
Maybe Ike deserved reconsideration. Was he really trying to change? He’d been nothing but solicitous since Papa died. Without his help where would she be? A flush tingled up her neck and across her face. Had he truly intended to kiss her the other night? Would she honestly have allowed him?
She gathered a dustrag to clean the house. But action didn’t prove strong enough to call her thoughts away. No, she wouldn’t be so foolish as to take up with Ike again. Papa had never fully approved of him, and fortunately she saw his reasons firsthand before she said, “I do.”
It had been the emotions of the day and Ike’s surprise visit that caught her off balance. Pastor Evans had preached last Sunday about temptation being stronger when one became too hungry, angry, lonely or tired. She thanked God for the timely reminder.
But if she had led Ike to believe his chances for reconciliation had improved that night, she needed to quell the thought.
She shook out the crocheted antimacassar from the chair and settled it in place. Soon as she finished, she’d try to find Ike and ask if the flowers came from him, at least. She also needed to pick up a few supplies from Mr. Anthony’s store. It wouldn’t be the same with Ike’s men running the counter. But until affairs were settled, they had taken over the business.
