by Regina Scott
Bridger nodded and rubbed his neck, muscles stiff as an oak board. “All right.”
Jake climbed into the saddle, settling with a creak. “This isn’t the end for you with Lola. She’ll forgive you once she realizes why you’re doing this.”
“I hope so.”
“Sounds like you could use some faith,” Jake said. “You have until tomorrow to figure it out. I’ll be at her place by eight o’clock. You be gone by seven.”
Bridger threw a pebble into the dark ripples at the river’s edge. “I know what needs done. I just want this whole mess behind me.”
Jake trotted away from the stand of trees on his horse, leaving Bridger at the water’s edge. Having a plan of action helped but gave him no certainty as to the outcome. The entire case could fall apart at his feet.
“Lord,” he prayed, “it shames me to come to You now that I’ve made such a mess of things. Forgive me. I see where so much of this could’ve been prevented had I asked Your guidance from the start. But this is the tangle I’m in. I understand there are consequences for the way I’ve been living, turning my back on Your love and wisdom, and I’ll accept whatever You, in Your mercy, send my way. But, Lord, let it fall on me. Don’t punish Frank for my mistakes, and keep Lola safe. And please, Jesus, let this work.”
He opened his eyes, the darkness of the day filling in every nook and cranny of the woods around him. The scent of grass and rush of water caught on the evening breeze. He’d never been good at those big, fancy prayers he’d heard growing up in church, and he’d been long out of practice before coming to Quiver Creek. But in spite of all that, his breath came easier and his shoulders felt lighter than they had in years.
He still wasn’t sure how to accomplish what needed done, but his heart swelled with confidence the Lord would show him what to do and say when the moment arrived. It wasn’t the instant response he might have preferred, but he accepted it.
He stood and brushed dew that dampened the ground by the river off his pants. Turning in early would give him the energy he needed to face tomorrow. Sleep wouldn’t come easy, but after staying awake through last night, he didn’t think worry would be enough to deter him from some rest.
Beefy hands grabbed his shoulders as he pushed a weary boot into the stirrup, dragging him to the dirt with a thud. The jolt knocked breath from him, and he struggled to his elbows. He kicked into the darkness, and he was rewarded with a curse and punished with a slug to the face. He fell, but brawny fists pulled him upright by the collar.
Bridger planted his feet and barreled forward. He landed a punch to the side of his attacker before strong arms hauled him back. His upper arms pinned, he kicked again with his feet, but the angle, exhaustion and surprise of the attack made him ineffective. A solid fist crashed against his ribs twice and slashed against his face. Hat long gone, the attacker twisted Bridger’s hair at the crown and pulled, jerking his chin to face Toby’s toothy grin.
“You fight pretty good for a scrawny runt, boy.” A knife glittered in Toby’s fist, edge tracing along the path of the scar Bridger had borne since boyhood. “But I’ve had enough fun for one evening.”
Arms like logs squeezed his ribs and jostled him enough to crack his teeth. A raspy voice buzzed behind his head. “This is crazy, Toby. Either we need him or we don’t, but—”
“This is what Ike ordered. We’re all too deep not to stick with him at this point. Besides, we’re not to kill him.” Toby’s eyes glittered. “This is just a friendly little reminder from the boss, Jamison. He thought you might need a bit more convincing before you went to visit Miss Fancy-Britches.”
The cool blade rested against Bridger’s chin and grazed his neck. He struggled to control his breath and firm his footing.
“I could extend this line for you. Slice you right down the middle. Or maybe Jim here could snap your neck, quick and easylike. More humane that way,” Toby said.
“Like those others,” Jim said.
“Shut up!” Toby moved the knife behind Bridger’s ear, and his tight grasp slackened. “The boss managed to run the game this long. You want to cross him, you ain’t the only man here can snap a neck. You got that, Jim?” The trees vibrated with Toby’s roar.
The man behind him shifted. His hold against Bridger tightened as Toby focused him.
“You put that lady undertaker on notice and she pays up, you won’t have to worry about anything else. If you don’t—” Toby pushed the knife tip against Bridger’s chest “—you’ll never rest again, until it’s permanent. Unless, of course, we take it out on that brother of yours.”
Bridger struggled, his arm breaking free. He shoved Toby’s wrist and knocked the knife but gained two clouts to his sore ribs and a fierce cuff to his head that dimmed his vision. “I said I’d do it, didn’t I?”
Toby stepped back. He nodded and the men loosed him. “Then I suggest you practice your delivery. Because if you don’t convince that woman a little better than you did the boss, we’ll be back.”
Bridger tried to draw a deep breath. Pain sliced across his ribs like a match on flint. But he stood straight, determined not to give Ike’s men the satisfaction of grabbing his side. “I know my job.”
Jim brought the knife to Toby, who held it up, then made a show of returning it to its sheath. “So long as you and the boss have an understanding you’ll stick to,” Toby said. He dipped his head, backing away as the others slipped out through the trees. With a cold, narrow smile, he joined them, escaping into the dark.
Bridger leaned over, hand pressed to his side. His breath crept painfully over damaged ribs. Nothing broken, only bruised.
One thought came as he fought his hazy vision and shuffled to his horse.
He hadn’t expected an audible response to his prayer. Especially not one delivered by Toby.
*
Lola tucked stockinged feet beneath her on Mother’s rocking chair and settled into the cushions with a favorite book. While the days had warmed considerably into May, evenings still made a fire necessary. She enjoyed the coziness of the house, quiet after a busy week.
A knock drew her from the story with a start. She waited, listening for another to tell her which door to answer. Ah! A visitor!
She scrambled to the door, wondering what might have Grace out so late. No one else from town came to mind, especially since she’d cleared the air with Ike.
She cracked the door open. Bridger paced on her porch in the shadows. It brought to memory the night they’d met, but now the thought brought a small smile. How wrong she’d been to judge him on appearance alone. “It’s rather late to start working in the woodshop tonight, isn’t it?” she teased.
His feet shifted and he glanced about. “I know it’s not exactly proper, Lola, but can I come in?”
She blinked, her smile falling flat. His tone sounded strange, low and tight. The door wobbled from her grasp and opened wider. “All right. Sure, come in.”
He leaned through and pulled the hat from his head. Lantern light revealed a purple haze around his left eye and scuff on his chin. Was that a cut on his lip? Her heart clenched and she reached toward him. “What happened to you?”
Pulling his hand from his side, he blocked her from drawing near. He stepped closer to the fire, but without the loose ease he normally carried. “Sit down, Lola.”
“You look like twenty miles of bad road. You sit, before you topple. My bag of medical supplies is—”
“I’m fine, Lola. Take a seat.”
Her hands fluttered over her hair, smoothing loose strands. Confusion and alarm vied for her attention. “I didn’t expect company,” she said, her tongue caught in a stutter. “I was lost in a book and—”
“This isn’t a social call. I probably should have gone to the mortuary.” His brown eyes flickered a moment, and then the light blew out like a lantern before a storm. “I have business with you, Miss Martin.”
She wrinkled her face. “‘Miss Martin’? What’s going on, Bridger? I should hope we
were well beyond the formalities of—”
“I said, sit down!” His hand at her shoulder startled her and shoved her to the soft seat behind. “My boss sent me to clear up a matter of some money you owe.”
Lola jerked, thankful for the chair under her. “Money? Your boss? You mean Ike? I don’t owe him any money.”
“Your father borrowed money before he died. You’re required to pay the balance, or Mr. Tyler will own your business.” His voice sounded wooden and stiff, but perhaps that quality came from her mind.
“But I live here!”
“Exactly. Your home and business both can be claimed.”
Lola poised on the edge of the cushion. “My father ran a fine business in this town. He had no need of a loan. This is preposterous!”
Bridger withdrew a small book from inside his coat with stiff purpose. “He secured funds to send you to medical school, Lola.”
“But how? Why? He had no notion I wanted to be a doctor!” She blinked hard to wash tears from her eyes.
Bridger faced her, his expression stone-hard. “Mr. Tyler says he wanted to have the finances before he told you, but he inquired back East about your acceptance into college.” His shoulders twitched and his voice softened. “Your father knew you better than anyone, Lola. He knew, and he wanted to give you your heart’s desire.”
She flew to her feet, forcing Bridger back a step. Her clenched fingers shoved the book against his ribs and he grimaced. “Tell me what’s going on here! What’s happened to you? You’re hurt. Let me—”
“No!” His voice rattled the windows. He grasped her wrist in his hot, calloused hands and pushed her away with firm pressure. “Look in this ledger and tell me this isn’t your father’s writing.”
She stared at him, his eyes devoid of light, all tenderness vanished. Her gaze dropped to the book in his hand, and she took it from him. She opened the front cover.
The original sum on the front page staggered her. She fell back to the chair with a gasp. The figures were written in crisp, neat rows, carefully recorded. She couldn’t deny her father’s hand.
She shook her head, the numbers swirling as she studied the book through a veil of tears. She flipped over the next several pages, but the balance remained where it had upon Papa’s death. Tallying the amount of seven months’ payments in her mind brought a cold chill to the pit of her stomach. Maintaining the payment would be difficult enough without late payments to account for. Why would Papa make this kind of bargain? Her dreams weren’t worth Papa’s loss.
She wiped her hand across one eye, but not fast enough to catch tears falling from the other. “There’s more going on here. How did Ike get this? Why didn’t he come to me before?”
Bridger drew a shallow breath. “Mr. Tyler hoped you could arrive at another arrangement, but I understand that’s no longer the case. As for the ledger, I found it among your father’s things.”
Lola’s head throbbed. Something was missing. “You brought this to Ike’s attention. Is that it?”
His lean frame grew rigid. He raised his chin and broke his gaze from her pained expression. “He was grateful for the reminder. We’re splitting the profit from the interest.”
Lola trembled, pulling to her feet. How could she have been so blind, so wrong about Bridger? Hadn’t she learned anything from her broken engagement? She met his glassy stare. Why had she played the fool again? She’d been so sure Bridger Jamison was a far different sort of man.
She moved to the canister kept behind a loose brick in the fireplace. Her savings held nothing close to what she owed, but she could pay one month in good faith and discuss the matter with Ike. He had loved her once, of that she felt certain. Surely enough lingered to provide her some leeway. She bit her lip and thrust the bills under Bridger’s nose. “This should tide you over until next month. I’m afraid it’s all I have right now. You can tell your boss I’ll stop by tomorrow to renegotiate my balance.”
He took the bills, avoiding her fiery glare, and had the audacity to count them in front of her. “I appreciate your promptness in dealing with the matter, ma’am,” he said. His lips mashed together, crumpling at the ends. He moved toward the door with an unsteady gait. “I’ll see you next month.”
Lola caught him at the door, muscles tense with desire to crush his lithe form in it. “Don’t bother. I’ll be dealing directly with Mr. Tyler and his other men.” She drew herself up. “The snake that rattles at least provides a warning.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bridger faced Lola as he stepped onto the porch. The broken trust in her glare staggered him. She looked slight and forlorn in the shadows, lips drawn tight with anger. Her long, pale fingers clung to the ledger. His heart jumped in his chest and he stretched an arm toward her. Her flinch cut him, and he knew he couldn’t go through with this charade. There had to be another way. “Lola, I have to tell you—”
But her gaze focused beyond him. “What’s that glow?” she asked.
He pivoted on his heel to follow her line of vision. Heavy fog reflected a red glow somewhere around the bend in the road, toward the middle of town. Fire!
“That’s the hotel!” Lola picked up her skirts and dashed over the steps.
The stitch in his ribs stabbed him as he struggled to keep up. They joined the throng, the whole town racing. Some scrambled for buckets while others shuffled children away from the flames. Men closest to the hotel tossed water from nearby wooden troughs. Women joined in the battle, forming brigade lines. Jake Anderson ordered men into position, his commands all but drowned out by the roar and crackle of the blaze.
Bridger pushed through the crowd, guiding Lola from behind. They joined a second bucket line, and he grabbed the pump handle. The first tug burned along his ribs.
“You can’t, Bridger.” Lola thrust him away. “I’ll do it.”
“Faster together,” he said. “Help me.”
Together they locked hands along the red saloon pump. Bridger lost track of time as buckets, pots and wash bins of all shapes and sizes waited to capture the cool water they forced from the ground. Hot smoke blew toward him. He raised his bandanna to cover his nose, but Lola had no such protection. She coughed soot from her lungs, and her hair slipped from its knot. Ash-gray streaks clung to her cheeks. But she hung on and matched him pull for pull, with a stiff shake of her head in refusal of the neckerchief he offered.
“That hotel’s a goner,” one breathless voice said.
“Can’t let it get to the mercantile,” another added.
“Tyler won’t be happy.”
He couldn’t bother to focus on anything except to keep the water flowing. If the fire spread, it endangered all of Quiver Creek.
Time lost meaning before the roar that filled the night around them dulled to a sharp crackle of embers. He continued to pump, determined not to fail Lola again.
Her soft touch at his shoulder grabbed his attention. “Bridger! It’s enough. The fire’s all but out now. You have to rest.” She drew his clamped hands away and tugged the kerchief from his face. “We kept it from spreading. But the hotel is gone.”
Bridger grabbed her roughened hand in his and dragged her toward the source of roiling smoke. The grand hotel Ike envisioned lay in a pile of glowing embers. Townspeople stood in quiet pods around the destruction, panting for lack of air and breath. He caught sight of Jake seated on the porch of the general store, where Grace wrapped a bandage around his upper arm.
Catching sight of Lola, she called out in a raspy voice for her friend. Lola grabbed his sleeve and dragged him behind. Maybe she would try to turn him in after all. The coward in him hoped she would.
“What happened?” she asked.
Jake shrugged. “Too soon to know.”
Lola snapped her hands against her hips. “I mean to you!”
He glanced at the cloth Grace tied off. “Caught a burn, but it’s not bad.”
Bridger knew from his blanched face the instant Jake remembered what the fire fight h
ad interrupted. “Listen, Lola,” the marshal began, “we really need to talk about—”
Ike’s voice boomed from the quiet of the crowd. “I found the rat that started this fire!” Toby and Jim broke through the cluster of folks gathered and shoved their captive to the ground. The huge man collapsed to his knees, bracing with his hands. When the fearful eyes rose to the people around him, Bridger leaped.
Frank!
He stormed ahead, shaking off Jake’s hands to help his brother. “What’s going on here?”
Ike smoothed his mustache, face pale and clean in the aftermath, as if he stepped fresh from the bathhouse. Far be it for the man to appear mussed and dirty in public, even if it meant saving his own business.
“I came out when I heard the commotion, saw the flames coming from the hotel. Fortunately, Toby and Jim were surveying the town and saw this strange fellow throw a torch into the back of my hotel!”
Bridger stepped between his brother and Ike. “That’s impossible!”
Toby shoved him back.
Ike’s voice rose above the crowd. “Look at him! I knew the minute I saw him in this town that big freak would bring nothing but trouble!”
Bridger’s chest grew tight. “He’s my brother, and he hasn’t done a thing wrong.”
Ike smirked. “I trust my men. And I know what I’ve heard from folks in the towns you’ve passed through.”
Bridger resisted the press of the crowd and leaned back to grab his brother’s arm as murmurs grew louder.
“Awful big fella.”
“Doesn’t look right in the head, does he?”
“Probably don’t even know what he’s done. Ought to be locked up, man like that.”
Bridger lunged at Ike. “Tell them the truth!”
The marshal stepped between, blocking him before he met his target. “Don’t push this,” Jake whispered.
Bridger coughed and grabbed his tight ribs. “I’m not going to let this mob get my brother,” he ground out.
Jake stared at him, weighing the choice in the balance. Then he held his hands up, never breaking his gaze from Bridger’s. “My name is Jake Anderson. I’m a U.S. marshal here to investigate the death of your sheriff. I’m taking this man into custody for questioning in regards to the fire until I can gather the information I need.”
