Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (82 page)

Chapter Eleven

B
ridger 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?

“Saying goodbye is not easy. We don't like to do it even when we have reasonable expectation and intention of seeing our loved ones again within a few days,” Pastor Evans said.

Bridger clasped the top of his hat in his hand and nodded in agreement. Ike had put him in charge of seeing Mr. Anthony and his family to the rail depot with another supply order to pick up for the return trip. Frank wouldn't like it, and Bridger knew he'd taken the coward's way by waiting to tell him just before he left. But the money had been too good to pass up.

He thought of the savings that grew in the little pouch stashed in his saddlebags. Before long, he'd need to consider a bank at this rate. If he held on to this job for several more months, he might have the funds to get his own place and set up shop. A year or two, he'd afford that little ranch Frank dreamed about.

If only Frank would listen to reason and stay put. Bridger didn't like the idea of leaving him for what might be the better part of a week, holed up in that room. But it had to be...for a while longer.

“But the Lord does not leave us comfortless. He sends His spirit in special ways at these hardest times. He will not leave our minds weary and our fragile hearts without protection,” the pastor continued.

Lola bowed her head into her gloved hands, but the sound of her muffled sobs traveled to where he sat. Ike swept a handkerchief from his suit coat with grand flair and tapped it against her shoulder.

Bridger's scar pulled taut as his jaw clenched. He shifted forward in the pew, irritated with Ike's hovering. Irritated, too, with the way Lola allowed it.

He stiffened in the seat. Ike said he'd once had a claim on her heart and planned to again. He couldn't picture a fine, Godly woman like Lola with a barkeep, though. People and circumstances changed, and he grudgingly admitted Ike possessed qualities a lady might mistake for charm. Except something more rang false when it came to Ike. Bridger couldn't nail down anything for certain, but it didn't dovetail.

Pastor Evans drew his attention again with his gentle smile and direct way of saying things. “Cecil lived a good life, he'd be the first to tell you, and a Godly one witnessed by we who knew him. Our town will miss him, but he isn't lost forever. To those who love and serve Jesus Christ as he did, Cecil has only moved into the storehouse of God, and we'll see him again someday.”

Bridger tapped his hat brim with his bandaged finger. Could that have been what riled Mr. Anthony about him? He'd believed in Jesus, the Son of God, from the time he'd been a little feller at his grandmother's knee. But that foundation seemed to lack a first story, let alone whatever built up beyond that. Did the old man sense the lack in him?

He stood with the rest of the town for the minister's final prayer. Trusting Jesus was real didn't seem nearly so hard as believing that mattered in his daily life. In the same way, Frank knowing their need for money came easier than understanding why he'd be gone for a week. Bridger squared his shoulders at the thought of the coming fight.

* * *

Lola opened the door for Bridger and Ike's men to carry Mr. Anthony in for one final night as her guest. “Place the casket on the table.” She unpinned her hat and set it on the stand in the corner.

Toby and Jasper Ferris dropped their end with a careless thump. “Be careful!” she said. “Mr. Anthony deserves more care and respect!”

Bridger and the other men lowered the foot of the coffin with a gentle slide against the leather-covered table. She took a deep breath and held the door open, her nerves working overtime. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, fighting tears from her throat.

Her head bowed, she blinked tears away as they filed out without comment. One pair of boots stopped in her vision. Bridger.

“That was a real nice service, Lola. You do a good thing here.”

She smiled, pleased he'd made a point to tell her so. “You did, too. Most men would not take as much care with something so...practical.”

His grin came gentle, lifting the edge of the scar. “Every piece of wood deserves my best work, the way I see it. Maybe even more so for such...practical things. Besides, your pa left clear instructions. I can tell he took pride in his work, too.”

“Thank you.” She'd missed Bridger over the past few days, busy with arrangements for the Anthony family and meeting with Marshal Anderson. “It was good of you to come, being new to town and all. I'd be happy for you to continue your work for me, if you're still of a mind.”

“That's what I wanted to tell—”

A sharp knock drew her attention to the door, still open in her hand.

A broad figure filled the entry. “Lola, I wonder if I might speak with you a moment?” He glanced at Bridger. “Is this a good time?”

“Of course...Jake. Uh, come inside.” She motioned him in, closing the door partway. Bridger stood frozen, a blank, uncertain look on his face. She sensed tension building from his squared shoulders to his rough hands, resting where his gun belt would be.

“Jake, this is Bridger Jamison. He's the gentleman I spoke of before. Bridger, this is Mar—Mr. Jake Anderson, from up Montana way. He's come to Quiver Creek on business.”

“What kind of business might that be, sir?” Bridger asked. His tone drew out soft and low, belying his stance.

Jake waved his hand in a friendly gesture. “Any business that proves exciting. A little bit of everything to get what I need.”

“Sounds interesting.” Bridger's tone fell flat and his eyes glazed. He appeared...suspicious.

“I'll be in town for a while now, Mr. Jamison, and I'd enjoy learning more about your work.”

“That so?” He shot a hard glance at Lola and she flinched. “Miss Martin must've had plenty to say about me. You have need of a carpenter?”

“I may. One never can tell which acquaintances might be most helpful,” Jake said, his tone cool.

“Bridger has shown himself to be a fine craftsman.” She closed the door to a finger-width to prevent their voices from carrying to any passersby. “In fact, in working with him over the past week or so, I feel confident that you might share with him the nature of your occupation. We could use Bridger's help.”

Bridger's gaze threw daggers her way. What was he thinking?

His jaw quaked. “Is that right? Sounds rather cozy, now, doesn't it?”

Did he think...? Was Bridger jealous?

Jake looked between them, and she bit her lip. The marshal had wanted to introduce himself in his own way and time, but he'd have to question Bridger at some point. The sooner he sorted out Bridger's story, the sooner he could focus on his other matters, right?

Bridger drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “You don't need to tell me anything, Lola. You're a grown woman running a business of your own, and I'm the hired hand. I'm smart enough to figure this without any explanation. You don't have to worry about me flapping my gums about it, either. The company you keep is up to you.” He stormed to her side, hand on the door latch.

“No, Bridger, listen!”

“Hold up,” Jake said. He stretched his long arm out to the door and pushed it completely closed, Lola's fingers slipping out of danger at the last instant. “Let me introduce myself properly, Mr. Jamison. I'm Jake Anderson, U.S. marshal. And I'd be mighty interested in hearing just how you wound up with the body of a dead sheriff for delivery.”

* * *

Bridger stepped away, glancing between Lola and Jake in the darkening morgue. Muscles relaxed and calm wariness overtook frustration, as he offered to shake the lawman's hand. “I'm glad to meet you, Marshal. I started to give up on you.”

“That so?” the man said, his deep tone laced with doubt.

“You don't know how anxious I am to clear this matter.” Not to mention the strange relief he felt knowing the man's true interest in Lola.

She looked flustered, eyes darting about the room. “Would you like to move this conversation into my parlor, gentlemen?”

The marshal waved her off, facing Bridger. “This is fine. So, Mr. Jamison, tell me your story.” He pulled a tablet from inside his coat pocket.

Bridger removed his hat and ran fingers over his hair, drawing them down along the scar. “There's not much to the story. I came through the pass on my way into Quiver Creek and stopped for the night to set up camp. When I went to get firewood, I found the body a few feet off the trail. Loaded him onto my horse and brought him to town, here to the undertaker.”

Lola gave a tentative grin as she lit a lantern. The warmth of the flame reflected off the cedar shelf, adding a rosy glow to her cheeks.

Anderson wrote a few things, then flipped back a couple pages and read something written there. His boots shifted, the pencil scratched, every sound magnified by the solemn bareness of the room. Then the marshal looked up and tried to stare the truth from him.

Bridger held the man's gaze, steady and hard. He had nothing to hide on that account. It made little difference that Frank had discovered the body first.

“You think you could show me the place?”

“Yes, sir. I'm heading out of town tomorrow early, be back by week's end. I could ride up there with you Saturday.”

The marshal's stare went from cool to frozen. “What's calling you out of town?”

“I'm to deliver Mr. Anthony's body to the train depot in Ralston and run a few errands on the way back.”

“Did the Anthony family secure your services?” He kept writing, fingers moving nearly as fast as the questions, not bothering to look up.

“No, my boss is helping them. He's sending me.”

Anderson flipped to the back of his notepad, scanning through with his pencil. “I understand you work for Ike Tyler. He's accommodating the family, you say?”

Bridger glanced at Lola again, her slim brow quirked as she focused on the marshal. “As a favor to Miss Lola,” he said.

The warmth of her hand on his wrist surprised him. “Let me say something here.” Her voice rose, firm and light. “Mr. Jamison arrived at my door late in the evening as a stranger. Then he brought in the body of not only our town sheriff, but a dear friend. Having conversations with him over the past few weeks, and seeing his work and concern for others, I no longer doubt his story is true.”

“You're vouching for his character?” the marshal asked, his gaze just as firm and direct with her.

Eyes wide, Bridger watched her vision waver from his too-long hair to his worn collar. She shivered when her gaze followed the trail of his scar, and he looked away.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” she said. But the tremor in her voice couldn't be missed.

Marshal Anderson made a few notes and then closed his tablet with a cool smile. “Mr. Tyler helps you a lot, doesn't he, Lola?”

She nodded, her cheeks painted a faint blush. The coolness of the room brushed Bridger's arm as she removed her gloved hand. “We're friends from way back,” she said, but her tone held defense.

“So I understand,” Jake said. “In fact, word through town is, you were engaged at one time, isn't that right?”

Color blossomed across her face. “Years ago.”

Bridger planted his boots into the floorboards, fighting his desire to protect her. But the lawman's eyes turned kindly, and he patted Lola's crossed arms. “I don't mean to throw past choices into the present, Lola. But I'm here to ask the questions and discover if any crime has been committed.”

She returned a tremulous smile. “I understand.”

Bridger understood, too, with sharp, sudden clarity. A woman who had feelings for a man wasn't always the best judge of character, he knew from experience. No matter how many folks tried to step in and help, hadn't Mother denied them all to stay with their father? Despite the alcohol, the fighting?

He looked at Lola. Knowing so much but still trusting. Maybe too much so. Enough that, in spite of whatever caused their wedding to be called off, she still didn't fully see the kind of man Ike was.

And if her judgment had proved wrong once, how much merit did her confidence in
his
story hold? Her forgiving nature, Ike's renewed attentiveness and Lola's vulnerability caused her suspicions to wane, it seemed—while the marshal's questions focused his own. Ike eagerly helped anyone who could profit him in some way, he noticed. Lola's beauty and community ties would advance Ike's standing, just as Toby's construction knowledge established a fine hotel and Mattie's vivacious personality drew business. Ike paid well, for certain—and held it out like a carrot on a stick to make a mule move. Which begged the question—how was Ike using
him?