Wyoming Promises. Kerri Mountain
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evening.”
Bridger shifted as Ike shook out the match and took a long draw. “Unless you need me, I plan to see Miss Martin about those coffins before I turn in. I’d like to check out the tools and materials I’ll need so I can start early next week.”
Ike glanced out the window by his desk. “Not quite dusk yet—you ought to have time. You’re in a lot of hurry, though, son. All work and no play—”
“All due respect, Mr. Tyler, you ain’t near old enough to be my pa, so I’ll thank you to not call me ‘son.’”
Fire blazed across Ike’s face, but he ground out his cigar with deliberate slowness, snuffing his anger out with it. “Merely a manner of speaking, and I apologize.” Ike’s stare penetrated in a way that made Bridger’s anger build. “You seem in an awful big hurry to make money. How much do you owe?”
Bridger stepped closer, tilting his chin to meet Tyler’s snide glare. “I told you, I don’t owe any man. But I do have plans for that money, and the sooner I can earn my way out of here, the happier I’ll be.”
Ike moved to the edge of his desk and leaned against it. “You’re planning on leaving already?”
“Not exactly.” Bridger stepped back, pulling his shoulders straight. “But there’s nothing wrong with a man having plans for something more, and I have some of my own.”
Ike crossed his arms and stared at his feet a moment, as if considering. “I understand that drive myself, Bridger, and I like to hire men who have ambitions. Keeps them focused. But hold those aspirations in check. Nothing interferes with my plans.”
“You won’t have any complaints about my work, Mr. Tyler. I guarantee you that. But you also won’t stop me when I’m ready to move on.”
Ike stood and smiled, giving Bridger a hearty pound to the shoulder. “Well, then, I guess it’s my job to be sure you’re in a position you can’t walk away from.” He smiled in a way that didn’t connect with his tightly controlled anger of moments before. “I can do that, Bridger. I can. And I have a whole crew out there to prove it.”
* * *
Bridger trudged up the stairway and creaked open the door of the room he shared with Frank. It wasn’t large by any standard, but it held a bed, a battered desk and a dry sink with a mirror, along with the two of them, without anything getting knocked over every time one of them turned around. The cleanliness of the room surprised him, even if the walls sorely needed to be planed and painted, and stood paper-thin. All told, they hadn’t had a nicer place to stay since they’d left home—and maybe before then.
Frank sat at the desk near the window, scratching pictures of horses into the old copybook he’d carried with him all the way West. Bridger peered over his shoulder, admiring the graceful lines of ink seeping into the thick pages. “For such a big guy, you sure can hold that tiny pen well.”
Frank wiped the nib and carefully stopped the ink bottle before turning. “I was just here waiting on you, Bridge. I sat by the window so I wouldn’t need to light no lanterns.”
“All right,” Bridger said. He set the covered plate he carried onto the desk next to Frank and turned to the dry sink. Frank never lit the lantern. He’d been afraid of fire ever since the night of the accident. Bridger shook his head as he washed. He’d tried to get his brother to strike a match once he’d...recovered, but after a while, Frank’s continued fear made him give up.
“That’s okay. I shouldn’t be this late most nights. I can light it before I head over to Miss Martin’s place. You want supper? Might as well eat while it’s still hot.”
Frank beamed and peeked under the cloth covering the plate. Bridger watched his face light, then fall as he flipped the cloth back.
Shaking his hands and wiping them dry, Bridger pulled the napkin away. “What’s the matter? There’s plenty here. Pull out the camp plate and we’ll split it.”
Frank sighed and moved for the plate and utensils they kept on the tiny shelf over the bed. “Steak and baked potato again?”
“Yep, and what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothin’.”
“I like steak. I’d eat it every day if I could.” Bridger cut the steak and potato and slid half onto the spare plate. “You don’t like it?”
“Sure.”
Frank sat on the bed and took his plate, staring at it with resignation. “I like fried chicken and mashed potatoes, too, Bridge.”
Bridger cut into the steak and sampled a bite, cooked through and fairly tender. He cut another bite before answering. “I’m sure the menu changes. I’ll ask Mattie, okay? Now eat before it gets cold.”
“Wait! We have to say grace first.” Frank laid his plate to the side and bowed his head. Bridger wiped his mouth with a guilty nod. Frank never forgot to say grace—even for a meal he wasn’t particularly fond of.
“Jesus, thanks for this food, and for my brother, Bridger, who doesn’t get mad when I do dumb things and who got this food for us. Amen.”
Hair prickled down Bridger’s neck. “What ‘dumb thing’ did you do, Frank?”
His brother, suddenly interested in the meal, avoided his glare. “Nothin’ special.”
“How about you tell me and I’ll decide.” He felt frustration wave up. After spending the day with Toby, trouble was the last thing he needed.
“You said I could go for a walk during the day.” Frank didn’t go so far as to point at him, but Bridger heard it in his tone.
Bridger pushed his plate aside and drew a deep breath. He’d long learned that getting angry with Frank only made the problem worse. “That’s right—I did. So where did you go?”
“Around the field by the church...”
“And?”
“And back through the town, the way we rode in...past that lady’s house.” Frank’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“What lady?”
“The lady with the pretty black hair, who lives in that house around the bend.” It came out in a whoosh of soft breath.
“Miss Martin?” Bridger looked out the window and across the roofs of the businesses next door. “What happened?”
“Nothin’, I promise! She didn’t even see me.” Frank always managed to tell the story through his protests.
“Why would she? You weren’t anywhere near her, right?”
“But I had to help the cat and that’s all, Bridger. I didn’t mean to fall and crash her door.” His brother looked at him with a curious mix of determination, fear and truth.
“‘Crash her door’? Hard? Did she hear you?”
“She didn’t leave the porch or nothin’. I ran away quick. I know you said—”
“Calm down, Frank.” He stood and settled his brother with a hand to his shoulder, his thoughts flying like a racehorse. “She probably didn’t even hear you.”
“Yes, she did! I heard her tell the other pretty lady.”
Bridger groaned. “If you’re close enough to hear, you’re too close, Frank!” His anger echoed against the bare walls, and he forced his tone to ease.
“I’m sorry, Bridger. Don’t be mad. I know what you said. It was dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”
Bridger slumped to the bed next to his brother and wrapped an arm around his broad shoulders, swaying a little until his mind cleared and Frank’s breathing returned to normal.
“I’m sorry, too, Frank. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s been kind of