Wyoming Promises. Kerri Mountain
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a mountain out of a molehill. Miss Martin didn’t see you, right?”
Frank nodded. Bridger breathed a sigh of relief.
“Good. And I’m to go and talk with her this evening, anyway. I’ll see if she says anything about today. It’s probably slipped her mind already. In any case, she wouldn’t know it was you. But you have to promise me, Frank. You have to promise you’ll stay away from the busy part of town. And no going near people’s houses, all right?”
“All right.” Frank nodded with vigor, eyes gleaming with promise.
Bridger sat down again and bumped shoulders with Frank. “It will be all right. We scary-looking guys have to watch out for each other, that’s all.”
* * *
Lola started at the faint knock outside her front door. Another late-night guest? She marked the book she read, smoothed her hair into place and wound her way through the empty preparation room. Blue sky peeked through the window, but muted gray crept over the buildings as the sun sank below the mountains.
With a deep breath, she opened the door. “Mr. Jamison?”
“Bridger, ma’am.” Though his stance took full advantage of what height he had, his eyes drooped with fatigue. “I hoped it wouldn’t be too late to take a look at your father’s workshop. I’d like to find plans and see what supplies are on hand. Then, if I think I can do the job, I’ll start next week, if that’s agreeable to you.”
Tension across her shoulders eased at his businesslike tone. “That sounds fair...Bridger. Come in and I’ll get the key.”
His weary eyes scanned the room over her shoulder, then glanced along the street behind him. “With all due respect, ma’am, I think it’s best I meet you around back at the shed.”
Whether the nature of the room behind her or concern for her reputation prompted him, Lola appreciated his propriety.
Bridger’s shadowed form rounded the corner as she stepped onto the narrow porch. The brilliant sunset of a clear day lent a golden glow to the last rays that clung in spots around them, reluctant to make a complete escape. It burnished the rim of his hat, highlighted the angry scar across his face, lit his eyes with a warm glow.
Lola forced her attention to her trembling hand. She jammed the key into the lock. Bridger Jamison brought far more questions than she had answers.
“The U.S. marshal should arrive in a few days.” The lock sprang open and heat rushed to her cheeks as she faced the man.
Bridger dipped his head with a quirked smile. “Be glad to see him myself, ma’am. I’m anxious to clear any poor notions of my character.”
How many times had her father cautioned her about thinking out loud? “I apologize for the insinuation. You did a good thing, finding Pete and bringing him in like you did. I’ve just learned to be leery of strangers.”
His head tipped back, eyes blending with the growing darkness. “Mr. Tyler told me some of what you’ve been through this past while, and I’m sorry for your loss. It behooves you to be wary of scary-looking fellows like me.” He smiled and reached for the latch.
Lola bit her lip. She’d judged this man on circumstance and outward appearance, and her conscience pricked her. Yet not enough to prompt a full change of heart. Who was this man and what brought him to Quiver Creek? Maybe Grace was right. Having him in her employ would give her the opportunity to learn more about him—for better or for worse.
His voice interrupted her thoughts. “Mind if I light the lantern, ma’am?”
“Go ahead. The one Papa used should be inside the door.” She watched him trim the wick by feel alone and light it to a comforting glow within minutes.
“Anything you prefer I not touch in here?” he asked, keeping his lean back to her. He held the lantern at shoulder height and peered around the long room.
She wrapped her shawl tighter, looking to the gold-tinged peaks and stars winking in the darkening sky. The view failed to lure away memories brought on by the musty warm scent of wood shavings trickling through the doorway. Blinking tears from her eyes, she shook her head. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t a clue what’s in there. I haven’t opened the door since my father died.” She drew a snuffled breath. “You’re welcome to use whatever you find. I appreciate you considering the job.”
His warm hand grasped her forearm as she turned to go. The warmth of his calloused fingers clashed with the cool, damp night, and she shivered. Or perhaps the tenderness in his gaze caused the tremor. She bit the inside of her cheek to forge away fresh tears.
“I can do this another time, ma’am. I forget how quickly darkness settles here in the mountains. This might be easier by daylight.”
She knew by his tone he spoke to her emotions, not to what suited him. “No, you should have time for a quick look around before the lantern won’t be enough. Papa kept his notes in a box at the far end.” She gestured to the narrow door. “You’re welcome to take those along to study. They should give you the details you need as far as supplies and such. I’ll leave you to your search.”
* * *
Bridger held the lantern high, its light wobbling against dusty tan walls and glimmering tools. Even in the dimness, he saw two things: Lola’s father kept his work space neat, and he’d done more than fashion coffins. There were a large variety of tools, some old but well cared for, others with hardly a scratch to them.
His hands itched to think of the fine tables and cabinets he could make when he had his own woodshop someday. The main material lacking seemed to be proper lengths of wood, which he could order. He made a mental note to check with the general-store owner to see where a smaller order could be placed, hoping to avoid another visit with Mr. Johnston.
A row of windows lined the western wall, allowing the last remnants of sunlight to mix with the lantern’s flickering glow. A similar row on the opposite wall would allow a good work space to take advantage of morning light, should he have opportunity to use it. It also gave a direct view of Lola’s back door. If Mr. Tyler was serious about him keeping an eye on his former sweetheart, he wouldn’t have to feel quite like a spy.
What did Ike expect him to see? Being alone, even in town, couldn’t be easy for her. Raw grief still clouded her clear green eyes when she spoke of her father. Maybe a little fear, too.
His thoughts turned to Frank. A man his size falling into her door had to make a commotion, and Frank knew she’d heard him. Was it still wearing on her mind as she turned in for the night? Dare he ask?
Every great once in a while, the thought struck through him that his life would be simpler had Frank not stepped in that night to his defense. Their father might well have killed him, but then Frank would have a mind to make his own way. Now it rested on Bridger to care for the brother he’d lived his childhood looking up to.
Picking up a mallet, Bridger pounded against the anvil, comforted somehow by its hollow echo. Being in this place as darkness took over wasn’t doing him any more good than it had Lola. He needed to grab the box and get back to Frank.
The Lord knew the mess they were in, all the hows and whys. Frank continually reminded him it was enough to trust He’d clear the way for them. But so far, that way seemed filled with bad roads and crooked paths.
Bridger found the box Miss Martin had mentioned, though smaller than what he’d imagined. He’d study her father’s notes in the evenings and be ready to work as soon as he secured the supplies. The more he had to keep his hands busy, the better off he’d be.
He grasped the box by the handles. If he could be certain Frank hadn’t been spotted yet, this would all be a little simpler.
* * *
Lola wiped the dishes, set the kettle to heat and swept the floor before giving up the pretense to wait by the kitchen window for the lantern light to go out in Papa’s woodshed. It brought a curious