A Place to Call Home

Traveling through the Wyoming wilderness, all Bridger Jamison wants is a job and a safe haven for his brother. Finding work with the lovely Lola Martin solves at least one of his problems. And the charming town of Quiver Creek seems like the perfect place to start a new life.

A string of mysterious deaths has the town—and Lola—on edge. She isn’t sure what to make of the new man in town. But she can’t help trusting the handsome carpenter who shows such tenderness toward his brother. When secrets come to light, Lola must put her faith in the man who’s stolen her heart, or risk letting a perfect love pass her by.…

“I meant no offense, Lola.”

Bridger stepped closer but refrained from reaching out. Instead, he dipped his head to catch her gaze.

She brushed a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry, too. I wasn’t fair to accuse you so quickly, either. We’ve had more than our share of grief and sadness in Quiver Creek these past few months. I’m praying for a better season ahead.”

Bridger nodded. “I hope for your sake that’s the case.” He turned to the tray, his appetite dulled. “I’m especially sorry to upset you after you went to the trouble of this fine lunch.”

Lola managed a shaky smile. “I’m sorry I allowed my lack of sleep and temper to get the best of me so that you’re forced to eat it cooled.”

“Let’s say we’re sort of even, then, and start where we were a half hour ago,” he said.

“Who’s to say I trusted you half an hour ago?” Her eyes lit with humor, but he recognized the truth in her jest.

His breathing eased as he focused on her guarded expression. “You offered me lunch and gave me the key to your father’s woodshop. At least I’m on the right track.”

KERRI MOUNTAIN

grew up surrounded by books and storytellers, writing stories of her own since elementary school. But she never thought of writing books until searching for a degree in children’s literature. What she found instead was a master’s degree program in writing popular fiction. With strong support of family and faculty, she learned to develop the seed of a story into a novel.

Kerri lives in rural western Pennsylvania with her parents on their small family farm, but enjoys traveling at every opportunity. She especially enjoys the mountains of Wyoming and visiting the National Parks. She is blessed by the quiet lifestyle of country living, and by spending time spoiling her nieces and nephews on a regular basis.

Wyoming Promises

Kerri Mountain

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what He has promised.

—Hebrews 10:36

In honor of my grandparents,

Gilbert and Mae Good,

and their legacy of faith, love and stories….

I can’t say thank you enough to my family and friends, who encourage me in so many ways. With special gratitude for the Whitlock family, who so graciously reacquainted me with Wyoming’s beauty when I needed it most. And thank you to Cindy Elliott, critique partner extraordinaire!

Praise the Lord for His many blessings!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Extract

Chapter One

Wyoming, 1870

Lola Martin opened her door and raised a lantern, its flame flickering in the cool night air.

“I’m looking for the undertaker, ma’am. Got a body for him.” The man’s voice was worn and gritty like an old straw tick, but his tone gave nothing away.

He glanced over her shoulder, as if the undertaker would appear from the shadows behind. Light reflected off his brown eyes as if off an empty store window. Desperation lurked in the hard lines of his face, making it difficult to guess his age. A deep scar cut across his cheek to the edge of his crooked lip, just escaping the whiskers that wouldn’t hide his stubborn jaw.

“I’m the undertaker. What can I do for you?”

His spurs rattled as he shifted, but if she surprised him, his face didn’t show it. He rocked his hat on his head and heaved a raw sigh. “I found a man dead out on the trail, not far from here. Head busted on a big rock. Looks like his horse threw him.”

Lola’s heart tripped. She wished the sheriff hadn’t been called out. Pete McKenna always kept an eye on her place, out on the edge of Quiver Creek. Grace, his wife, Lola’s dearest friend, insisted on it.

She’d have to find a way to notify the man’s family, and hoped he turned out to be some drifter. But her conscience pricked her. She should be praying the man died ready to meet his Maker. She hung the lantern outside the door and grabbed her shawl. “Let’s see him.”

The man’s jaw twitched. He stepped back to make way for her. “If it’s all right by you, ma’am, I’ll bring him inside. You tell me where you want him.”

The idea of a stranger bringing a “guest” into her home after dark gave her pause, but she couldn’t carry the body herself. No one else would be around at this hour. She looked into the man’s eyes, seeing the exhaustion shining from their dark depths. She didn’t recognize him, probably wouldn’t even without the pounds of trail dust he carried. He stood taller than her, though that didn’t say much for his height, and a worn hat sat low over his forehead. Lord, keep me safe, she prayed. She swallowed hard and nodded. “I’ll get the table ready.”

Lola swung the door wide, its knob bouncing against the inside wall. She pulled a fresh sheet from the corner cupboard and draped it over a long table in the middle of the room. Her stiff muscles and sleepy eyes protested the work ahead, but she couldn’t let it wait until morning. She’d at least clean him up before turning in. And she’d have to talk to Ike about a carpenter. Business had picked up in the months since her father’s death. Supplies she could order, but this “guest” would use the last remaining coffin he had made. She’d learned all aspects of the business from her father—except that one. She’d need to find a woodworker who could build a few to have on hand.

A blanket-wrapped body heaved over his shoulder dwarfed the stranger easing through the door. He walked with firm steps, spurs ringing as he trod across the wooden floorboards.

Lola closed the door and followed, lighting more lanterns. She pumped water into a kettle to heat. “Will you be around a few days, Mr.—?”

“Jamison. Bridger Jamison,” the man supplied. “Depends on whether or not I find work. Why?”

Lola rolled her sleeves, determined to prepare her guest with care. The slack body swayed as Mr. Jamison carried him, proof he’d lain on the trail long enough for rigor to pass. The head bobbed a little too freely. She suspected a broken neck had ended the man’s life in an instant. She donned a fresh apron. “Well, Mr. Jamison, I’m sure the sheriff will have questions, so he can investigate the death. He’s been called to help track a cougar that’s been aggravating the local ranchers.”

Mr. Jamison tensed as he bent over the body, laying it across the table with careful ease. He straightened with slow stiffness and then faced her. “I expected there’d be a man here, ma’am, no offense. I hoped to talk to him and explain what I could right off.” He drew a step closer, hand digging into the breast pocket of his long duster.

Lola drew back, hands frozen around the knob of her hair she’d twisted in preparation for the job ahead. The man held out a battered tin star that gleamed in the lantern light. “When I found him, this was pinned behind his lapel.”

Time froze as her gaze met his. Her hair fell down her shoulders, unsecured. Lola took the unmistakable medal from the man’s rough fingers. She stumbled to the table and jerked the blanket down. Pete McKenna’s rowdy red curls fell away from a gash and slight indent near the temple. His normally sun-darkened skin carried the pale grayish cast of death.

A sharp, cold pain sliced through her. “Precious Lord!” she cried, grabbing Pete’s collar and burying her face against his chest. “What will I tell Grace?” How could she tell the woman she loved like a sister the baby she carried would never know his pa?

Lola pressed the tin star into his vest. Tears blurred the letters proclaiming the job he held with such pride.

She’d tended bodies at her father’s side since her mother died, and on her own in the months since his death, but she’d never mastered the mechanical nature he always possessed when preparing guests for burial. Her empathy made her good with grieving families, Papa always said. Now compassion betrayed her as she sobbed, unable to think beyond the pain of this moment.

Calloused fingers brushed against her hair as Mr. Jamison patted her head. Lola didn’t face him, couldn’t hear any words said beyond the pounding in her ears and the ache in her heart.

When her sobs slowed to quiet tears, she draped the sheet back over Pete’s body. The soft jangle of spurs faded out the door that latched softly behind her.

* * *

Bridger trod the grit beneath his boots. He never could abide a woman’s tears. And the good Lord knew he’d seen more than his fair share in his twenty-seven years.

He led his horse along the bend into the main thoroughfare of the town, too tired to mount. No street fires lit the road this far out, but he heard lively music pouring from the saloon at the end of the street already.

Bridger didn’t feel very lively at the moment and had seen firsthand all the trouble liquor could bring to a man, but he’d also seen enough of Quiver Creek to know this was the only place he’d get a hot meal and a soft bed tonight.

He thought of his brother, Frank, still back at camp rumbling around on rocky ground. Guilt flared, but it couldn’t be helped. Hadn’t Frank caused the mess that pushed them out on the trail in the first place?

Bridger shook his head and gave the horse’s reins a jerk. He knew Frank bore no fault, not really. Frank wouldn’t hurt a fly if he could help it. Other folks with their fear and judgment were to blame. If they knew—

He pushed those thoughts away. Things would look better after a good night’s sleep, even if he had to go into a saloon to get them. The town sported few businesses, but several buildings looked to be new construction. Maybe a small town would make it easier to hide Frank. Maybe after they settled in awhile, he could convince people to see Frank’s true self: harmless, kind, hardworking.

First things first. No sense in staying if he couldn’t find work, and he couldn’t find work looking like he did. He wondered at the undertaker-woman letting him in the door at all. She really should be more careful, especially now with no sheriff. He’d never heard tell of a woman in that line of work, but the strange tone in the liveryman’s voice when he directed Bridger to find the undertaker made sense after seeing her at the door.

He stopped at the dingy window of the saloon, hearing the wild noises from inside vibrating against the glass. A plain brown paper with crooked black letters caught his attention—HELP WANTED: Inquire Within. A saloon would be the last place on earth he chose to work, but finding a job hadn’t been an easy thing. The Lord worked in mysterious ways, though, and he wasn’t about to pass the chance by without at least checking it out.

He tethered his horse to the post and stroked the white blaze across its forehead with a silent promise to untack him soon. Bridger walked through swinging doors into a well-lit room.

A bottle smashed at his feet. He stepped back as a well-dressed man tossed a grubby drunk out the doors. The man dusted his hands together and smiled broadly. “Welcome to Ike’s Tavern. You look like you just crawled from under a stampede, if you don’t mind my saying so, stranger. Plenty here to ease your troubles.”

Plenty to cause them, too, Bridger thought. “If you serve food and have an empty room, it would go a long way. And who do I see about the help-wanted sign out there?”

“That’d be me,” the man said, his voice rising above the crowd and music. He motioned Bridger to a small table in a back corner. “Let’s start with a name, stranger. I’m Ike Tyler.”

“Bridger Jamison.” He took a seat by the wall, keeping a clear view of the door and the rest of the room. “What kind of help are you looking for?”

Tyler pushed his hat back on his head and smoothed his string tie and loose suit coat before taking the seat opposite him. “I like that, a man who keeps his eyes and options open, prepared. Right to the point, too.” Ike motioned a blonde woman with plenty to entice a man over to their table. “Get my friend here a drink.”

“Looks to me like he could use more than just a whiskey, Ike.” The woman trailed long red fingernails over his shoulder in a way that suggested everything she intended.

“Food, ma’am. I’m hungry enough I could eat a bear down to the bone.” He pushed a grin to his face, feeling the pull of his scar. “Course, I’d settle for a good steak and a baked potato.”

The woman looked at Ike, who nodded. She trailed her painted nail over his lip, along his scar and around his ear into the hair against his neck. “My, you are a handsome one. I suppose that’s a good place to start, but you need anything else, sugar, you come see Mattie first, won’t you?” She adjusted her corset in front of Ike and turned with a wink. “One steak and potato, coming up.”

Ike watched her work through the crowd with a wolfish smile. “Lots of benefits, working in a place like this.”

Bridger adjusted his hat and leaned forward, hoping the man didn’t hear his stomach rumbling. But the tinny piano and boisterous patrons drowned most of a man’s thoughts, along with everything else. “I’m more interested in the kind of work I’d be doing, Mr. Tyler.”

“Hmm...respectful, too,” Ike said, almost to himself. “Nice town, here, Quiver Creek. Quiet, growing...new businesses coming in. I have several interests. I’m looking for someone strong, not afraid of hard work, willing to do what needs done, loyal...”

“If you’re hiring for personality, sir, I’d fit that bill. But what skills are you looking for?” Bridger stifled the urge to yawn, even in the hubbub of the room.

Ike lit a long, thin cigar and added his own puff of smoke to the already cloudy air. “What skills do you have to offer, Mr. Jamison?”

“I’ve done a lot of different jobs. But I suppose you could say my pick is woodwork, construction, building things.”

“Well, now, it just so happens I’m planning to build a hotel right here in town. Quiver Creek finds itself between the main railroad line and a hot-springs resort being built further up the pass. We’re getting a lot of visitors in town. Not all of them are suitably impressed with our present accommodations, you see. We need something grand, a hotel reminiscent of those back East. I’m the man with the vision—and financial wherewithal—to build it.” He looked around the room with its maroon wallpaper and barely faded gilding and then back to Bridger with a grin around his cigar. “I need more than someone who’s good with a hammer, though. I need a man willing to do all kinds of odd jobs, run some errands, some out-of-town deliveries, whatever comes up.”

“What’s the job pay?” It sounded crass, even to his own ears, but his plans required more than a dollar a day and all you could eat. Bridger rubbed his fingers against the smooth wood of the table, wondering if the hunger would hold off his exhaustion.

If the question offended Ike Tyler, nary a blink told it. “I treat my men well. Room at the boardinghouse next door, meals here, good wages—” his voice trailed as Mattie came up behind him, rubbing her free hand across his back “—and plenty of added benefits.”

Bridger thanked the woman for the plate and she sauntered off with a wink as Ike swatted her bottom. He didn’t bother with niceties but dug into the thick steak and steamy potato. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll be grateful for the soft bed tonight, but it doesn’t seem like a real restful spot.”

Ike smiled. “Might be a room in the new hotel once it’s completed.” He puffed on his cigar, eyes glittering. “I like the looks of you, Bridger Jamison. It’s not bragging to tell you, you’ll not find a better boss in town, maybe not in the territory. Ask my men. You do well with the jobs I give you, and I’ll see about throwing more work your way. Ones with greater pay more befitting a man with your needs.”

Bridger focused on his plate—one cleaner than he’d have expected in such a place—and worked a bluff. “Don’t need anything but a quiet place to stay and work to earn my keep, Mr. Tyler.” He chewed another tender bite of meat. “When can I start?”

“Supplies for the hotel are to arrive by end of the week, but there’s no reason I can’t call on you for some odd jobs before that, right? Why don’t you get settled in next door and I’ll see what comes up over the next day or so to keep you occupied in the meanwhile.”

Bridger pushed his chair away and stood, shaking Ike’s outstretched hand. “Sounds good. I reckon anyone looking for a stranger in town might check with you, then?” He tossed coins from his pocket to pay for the meal onto the table.

“That a problem for you?” Ike asked with more interest than concern.

“No, sir. But I found a body out on the trail—turned out to be your sheriff. I would suppose someone will have questions for me sooner or later. I want them to know I didn’t run out.”

The glitter of coins on the table reflected in Ike’s eyes. “What happened?” He pulled the stub of cigar from his lips and leaned forward.

“Looks like his horse threw him and he hit his head on a rock. The undertaker lady, she seemed plenty shook and not of a mind to discuss much when I delivered him.” Bridger blinked his tired eyes.

“Lola will handle it. You’ll not find many women with her strength. I’ll see to it she knows where to find you, but it doesn’t sound like there’s much to tell.”

“Not so far as I could see, but that doesn’t stop the need to ask the questions.” Bridger smirked. Lying low never came easy to him.

“You think people should be worried about your answers?” Ike grinned.

“I didn’t do anything but find the poor guy. But the way I look right now, I don’t reckon it’ll stop any wagging tongues. If you’re worried about the answers I’ll give, I may not be your man for the job.”

Ike waved him off, his easy smile tight and the gleam in his eye sharp. “Don’t bother me none, either way. Sometimes a man with secrets makes him the best asset of a business.”

Bridger ran a hand over his scrubby whiskers. “Strange thing, finding a woman undertaker.”

Ike Tyler leaned back in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, and twirled the stub of cigar between his fingers. “Well, I think mainly Lola doesn’t know what else to do with herself yet. Her father died a few months back, murdered by some drifter coming through town. First hanging we’ve had in these parts that I recall.” He snuffed his cigar on the edge of Bridger’s empty plate. “Lola worked with him since she was real young. I suppose folks around here are giving her a chance to mourn and sort through everything before she figures out what to do next. Besides, there’s no one else in town. Doc Kendall travels between Quiver Creek and four other towns, so we only see him once every couple months.”

Bridger stacked this information against the small woman he’d met. Tough thing for any woman alone in Wyoming Territory. But she hadn’t exactly acted unsure of herself. And knowing her pa had died recently, it made more sense that she’d been driven to tears when the sheriff turned up dead.

“You can let her know I’m bunked here. I’d like to get the matter settled quick as I can. A man never knows when he might need to move on. I’d as soon not let that kind of tale follow me, if you know what I mean.”

“I understand you, friend. Room’s second door on the left at the top of the stairs. I’d be glad to send Mattie over to air it out for you.” He watched Ike follow the woman’s form as she laughed and chatted with some of the other cowboys but tossed a wink his way as she downed a shot. “Looks to me like she wouldn’t mind so much, either.”

Bridger shook his head. “I need to untack my horse, get settled in. I’ll be ready to start day after tomorrow, if that’s all right by you. I appreciate the work.”

“Sounds fine, Bridger. I know where to find you when I’m ready. You do what I say and mind your own secrets, you and I will get along just fine.” Ike stood and shook his hand, nearly crushing it. Bridger felt his dark gaze bore into him. Ike jerked him close enough to choke him with his smoky breath. “You do as you’re told, and don’t ever cross me, you got that? Loyalty is rewarded handsomely among my men. But your life won’t be worth a plug nickel if you ever go against me.”

Bridger stepped back, a cold grin pulling at his lips. “Mister, all I need is a job in a town big enough to not attract attention to myself. No man has been able to intimidate me since I left home to join the War Between the States when I was eighteen, so you’re wasting your time trying. Now, if you want a hard worker who knows how to mind his own business, you got it. But no one owns me, and you best understand that from the start if you’re looking to hire me.”

He pulled his hand out of Ike’s loosened fist. For a moment, the man’s eyes flashed hot, but it passed in an instant and he threw his head back with a hearty laugh. “Now I like that—a man who won’t let himself be pushed. Yes, sir, Bridger, you’re exactly the man I’ve been looking for. I just wanted to be sure we had an understanding.”

Bridger nodded and kicked his chair under the table without breaking his gaze. “I’ve understood men like you since I wore short pants, sir. You got no worries from me. I only mean to do the job, collect my pay and live quiet.”

He stepped around Ike, tipping his hat to Mattie and another friend of hers as he stomped out the doors. Her coy wave lacked the warmth of Miss Martin’s determined green eyes.

The sign in the window caught his eye again as he untied his horse. This was the first notice of work he’d seen in almost a month. The town and Ike’s saloon had all the up-and-coming signs that would help him save what he needed to start his own business. Ike’s tone set him off, but experience taught him big talk often came from lesser men. Ike relied on others to do the real work for him. He probably pulled that tone with every new hire. With the lack of sleep and food he’d had over the past two weeks, he might have misunderstood Ike’s intent, anyway.

He hoped the lady undertaker made no mistake about his. Bringing the sheriff into town on the back of a horse had to raise questions, but his conscience prevented anything less. He hoped Miss Martin found rest tonight, in spite of the trouble he’d brought to her door.

All he knew now was he needed to get his horse to the livery and get a couple hours of sleep. He had to get back to camp and move Frank into town before sunup. He’d learned the hard way, keeping Frank away from other folks—especially beautiful, refined ladies such as Miss Martin—saved a lot of trouble in the end.

Chapter Two

Dawn slipped over the sharp ridges to the east of town as Bridger rode the slopes north of Quiver Creek. His brother, Frank, rode beside him, half-asleep. The few hours in a real bed had done wonders, but Frank hadn’t had that luxury. Thankful for the moonlight, Bridger had headed back up the trail to wake Frank and clean up the meager camp they’d set the night before, not far from where they’d found the sheriff’s body. He needed to get Frank into town before folks started stirring. It would be much easier to get Frank into their room undetected.

“Frank? You with me?” Bridger asked, his whisper echoing in the silence of the morning.

Frank shifted in the saddle, rubbing beefy fists into his eyes. He blinked dully and breathed deep, drawing himself awake, then turned his ruddy face to Bridger with a wide smile. “Good morning.”

Bridger couldn’t help but smile back. “Morning, Frank. We’re almost there.”

“Good. I like town, seeing all the people.”

“Shh!” Bridger warned. “Remember what happened in that last town? We need to stay put for a while this time, Frank. We can’t do that if you get too nosy again—”

“I didn’t do nothing!” Frank protested. “I didn’t do what that lady said, Bridge—”

“I know. I know you didn’t. But sometimes...well, people don’t understand what a great brother you are. They think—”

“I know, Bridger. We’re a scary-looking pair, right?”

“Right. Me with the scar, you all big and strong... We have to be...careful, that’s all. I have the promise of a good job here, a chance to make enough money so we can afford a place of our own like we’ve been talking about.”

“With horses?” Frank asked.

“With horses,” Bridger conceded. He knew enough about farming and ranching to hold an odd job now and then and enough to know he wanted something different. But all Frank wanted was horses to care for. He’d never seen a man who knew the beasts better. “But to do that, I need you to help me. You have to do as I say.”

“I always try, Bridger. You’re smart. I know that.”

Bridger winced. Frank did know that, just as well as those folks who saw fit to judge him. Frank’s brain worked slower, and his speech was thicker and simpler, but not enough to make him unaware of his own deficiency. Then, too, Frank’s looks didn’t help him—tall, broad, rawboned—everything like their father. Before Frank’s...before his brother lost that part of himself, a keen, teasing wit and sharp mind had kept the young ladies back home plenty impressed with Frank Jamison. The familiar knot twisted in Bridger’s chest.

“I’m just saying I need you to do your job. It won’t be forever, Frank. Just until we save enough for a little spread. Nothing fancy—a few horses for you, a woodshop for me. Away from town, but close enough I can sell my furniture to those fancy outfits back East...”

“And some chickens and a dog.”

Bridger looked at his brother, smiling at the dream they’d been talking about ever since he’d made it back home from the war. “The way you keep adding animals to the list, we’re going to need a bigger barn.”

Frank grinned and rubbed his sleepy eyes again. “I’m tired.”

“I know you are. We’re almost there, and then you can sleep in a real bed and get a good rest.”

“Real beds cost lots of money,” Frank said, eyes closed again.

“Not this time. It’s part of the pay for the job I found. Meals, too, I think.”

“You don’t have to cook no more?”

“Nope. They have a cook.”

“Better than you, right?”

Bridger glanced from the trail to his brother’s dozing form. Every so often, hints of Frank’s old, teasing self would slip out. But never at his whim. Still, sometimes it was hard to tell.

“Not just better than me—good.”

They wandered onto the main thoroughfare in silence, Bridger thankful for the quiet that greeted them. The town felt deserted.

“We’re here,” he said, sliding down and tying his mount. Frank did the same. “We have a room upstairs here.” Bridger nodded toward the dilapidated boardinghouse. It had to have been one of the town’s original structures. But it seemed sparsely used, if not quiet. A saloon next door made for a rowdy neighbor, but it beat the hard ground and would have to do. He only needed to convince Frank. “You can get a good sleep, in a real bed. How’s that sound?”

Frank nodded, eyes still heavy from his early-morning wake-up call.

Bridger motioned him to follow as they walked toward the rear entrance, which lay in shadows from a few spindly aspens. Between the trees and the distractions of a lively saloon next door, Frank would be relatively free to come and go. The notion of this dingy building and the tiny room they’d share being Frank’s new prison gnawed on him. But only for now, just until he settles in—

“What’s this place? People drink here!”

Bridger pivoted, hand on the doorknob. He had hoped the dimness would disguise the nature of the establishment next door. It would be easier to have this debate once they were tucked away in the room upstairs.

“Listen, Frank,” he said, moving to his brother’s side. He raised his hands to his brother’s shoulders and tried to draw him away from the narrow alley between the boardinghouse and the saloon, filled with broken amber bottles and litter.

“I’m not working there,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. “But the man who gave me the job, he owns this place. He’s building a hotel, Frank, and I’m going to help him with that.”

“Saloons make people mad, Bridger. Folks drink too much and get loud and fight, and—”

“The owner, he keeps it from getting to that. I watched him throw a man out last night for causing trouble. It gets loud, maybe, but with music and people, Frank.”

“God doesn’t like people drinking and fighting. I don’t want to stay here.”

Frank’s voice grew louder. His eyes darted while his breath heaved. Bridger knew he had to calm him before he bolted.

He pressed his hands on either side of his brother’s head, acting as blinders to everything except his own face. “Listen! Calm down and listen to me, all right?” Frank’s breathing eased as Bridger spoke in low tones. “It’s going to be all right, you hear me? We’ll be together, and it’s only for a little while. We’ll sock away every penny and get those horses. I don’t like living here any more than you do, pard, but it’s the first sign of work I’ve seen in weeks.”

“Mama wouldn’t like it, Bridge,” Frank said, his voice soft, quiet, still tinged with fear.

Bridger sighed. Frank was right, but she hadn’t exactly stopped Pa from spending the majority of his time in such a place, either. No sense in bringing that up to Frank, though. “She’d be sad to know if we were going the way Pa did, but we’re not. This is only a place to rest up, lie low awhile, until we can afford our own place.”

His brother’s dull eyes shifted, trying to see beyond Bridger’s hands, but he held firm. “With horses?” he finally asked, his voice softer and not so panicked.

“With horses.”

Frank shook his head, pulling away. “No drinking, either, Bridge.”

“Nothing Mama wouldn’t approve of,” he promised. He hadn’t ever been a drinker. But Frank had reason to be suspicious, given what they’d grown up with.

“I miss her,” he whispered. “Can we go to church?”

Bridger lowered his arms, taking a step toward the stairway. “You know we can’t. Folks don’t—”

“You can. You can go and tell me about it.”

Bridger took his hat off and raked his hands across matted hair. “I can’t promise, Frank. But, well...I’ll try, all right?”

Frank beamed. “Thanks.”

“So you’ll stay here?”

“I have to stay with you, Bridge. We’re a scary-looking pair, remember?”

“I remember.” He grabbed his brother’s thick arm and led him up the dark stairs to their room. Frank had sacrificed his independence for Bridger’s life. He never mentioned it, and maybe the fact was lost in his muddled thinking. Or maybe he chose not to remind his little brother of it. But Bridger could never forget.

* * *

“We often ask the Lord ‘why’ in cases such as this,” Pastor Evans said. “And the simple answer is ‘because it’s the Lord’s Will.’ When our pain is fresh, that answer leaves us hollow. It’s only with time and faith that we can come away from grief stronger and, at the same time, with greater reliance on God.”

Lola shivered in the morning mountain shadows as Pastor Evans gave the eulogy for Pete McKenna. She stretched her arm around Grace, who stood shrouded in black with a heavy veil to hide her tears. Had it been only six months ago their positions had been reversed when Papa died?

Lola squeezed Grace’s shoulders in support as a soft wail broke from under the black veil, and she scanned the crowd standing silently around the gaping hole in the ground. The Rigger family looked almost as sorrowful as Grace. They lived farther up the pass and had asked for Sheriff McKenna’s help in tracking the mountain lion bent on killing off their herd. Mrs. Rigger squeezed her husband’s hand and gathered their two little girls close, no doubt thinking how easily it could have been her husband’s body that man had found.

Lola rocked Grace as Pastor Evans guided those in attendance in the 23rd Psalm. Her eyes settled on that same man in question. He stood behind Ike, shovel in hand and hat pulled low. But she recognized the deep, angry scar that crossed his face.

Her heart jumped as his gaze locked on her, surprising her with a warmth she’d missed at their first meeting. But she didn’t turn away. Let him know she recognized him. She hadn’t expected him to still be in town, let alone be here as they buried Pete, but she was glad to see him. It would make the U.S. marshal’s job that much easier when he arrived.

She had sent a request early the very next morning after Pete had been brought to her door. She was sure the marshal would have questions for him when he arrived. She’d like to ask a few of her own, but patience reigned. The law would prevail.

Lola gave Grace a parting hug and kissed her cheek with a promise to visit soon. Her heart ached to watch her friend leave with Pastor Evans to deliver her home.

She waited for the crowd to clear before turning to Ike and his men. Ike Tyler had been especially helpful in the months since her father’s death. For as much as Papa had disapproved of their courtship, Ike had proved himself a good friend even after she ended that part of their relationship over a year ago. Papa didn’t trust him but hadn’t refused her from seeing him. He didn’t push the cut deeper by reminding her of his reservations when she’d found Ike kissing Mattie, either. After she broke their engagement, Ike had bought the saloon, and she realized how very wrong she had been about him.

Ike had assured her it all meant nothing, insisting it was “only part of business.” While wisdom prevailed, it didn’t help that Ike Tyler was a handsome cut of a man and had done everything in his power to help her in her grief.

She tilted her head to see his hazel eyes peering at her. His long fingers stretched out as if to grasp her arm, but he caught himself and held back with a soft smile. “Anything more you need?”

“No, thanks, Ike. I’ll gather up the flowers to lay across the grave when you’re finished and place the cross.” She wiped a tear that rolled unbidden down her cheek. “I wish there were more I could do for Grace, that’s all.”

Ike took her hand with a gentle squeeze. “I know you do. You will, in time. Why don’t you let my men tidy up when they’re finished so you can join her now at the church?”

She caught his hopeful smile. He always found a way to give her what he thought she needed most. “You’ve done so much already, Ike. I don’t want to take advantage.”

“Nonsense.” A smile touched his narrow lips before he set his men to task with a nod. “I’ve hired an extra man. They’ll have things finished in no time.”

She watched the men shovel dirt back into the hole they’d dug earlier that morning. The man with the scar was lean and about a head shorter than the men he worked with, but he carried himself with a strength his size belied. Dark sinewy arms poked out from long sleeves he had rolled to his elbows. “What do you know about your new hire?”

“Not all that much—you know how it is. His name’s Bridger Jamison. He’s new in town and needed work. That’s about it.”

A breeze caught spring leaves on the trees nearby, brushing her ears with their gentle music. “He’s the one that brought Pete in,” she said. Her voice sounded hard and flat, revealing more than she’d intended.

“He did mention something about that. I’ll keep an eye on him, Lola. You don’t have anything to worry about.” Ike smiled, drawing her from the shadows and into the sunlight closer to the church.

“I’m not worried.” Well, she didn’t want to be worried, anyway. “The U.S. Marshals Office will be sending someone to check his story very soon.”

Ike stopped. “Why is that?”

“Because I sent a telegraph. We have no sheriff now, and with the trouble we’ve been having here, I thought someone ought to check into it.” Into the stranger with the scar.

A long huff of air came from Ike’s tight lips. “I wish you’d asked me first, Lola. We don’t need any trouble stirred up with a stranger nosing around town.”

Fire rose in her chest. “A man died, Ike. The sheriff. We can’t handle this ourselves.”

“Do you really reckon the man would have gone to the trouble of bringing him in and getting the body to an undertaker if he’d had anything to do with his death?”

Lola glanced sideways at the men working. It did sound a little far-fetched, she supposed.

“But what if he did?” She pulled away and crossed her arms around her waist.

Ike stepped away, taking a look at his workers. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, a long habit she recognized. “Then it’s good I hired him. A job will hold him in town.” He faced her with a smile. “But you need to check before you go off trying to handle these things on your own. That’s what I’m here for.”

She sighed. Maybe it was foolish to wire for a U.S. marshal to come all the way out here to investigate without consulting anyone first. Maybe the hour and the man’s appearance and the memory of her father’s death had made her too skittish. “Well, it’s done now. I guess I wanted to make sure there was someone looking out for this town. Especially now that Pete’s gone.”

Silence surrounded them as the last of the mourners left the cemetery. “My men and I can do that, like we helped Sheriff McKenna before. Once that U.S. marshal clears out, they’ll hold an election. Maybe I’ll run for sheriff myself. Something nice and respectable like your pa would have liked from the start.”

Lola winced. Papa wouldn’t have approved of Ike even if he’d been governor of the territory.

“I’ll talk to the marshal when he arrives in town. Maybe if I explain things, he won’t need to waste any more time than getting here will cost him.”

Ike drew closer, his head bowed toward her. “You always were overcautious, Lola. But your beauty made up for it.”

She stepped away, staring him in the eye. “It’s good you realized my downfalls before we made it to the altar, then.” Her voice rose, clipped and sharp.

She caught Bridger Jamison’s form in the corner of her eye. He punched his shovel into the dirt, arms crossed loosely over the end of the handle, brown eyes glittering in the moving shadows caused by the waving tree limbs over his head. His scar looked deeper when his jaw tightened.

Ike started. “Lola, I didn’t mean—”

“Never mind, Ike. It’s just been a hard few days. Forgive my sharpness. I have a lot on my mind.”

“Any help I can offer? Say the word,” Ike said, his voice soft and over-warm.

Lola squared her shoulders. “Not unless you know a good woodworker. I used the last coffin Papa...Papa made, for Pete.”

“You know, it just so happens, I do know a man. I can’t vouch for his skill, but he says he does like to build things with wood.”

Lola returned his smile. If anyone would know the skills of a new man in town, it would be Ike. She warmed. “That would be wonderful! If you introduce us, I could make the arrangements.”

“Whenever you like, Lola. I know where he lives. You can stop by anytime and I’ll be glad to make the acquaintances.”

“Stop by? Where?”

Ike gave the grin he used when he thought he had the upper hand. The one she hadn’t recognized as a little frightening until after they’d parted company. “In a room at my boardinghouse. It’s Bridger Jamison, my new man.”

Chapter Three

Frank was due back any moment. Overdue. Bridger didn’t like the idea of his brother being confined upstairs, but he’d have to restrict his roaming to those early-morning hours before the town started to stir after this.

Bridger stood at the door of Ike’s private quarters. Evening sun crept low through the far windows, but the saloon itself sat empty. He peered into the tree line behind the boardinghouse, praying for a shadow.

With folks attending the funeral today, Frank had waited until midmorning to make his escape. The risk he’d be caught rambling around town increased each time he wandered the back alleys. Bridger hoped Frank paid attention to their grandfather’s watch. It ought to be good for something. He’d been sorely tempted to sell it several times over the years, but he couldn’t do that to Frank. Something about the soft whir spoke of both sturdiness and elegance, and brought comfort to his brother. Not to mention the fact that even when Pa came in liquored and mean and turned the house inside out for funds to buy more, Mama had managed to hang on to it. That should count for something.

Bridger knocked on the open door of Ike’s office. “Mattie said you wanted to see me, Mr. Tyler. What can I do for you?”

“Come in, Bridger.” Ike motioned him to a curved-back chair. Even in the confines of this small room, his boss managed to convey a sense of wealth and splendor in the green velvet chairs and tiny mahogany table. He might live behind a saloon, but Ike Tyler had a taste for fine things and apparently had the means and eye to acquire them. A painting Bridger could tell would not come cheap hung on the wall over the fireplace.

“I have a job for you,” his boss said once he settled into the plush chair. “Supplies for the hotel have come in, and I want you to pick them up. I’ll have a wagon ready tomorrow, and I’ll send Toby along to help load. Think you can handle that?”

Bridger nodded, slowly removing his hat. He brushed his hair back and forward again. “Where we headed?”

“Wilder Springs, next town up the pass. Railroad runs through it, delivered the boards yesterday.” Bridger watched him pull an envelope from his suit coat and feather the bills inside.

“I’ll give you the payment tonight so you can get an early start. I tend to rise later in the day due to the nature of my business.” Ike grinned.

Bridger twirled his hat by its brim. “Toby knows how to get there?”

“Sure. But listen,” Ike said, sliding to the edge of his seat. “The mill owner there, he’s got himself a poor reputation. If he wasn’t the only big-outfit lumberman in the area, he’d be run out of business, I’m sure.”

Bridger adjusted his hat before taking the wadded envelope. He tucked it inside the hidden pocket of his duster. He’d never been one for theatrics. But he could see in Ike Tyler’s eyes how he thrived on it. “So you’re expecting trouble?”

Ike stood and smiled. “Right to the point, that’s it,” he said, almost to himself. “It’s likely he’ll dispute the payment, you being a new face and all. You be sure to get everything on the list in that envelope with the money you’ve been given.”

“You want me to notify their lawman when we arrive, ask him to tag along?”

“No sense in that. He’s just an old man looking to live out his days in a quiet town, and mostly it stays that way. My men give him a hand with that sometimes, so having Toby with you should help. You make certain the man satisfies our agreement. If he complains too much, remind him that his own wife and their pretty young daughter witnessed the deal, you got that?”

“Sure thing, boss.” Bridger watched through the window as a lumbering form that could only be Frank skulked into the boardinghouse. He coughed to cover his distraction. “Anything else?”

“Actually, I have another job for you, if you’re interested. You said you like carpentry, right? Woodwork?”

Bridger nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Miss Martin needs some coffins. She told me yesterday she used the last her pa had made before he passed. She needs a few on hand, you see.” Ike pulled a cigar from the box on the stand next to him, offering one.

Bridger shook his head. “Coffins, Mr. Tyler?”

“Right. Her pa handled all aspects of the business, you know? Lola helped prepare the bodies and made it nice for the families and such, but...”

“But she can’t build the caskets,” Bridger supplied.

“Yes. She wants to speak with you herself—independent woman that way. I told her I’d introduce you, but I wanted to ask you myself, as well.”

“Why’s that?”

“Some men wouldn’t take kindly to working for a woman.”

“If the pay is fair, I have no problem with that. Her money will spend as well as a man’s, I reckon.”

“I hoped you’d think that way. You can work out the particulars with her, but I still want you working for me, you understand. This would be extra, on your own time.”

Bridger rubbed his chin and smiled. “I appreciate that. No reason why I can’t handle both. I need the money.” He glanced around the sitting area. His feet sank into the plush carpet, its rich colors in stark contrast to his worn boots.

“So I gathered,” Ike said. His eyes took on an almost predatory gleam for an instant, and Bridger felt the man’s gaze pass through him.

He hoped Frank had tucked himself in their room without anyone the wiser.

Ike took a long draw on his cigar, puffing rings of smoke into the air. “One other thing—”

Bridger jerked to his feet. “Yes, sir?”

Ike took another drag on his cigar. “I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d keep an eye on Miss Martin—Lola. I’d feel better knowing someone’s looking out for her.”

He’d wondered about the two of them as he watched them talking at the cemetery earlier. No surprise a businessman with an eye for fine things would be taken with a smart, beautiful woman like Miss Martin. Still, she hadn’t seemed any shrinking violet that needed looking after by Ike. “Why is that?”

“Because someone should. Woman alone out here, even in a town as dull and quiet as Quiver Creek, she needs looking after. I trust you—and it wouldn’t be wise to break that trust.”

Bridger shifted his stance and narrowed his gaze. “Trust goes both ways, sir...but you can count on me. If you don’t mind my saying so, though, I’d have thought you might want to handle that yourself, after I saw you talking with her this morning.”

Ike twisted in his seat to snub out his cigar, his thin lips pulling to a sharp grin. “I had my chance. And it wouldn’t be a lie to say I hope to have another. But for now, she’d not stand for it. I figure if you work for her, you’ll have opportunity to keep an eye on her for me.”

“She might not even hire me, Mr. Tyler. I didn’t exactly make my finest impression, bringing the sheriff’s body to her door like I did.”

“She’ll come around to you sooner than she will me. I wanted to be sure we had an understanding about Miss Martin, before you had reason to spend time around her.” Ike stood, almost a head above Bridger. “Most men in town realize how things lie and stay away from her. But you’re new here, so I thought you might like the information up front.”

Bridger squared his shoulders. Ike had nothing to fear from him. Fine, independent women like Lola Martin wanted nothing to do with his kind. Besides, he had no time for sparking a lady. Not until he had a place of his own, something to offer...but it didn’t mean he appreciated being warned off like a rabid dog. His jaw clenched. “I understand you fine, boss.”

Ike stepped back. “I’m glad to hear that, Bridger. You remember that, and you and I will get along fine.”

Bridger walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “I understand all right, sir,” he said, “and you’ll have no problem with me. I got enough troubles of my own without adding a woman to the mix.”

* * *

Under the overhang, Lola smoothed long wisps of hair behind her ears. She placed her hand at her waist and breathed, slow and deep. Just outside the swinging doors, warm dry scents of sage blowing off the bluff mixed with lingering smells of oversweet liquor and cigar smoke from the previous night.

Lola hated this place. Hated the fact it represented the biggest gathering place Quiver Creek could offer and the only restaurant in town. But mostly, she hated that her father had been killed here.

Lola ran a hand over her eyes and drew herself up, refusing to give in to the memories of her father’s body lying on the dingy bed, the drunken drifter denying his involvement with adamant pleas.

It didn’t sit well that she’d once considered the owner her beau, either. What had she been thinking? She huffed and stepped through the doors, almost crashing into Ike.

“Lola! I expected you earlier. Mr. Jamison should be over soon, unless you’d like me to call him.”

Lola shook her head. “I can wait.”

Ike swept a chair out with a grand flourish. “I’ll be glad to wait with you, make the proper introductions if you like.”

She didn’t like, not at all. She and Ike had been friends before their courtship and continued to be afterward, but today it only added to the heavy press she felt over the past few days.

She sat and chucked the seat closer to the table. She tapped her foot, trying to think of something to say. Silence stretched, empty and hollow.

“You’re looking as lovely as ever, Lola, if I may say so.”

She smiled. Ike had said so—often. And to many other women during their courtship, leading to their broken engagement. But it didn’t change her reaction to his smile. They’d made a handsome pair....

Light footsteps came from the stairway and they both turned. “I need to step out for some errands before the crowd shows, Ike.” Mattie? Not the person she wanted to cross paths with today. Lola tried hard to be pleasant to the woman, thankful—truly—that she’d opened her eyes to the kind of man Ike was. Mattie’s personality sparkled. She knew Mattie was more than just a good-time girl who urged the men into buying more drinks, and she didn’t envy her the life she’d chosen. But she was beautiful, with well-pinked cheeks, bright blue eyes and a dimpled smile, full of curves and fun.

Lola glanced down at her second-best dress. Faded, flat, dim—like the last rose of summer compared to a spring daisy. She adjusted her skirt and forced a smile.

“How have you been, Mattie?”

“Just fine, sweetie. Business is good and keeps me busy.”

I’m sure of that. She shook herself, irritated at her unkind thoughts. Mattie’s answer wasn’t intended to bring the blush that Lola felt warm her face. But Mattie was just...Mattie.

“See you later, sugar.” The woman’s long fingers trailed across Ike’s shoulders and Lola felt another pang of unpleasantness sweep through her.

Lola watched her sashay out the swinging doors with a wave.

“Mr. Tyler?”

The voice, soft and low, drew her attention. Mr. Jamison stood in the entry, buttoning the top buttons on his shirt, unable to resist a glance at Mattie’s departure. No doubt working around Mattie would be one of the fringe benefits of employment with Ike. Well, it made no matter what he did with his time, so long as he would build the coffins.

“Lola, let me introduce you to Mr. Bridger Jamison. Bridger, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Lola Martin, the undertaker of our fine town.” He paused dramatically. “I understand you two already met, but for gentility’s sake, I thought I’d make it formal.”

“Miss Martin.” The man nodded politely, a soft smile easing the harshness of his scar.

“Mr. Jamison.” She nodded just as politely.

“Bridger, ma’am,” he said, voice warm and quiet.

“Then you must call me Lola.”

“I’d be happy to, Lola. Mr. Tyler said you wanted to talk with me about a job.”

She motioned him into the seat across from hers at the small table. “That’s right. I understand you have carpentry skills.”

“I’ll leave the two of you to discuss business,” Ike said, with emphasis on “business.” He smiled and left them with a bow and a mock salute.

Lola faced Bridger, feeling awkward being alone with this stranger, Ike’s formal introduction notwithstanding. She couldn’t keep her eyes from tracing the path of the scar as it slashed his high-boned cheek and grazed the corner of his lip, appearing white against his tan skin in the midday lighting of the saloon.

“I got cut, ma’am. When I was a boy. I didn’t mean to frighten you the other night. I expected you’d want to speak with me about that sheriff.”

Lola swallowed, feeling heat nip her ears. “I beg your pardon. How terribly rude of me to stare. My mind wandered a bit.” She paused, breathing deep. “But it’s not me you’ll answer to about the sheriff’s body. A U.S. marshal has been assigned to the case and should be here any day to investigate the matter.”

Bridger nodded. “Like I said before, I’m glad to answer any questions that will put your suspicions to rest.”

“Suspicion isn’t really the word. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be here to ask for your help.” She didn’t add that now, in the daytime, his warm brown eyes hardly looked as dangerous and frightening as they had that night. Still, she hadn’t been the best judge with Ike, either.

“Fair enough. What can I do to help you?” He held his hands together, calluses lining his long fingers in contrast to the softness of the felt table cover. Hands used to hard work. They also held a precision, a sense of strength she recognized in her father’s hands from the woodwork he had done, as well as the same types of cuts and scrapes.

She looked him in the eye. “I need someone to build coffins for me. A few now to have on hand, and then replacements as needed. Ike says you work with wood.”

“That I do. But I’ve never built a coffin.”

“Fortunately for you, no one else in town has, either. Do you think you could do it?”

“I’d need details.” He rubbed his lip, without a mustache but in need of a shave. “If you can get me some measurements, I’d be willing to try.”

Papa kept drawings and lists and such in a folder of papers at the back of his ledger. “I can get those for you. My father had tools, too, in case they require some you don’t have.”

Bridger smiled, leaning back in his seat. “That’s real good, because I’m down to a hammer and a boring tool.”

Lola noticed how the smile brightened his face and hid most of the scar in the happy lines created. “What is your fee?” she asked.

“Until I’ve built one, that’s hard to say. Are you supplying the materials?”

Lola bit her lip. How would Papa have done this? He wouldn’t have had to, she reminded herself. He’d seen to all aspects of the business, including this one.

“Generally, I’d get the materials and figure it into the cost. But right now I don’t have means to do that.” The tight set of his jaw testified how deep the admission rankled within.

She huffed and looked at her clamped fingers, thinking hard. “Suppose you check my father’s shed, find out what you need. I’ll open a line of credit at Anthony’s General Store for you, under my name. You get what you need, and if it works out, you figure the bill into the cost. If you aren’t able to do the job, I’ll pay off the bill and we’ll leave it at that.”

Bridger scraped his whiskered jaw. “Sounds fair enough, ma’am—”

“Lola.”

He smiled, eyes lighting. “Fair enough, Lola.” He stared at her a moment, and she resisted the urge to push loose flimsy strands of hair back into their proper place. “How do you know I won’t stock up on your bill and head out of town?”

She leaned back, sensing his curiosity. “If you were of a mind to run, you would’ve done so as soon as you dropped off the body—if not before.”

His smile dimmed. “I am sorry about our first meeting, the way it happened. I hear your sheriff was a good man, and that ain’t always the case.” He tipped his head, and she found her gaze drawn to his. “But I’m grateful you’re giving me the benefit of the doubt.”

Lola stood and smoothed her shirtwaist and skirt. She held her hands together, fingers pointed at the man as he slid his chair away from the table. “This job isn’t about trusting you, Mr. Jamison. If the U.S. marshal’s investigation proves you had more to do with Pete McKenna’s death than bringing the body into town, I’ll be the first to testify against you at your trial.”

Bridger stood, too. “Fair enough, Lola Martin. As I said before, I have nothing to hide.”

“Time will tell,” she said. A cool breeze wavered the swinging doors. “In the meantime, I need your services. And at the rate of business lately, the sooner the better.”

Chapter Four

Bridger’s footsteps echoed across the planks as he walked past the empty saloon. Hard to believe this place had been roaring into the wee hours of the morning. Every chair sat on a tabletop, legs pointed upward like a beetle on its back, blacker than the dark gray of morning. Without question, Ike hired diligent workers. And Mr. Tyler paid well, if talk could be trusted. So long as Frank had a bed and a roof over his head, and didn’t cause a fuss in town, Bridger planned to work until he saved up for a little spread of their own.

Building coffins in his spare time would hasten that dream. He wasn’t sure exactly how things stood between his boss and Lola, but he had to admit, spending time in a woodshop, in close proximity to a woman of Miss Martin’s caliber, held high appeal. Even if he built something as mundane as a coffin.

Lola certainly could capture a man’s attention. Bridger hadn’t spent much time around women of her status, especially of late, but there was no denying her strength, taking on her father’s business as she had. Not to mention the fact her black hair glistened like a moonlit river.

Bridger planned to arrive at the livery in time to have the horses tacked and ready, but Toby surprised him, having the job already started when he pulled the livery door open with a rumbling screech.

“Morning,” he greeted. “I meant to beat you here.”

Toby yawned, ending in a scowl under his long mustache as prickly as the man’s personality. “When you’re new, Boss won’t let you do anything without one of us watching.”

Bridger stepped into the lantern’s glow and took up a harness for the second horse. “That go for when I’m on the job or for everything?”

Toby’s frown deepened, clearly not happy to be awake this early in the day. “When you work for Mr. Tyler, boy, the job is everything.”

Bridger focused on the lines, refusing to be baited. “You make it sound like a death sentence.”

Toby lifted his head, his heavy eyes piercing through the dimness. “Only for the man who doesn’t live up to Ike’s expectations.” He turned his gaze to the horse and seemed to ease back. “Boss has high hopes for you. You do what you’re told, he’ll soon have you working on your own. But for now, you’re stuck with me at this forsaken hour of the day.”

“Not a morning person, I take it.”

Toby climbed the wagon, handing him a crumpled paper. “Don’t be funny. I suppose you can follow directions, so shut up and drive. Wake me if you get lost.”

Toby was not happy about his early-morning assignment, no bones about it. Bridger couldn’t help but hide a smile. Toby’s head start meant they’d get back to Quiver Creek sooner than he’d expected, and maybe he could stop and check out Lola’s woodshed and tools. He wasn’t one to chalk up everything that happened to divine providence like Frank did and like Ma had. But thinking of how things had changed in just a few days’ time, he’d be a fool to not consider the Lord might be looking out for them after all.

Bridger prayed he could save the money they needed for that ranch they’d been dreaming of before the Lord took a notion to slap him back to where he’d been.

* * *

Bridger dragged his hand along the taut skin of his scar. He’d chalked up Ike’s warning about this particular businessman to the boss’s flair for drama. Unfortunately...

“You listen here, mister. I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, but there’s no way you’re getting all those boards for what you brought in that envelope. So you either take what’s been loaded or head back for the rest of the money you owe.”

Bridger slid his hat back on his head. He hadn’t even bothered to count the money in the envelope Ike had given him the night before. This was Mr. Tyler’s deal, after all, and delivery was his end of the job. “All I know, sir, is that I’m to deliver this list of supplies to my boss for the money you agreed upon, and that’s in the envelope I handed you.” He looked back at Toby, who leaned against the side of the wagon with a raw smirk splitting the bushy space between his mustache and beard. No help there. Apparently, results of this test would be part of Toby’s report to Ike.

“I’m new in these parts, but I’ve already heard tell about the way you conduct business, sir. I’m not about to lose my job by not bringing back everything my boss paid for. So you let us load the rest of this now, and we’ll be on our way.”

Earl Johnston’s face turned a fine shade of purple. His lips scrunched in fury, and his shoulders fairly shook with anger. Bridger rolled to the balls of his feet, ready to duck the swing he felt coming.

Instead, the man spun on his heel and headed into the mill’s office. Bridger turned to Toby, who eased off the wagon to help load the second half of the supplies they’d been sent to pick up.

Bridger stooped to gather his end of a thick stack of boards. A sudden shot kicked dirt at his feet, and he dropped his end and grabbed the edge of the wagon box to keep from kissing dust.

Mr. Johnston stood in the doorway with a revolver. “I’ll not stand by and watch you rob me blind. I don’t care if you’re working for Ike Tyler or the president of the United States!”

Bridger pivoted on his boot heels and stood, hands raised. By the look on his face, the shot surprised Johnston about as much as it had him. But his aim showed it wasn’t the first time he’d used a gun to intimidate his way through a corrupt business deal.

Bridger slid toward him. “Listen, mister, there’s no need for that. Mr. Tyler paid your asking price for all the items on this list.” He took another step, slow and steady, as Johnston’s revolver wavered. “I’m just a man looking to do the job he’s been sent to do.”

He struck out to grab the man’s gun hand and dropped, pulling Johnston’s arm until his body twisted and slammed into the rough board side of the mill. The gun slipped and Bridger held it in his left hand. He pinned the man against the wall, using his knees to prevent the man from kicking. Johnston’s ragged breath echoed in harsh pants. “And I ain’t about to fail because you plan to back out of your contract.”

He leaned close to the man’s ear and growled. “Especially when it’s my understanding that your own wife and daughter stood as witness to the deal.”

He felt it then, a sharp tenseness in the muscles, followed by a rigid slackness. He shoved harder. “You have any problems with that, you talk them over with Mr. Tyler. You understand me?”

The man nodded, face still scraped against the jamb. “I understand.” His voice shook. “I understand you just fine.”

Bridger eased off the man’s back. Johnston twisted and pointed the revolver toward the clouds. “Next time Mr. Tyler has business with you, I’ll forget his idea and bring the law with me anyway.”

Johnston released the trigger with a laugh that sounded more like a bark. “If we had any law to speak of around here, mister, I’d have invited him myself.” He slumped, revolver hanging loose at his side. “You tell Mr. Tyler this was all a misunderstanding, you hear? There’s no need to involve my family.”

Bridger backed away. “So long as we get what we came for, Mr. Johnston, I see no reason to mention our misunderstanding to anyone.”

A twinge of relief crossed the man’s haggard features. “I’d appreciate that, sir,” he ground out.

Toby sauntered forward to help load the remainder of the supplies onto the wagon. “You surprise me, Jamison.” The hair around his lips split to allow a toothy grin through. “Never expected you to move that fast. Ike’ll be happy to hear how well you handled yourself.”

Bridger looked across to Earl Johnston, slightly stooped and rubbing his neck where he’d pressed the man into the wall. Something strange about that man, for certain. It was a wonder he did any business with the temper he held. “Ah, he was fired up, but he didn’t want to hurt us. We got what we came for, anyway, and we had the original agreement on our side. Good thing Mr. Tyler warned me about him, though. It could have turned out a lot more painful for us.”

Toby’s eyes took on a peculiar gleam and he stared at Bridger a moment. “I’m catching on to what the boss sees in you, Jamison. I understand what he’s found. You do as you’re told, there’s no telling where you’ll end up.” He laughed out loud, tossing the last small stack of lumber on the wagon bed and clambering to the high seat. “No telling at all.”

* * *

Grace’s pale, drawn appearance broke Lola’s heart. She hadn’t been to town since the funeral a few days ago. With her usually vibrant blond hair and sparkling blue eyes looking faded and dim, Grace seemed a washed-out version of her former self. Lola pushed a plate of freshly baked cookies closer to her friend.

“When are your parents due to arrive?” Lola asked, pouring some steaming tea.

Grace took the cup and wrapped her slender fingers around it, seeking greater warmth. “They should be here early next week.”

“And they’ll stay until the baby is born?” Lola took a seat opposite her friend at the small table near the window. Glimmers of sunshine dappled the tablecloth through the lace curtain.

“Ma says they’ll stay until they can convince me to come back home.” Grace took a sip, then set the cup against the delicate saucer with a rattle, her eyes focused on some distant point beyond the windowpane.

Lola bit her lip. “Do you suppose they’ll have a hard time of it? Convincing you, I mean?”

A tremor passed through Grace, as if she awakened from a trance. “I haven’t thought of much beyond the fact that Pete’s really gone and not coming home.”

Lola leaned back and sighed. It was selfish to want Grace to stay. She’d been told often enough in the months since Papa died that Quiver Creek was no place for a woman alone. But at least she had the business. Grace had a ranch to run and a baby on the way.

“How are you managing out there in the meantime?”

Grace rimmed the gilding on the cup with her finger. “One day at a time. Pete’s parents have been wonderful, of course. His brother comes out each evening to check the animals and see that I want for nothing. He’s only fourteen, but a very sweet and capable young man. Just too young to tend to all the details of the ranch, and with spring roundup coming, he can’t manage alone. My pa plans to take care of that, hire wranglers to brand the calves and move the herd out for summer grazing.”

“Your father’s a shopkeeper, Grace. How does he feel about taking this on?”

Grace broke a crumb off her cookie and nipped it into her mouth, swallowing before the sweetness could barely register on her tongue. “From Ma’s letter, I think he’s honestly excited about getting into the saddle again. He grew up on a ranch in Texas and spent some time cowboying before he met Ma.”

“So, do you think you’ll stay on until the baby is born, or are you planning to be back East before that?” Lola asked, fighting the tears in her voice.

Grace’s eyes darted, a spark of surprise lighting them briefly. “I’m not leaving.”

“But you said your parents were only staying until—”

“They’re determined to take me home with them. But I can’t leave here, not now.”

“But then—”

Grace sighed and leaned back in her seat, rubbing a hand over her growing stomach. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the window, making her appear even more wan and washed-out than before but giving her eyes a light of determination. “I’m not sure exactly what I will do, but I can’t just walk away from all Pete and I have. McKennas have ranched this area from way back. A boy deserves the chance to claim that inheritance.”

Tears washed over Lola’s vision. Pete had been so sure Grace carried a son. “But what if the baby is a girl? And what about you?”

Grace shook her head, as if tossing away any threat to her determination. “I’m trusting the Lord to give me wisdom. But I don’t want to leave. The mountains around here...there’s something about them that settles in your soul. I couldn’t live without them, I don’t think.”

Lola nodded. Leaving Wyoming had never occurred to her as an option, either. “You’d be welcome to stay with me, for as long as you need. There’s plenty of room. You could—”

Grace’s lips pulled in a shadow of her usual smile. “I appreciate that, and I know you mean it with all your heart. But I’m staying in our house. Pete built it for me, and we’ve filled it with so many memories in such a brief time. I feel close to him here. I want that for our baby. I’ll sell off the land and keep the house if it comes to that, but Lord help me, I’ll raise this child in the home we built together.”

Lola glanced around her own house. What would it be like to build a life with someone you loved the way Pete had loved Grace? Suddenly her own house felt a little empty, even with her dearest friend sitting beside her.

“Talk to me about something else. I want to think about something other than being sad.”

Lola stood to refill her cup and warmed Grace’s by filling hers to the brim. Topics from town whirled through her mind, but all connected in some way to Pete, his job, how he died and her part in it. Silence grew awkward, but no words came. She faced her friend but avoided her gaze.

“I know.” Grace’s whisper rasped with sorrow. “But I want to know what’s happening, what people are doing in town. It hurts, but in some ways, I like hearing that Pete was so respected, so vital to this town, that he’s still connected with it, even after his death. Right now it hurts so bad that not much helps, except to know that. Am I making any sense?”

Lola nodded. Tears slipped from her eyes and she grasped Grace’s hand with a fierce squeeze. “I’m just so sorry I couldn’t do something for him.”

“Oh, Lola!” Grace slid to her feet and came around the table to embrace Lola in her tired arms. “Even if you had been the greatest doctor in the world, he was gone by the time you saw him. Trust me, I thank God you could do what you did. You spared me from seeing the tragedy of his death. Instead he looked restful, at peace, the way his spirit looks before the Lord.”

Grace’s warm tears mixed with hers against Lola’s cheek. She squeezed her friend’s arm. “This isn’t how it’s to be, you comforting me. What kind of friend am I?”

Grace slid back into her chair and took a sip of tea. “The kind who wants to spare me and everyone else around any hurt. You do that very well. But I want to know what you’ve been doing. I’m not ready to join into the lively rush of town yet, but I can’t shut myself off from living. I want to, but Pete wouldn’t want that for me.” She smoothed her dress over their growing baby. “He wouldn’t want that for us.”

Lola patted the ruffled edge of a doily lying in the center of the table. “A U.S. marshal should arrive early next week to talk with the man who brought Pete to me.” She sipped her cooling tea without looking at her friend.

“U.S. marshal?” Grace’s eyes were wide, and her face grew a shade paler if that were possible. “What’s going on, Lola?”

Lola abandoned her teacup with a wave of her hand and grasped Grace’s wrist with the other. “Nothing, Grace. I panicked. Papa’s gone, it was late, a frightful-looking stranger brings the sheriff to my door... I sent a telegraph first thing the next morning.”

Grace slumped in her seat, taking a deep, calming breath. “I can understand that. But you don’t really think...?”

What did she think? Did she believe Bridger Jamison to be a murderer? Not really. But she wasn’t always the best judge of a man, either. And some of Pete’s bruises seemed...odd, not quite consistent for a man thrown from a horse. Not unusual enough to point any fingers, but something definitely felt out of place. Without facts, though, she didn’t dare share those concerns with Grace.

“I acted without thinking things completely through. It won’t hurt to have a U.S. marshal investigate what happened, though.” She took another drink of her tea and looked Grace squarely in the eye. “But, no, in talking more with Mr. Jamison, I can’t find anything overly suspicious about him regarding Pete’s death. And the fact that he’s sticking around town, I suppose, holds greater weight for his innocence than anything else.”

Grace held a hand to her mouth and breathed deep, eyes closed. “Good—that’s good. It was hard enough losing your father that way. I wouldn’t want...”

Lola let the words fade. “I hired Mr. Jamison. Papa never taught me the woodworking aspect of... I never learned how...” Everything about her business sounded cold and crass in her thoughts. Why hadn’t she chosen weather as the topic of conversation?

“Your father never taught you how to build the coffins,” Grace supplied. She smiled again, briefly, a narrow moon of teeth peeking through this time. “He always said you’d nail your own thumb to the casket.”

Lola smiled, too. “He was probably right. He just always figured he’d be around to do the job, I guess.”

“He knew you’d be able to find someone to do that. The part you do takes something that not everyone has.” Grace stretched across the table to squeeze her hand, looking her in the eye. “I’m glad it was you, Lola. I know it wasn’t easy for you, but I’m glad that man found a way to bring Pete to you.”

An odd scrape from outside jolted them. Lola started to her feet and made short, clipped steps to the rear door. She glanced at her friend, standing by the table with hands twisted in front of her, and motioned for Grace to stay quiet. Slowly she lifted the latch, then jerked the door wide. “Who’s there?”

Magpies chatting on the fence were the only sound to greet her. She poked her head out and searched the shadows around the lone shed where her father had his woodshop. After a few moments she returned to the cozy room and shut the door.

“Whew!” Grace let loose a nervous giggle, fingers laid against her long throat, her other hand resting on her stomach. “Do you feel as silly as I do?”

Lola brushed long, loose hair behind her ears. “I’m not so sure it’s only silliness.”

Grace gripped the table and sat down. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing,” Lola said, shaking her head. “Just my overactive imagination, I suppose. I’ve been more nervous than I ought to be lately—”

“Thinking you’re here on the end of a town that no longer has a sheriff to keep his eye on you. Is that it?”

Grace always could make the right conclusions about her, before she said a word about the problem. She laughed. “Probably the neighbor’s cat I never paid any mind to before, that’s all.” Lola peered at the lengthening shadows as afternoon slipped away. “God will be my protection now, same as always. I’m in His hands.”

Grace took in the lowering sun outside the window, too, and stood again to gather her things. “That’s all that can be said for any of us.” Grace’s cool kiss pressed against her cheek. “This visit has done more for me than you know, my friend. But if I want to be home before dark, I need to head out now.”

“The Lord has comfort and wisdom for you, Grace. Hold on to that.”

“I will. Please say you’ll come out for a visit next week,” Grace said, pulling a shawl over her shoulders.

“Your folks will be there. I don’t want to intrude,” Lola said.

“You’re the sister I never had, Lola. You’re my family, too, and I’m inviting you for lunch next Thursday. How’s that?”

Grace’s determination to stay cheerful and strong couldn’t be denied, and Lola wouldn’t do anything to take that from her. She couldn’t promise what next week would hold, but she couldn’t bear to bring up her work again. “I’ll try.”

Grace focused on the door leading to the mortuary for an instant, then forced her gaze away. “I know you will. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Lola walked her to the side door and watched her rumble into the cart, hefting the reins in her gentle hands. “See you next week, then.”

“I’ll expect you unless you send word, all right?” Grace called.

Lola nodded.

Grace moved to slap the reins, then pulled them taut. “I’m glad you’ll have a man working around here. If he’s a trustworthy man, he may scare off any who aren’t, make you feel safer.”

Lola smiled, thinking of Bridger’s strength in helping her that night and the gentleness he had shown both to Pete and to her. Yet her wariness also raised caution. “And what if he’s not the trustworthy sort?”

Grace grinned, a hint of her old teasing self peeking through the grief that shrouded her. “Then it may be just as well you have him where you can keep an eye on him.”

Lola laughed and waved her off. She moved back into the house, leaning against the door and saying a swift and silent prayer for her friend.

She added one for herself, then bolted all the doors.

Chapter Five

Bridger pulled the horses to a halt as the sun dipped below the mountains to the west, peeking between snowcaps. He spotted the large lot in the center of town where Ike planned to build his fancy hotel, with supplies guarded by his men. Bridger’s jawbone ached, riding all the way from Wilder Springs with Toby’s cantankerous load growling in the seat beside him.

He set the brake and hopped from the seat. “This is the rest of them, fellows.”

Toby scowled and shifted his bulky frame to the ground.

“Get on. Tell Ike I’ll be along shortly to give my report of the day.”

Toby stalked down the dusty street, the sharp rays of sunset hiding his heavy tread. No matter how it came about, a break from Toby merited every particle of gratitude Bridger could muster.

Bridger washed his dusty hands in the trough and slicked limp hair back under his hat. He’d done what he’d been asked to do, and done it well, which only added to Toby’s ire. The man probably thrived on delivering less-than-stellar reports on every new man.

It made no matter to him. All he wanted was a hot meal. Frank would be starving about now.

Lola’s home sat out of sight of the hotel lot, around the bend leading away from town. Awful strange vocation for a woman. Bridger felt a certain uneasiness to wonder how she could sleep in that house alone with a dead person in the next room. He shook his head. He had no call to judge. The idea of home depended on what a body grew used to, he supposed.

Many times a dead man would’ve been preferable to sharing a home with his father growing up.

Dusk settled over the town. The sky above still held the brilliance of a clear day, but the mountains already blocked the sun’s long rays. No street fires had been lit yet, but Ike would probably set his men on it before long.

Bridger nodded to Mattie as he ducked into the slow-filling saloon. “Hey, sugar, Ike’s in his office. He told me to send you in straightaway.”

“Sure thing, ma’am. That’s where I’m headed.”

“‘Ma’am’? I sure ain’t no friend of your ma, darlin’. You’d best call me Mattie, same as everyone else.” She stepped around the counter and grabbed his arm in one hand while her other slid across his chest, her eyes gleaming. “Most fellows around here are happy to be on a first-name basis with me,” she said with a wink.

He couldn’t help but smile at her. Mattie had spark. Add to the fact she knew how to dress her beauty to her own advantage, and it wasn’t hard to see why Ike’s tavern packed folks in until the wee hours. But he had more on his mind than playing her games, tempting as they were.

He hoped this meeting with Ike didn’t last long. It wouldn’t do for Frank to wander in search of his own meal. It wasn’t fair to keep him confined there for so many hours. But in Frank’s case, not much was fair. It’s only for a time, he reminded himself.

Bridger knocked on the door to Ike’s office and opened it at his muffled invitation.

Tyler waited behind his desk, reading some kind of ledger by lantern light. “I’m on my way out to greet the crowd. How’d it go today? Any trouble?”

“No more than what you expected. We brought back all you ordered, sir. That’s the main thing.” Bridger removed his hat and stood, feeling drops of water from his still-damp hair sinking into his dusty collar.

“So Johnston gave you trouble?” Ike asked, and the eagerness of his tone grated on Bridger’s frustration.

“I handled it, sir. And I appreciate the warning.” He smacked his hat against his leg to air it out. “Toby and the others are unloading supplies now, but you said you wanted to see me as soon as we made it back.”

Ike grinned and stood. “I wanted to hear how things went and to give you this for today.”

Bridger opened the envelope Tyler handed him. Five dollars? “What’s this for?”

“Today’s pay. Starting tomorrow, you’ll be on the roster, get paid regular every Friday. Today was the start of those extra jobs I mentioned. Thought it might help if you had a little cash in your pocket.”

Bridger slipped his hat back on his head. “Five dollars for one trip?”

“I told you, I treat my men well. If you brought back everything on that list, it’s nothing compared to what you saved if Mr. Johnston had decided not to honor our agreement. Regular wages are a dollar a day, plus room and board, but you show me you can handle it, I’ll have plenty extra jobs to pass along.”

“I’d appreciate that, sir.” Bridger stretched his arm over the desk to shake Mr. Tyler’s hand. Ike’s grasp crushed, but not a callus to be found on those long, pale fingers. The overall effect lacked strength but not force. “It means a lot to me to have the opportunity.”

“I hope so.” Ike slid a cigar out of a large wooden box on his desk.

“Well, sir, unless you have something more for me, I plan to grab some supper and head to my room. I’ll be ready for an early start tomorrow morning.”

Ike’s smile pulled to one corner as he lit the cigar. “Come on back over later. The night’s young and you’ve earned yourself a good time this 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 a long day for me. I’m not really mad.” He stood, looked at his brother’s repentant face and grinned. Frank would never intentionally frighten anyone or cause trouble. “Listen, I’m making 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 freshness to her loss to have someone root through his tools, through the place where he’d spent so many hours—so many happy hours they’d spent together.

“Lord, give me wisdom. I need someone to build these if I’m going to stay in business. Help me know the right direction to go,” she prayed.

Finally the light moved from the door. Bridger fastened the lock before snuffing the lantern and hanging it on the hook outside. She opened the door at the first soft knock. Surprise widened his eyes. The minimal lighting hid her blush at being caught spying, her response coming too quick for anything else.

The man fairly disappeared under the overhang of the porch, which blocked the moonlight. Still, the rustling told her he’d removed his hat as she opened the door.

“I found the box. Looks to me like he was quite a wood smith, ma’am.”

She sucked in a delighted breath, somehow warmed at the observation. “You’re right. And please, call me Lola, remember?”

“All right...Lola. If you’re willing to take a chance on me, I’m more than happy to have the opportunity.” His voice carried whisper-soft on the dry evening wind.

“I’ll expect you next week, then, whenever Ike can spare you. Good night, Bridger.”

“Lola?”

His voice caught her ear before the door closed. “Yes?”

A long pause greeted her, as if he’d tried to word his next comment several ways before speaking it aloud. “I don’t suppose you get many visitors to this door. Will it be all right if I knock here to get the key for the shed?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

She heard an anxious shuffle of feet. “I just thought hearing, uh, unexpected noises back here...even during the day, it might...”

Her mind returned to the strange thud today during Grace’s visit. “It might if I weren’t accustomed to staying here alone.” She hoped her voice hid her lack of bravado. “Most folks aren’t anxious to snoop around this type of business establishment, I suppose.” She managed a ripple of laughter, suddenly realizing the truth of the statement. “Besides, Ike’s men will patrol the town until a suitable sheriff can be elected.”

“I reckon you’re right.” She heard the smile in his voice and an awkward sense of relief. “Just, if there were something...anything that...disturbed you in some way...well, I hope you’ll grow familiar enough with me being around to let me know. Working for Ike, I’d be glad to keep an eye on the place.”

Lola nodded, unsure how she felt about having this man “keeping an eye” on her place. “I appreciate the offer,” she told him, strangely pleased by it in spite of herself. “But I assure you, I know how to handle things, Bridger.” She prayed for truth in that claim.

He stepped forward and leaned toward the door. His eyes glittered in the kitchen light, and the jagged edge of his scar rippled and pulled at the edge of his lip as he spoke. “From the little I’ve seen, Lola, I have no doubt that’s so.”

With that he slid from the porch with a light step. She heard his soft “Good night” as the door creaked closed.

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