Page 11 of Wyoming Promises
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.