Page 2 of Wyoming Promises
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.”