Page 22 of Wyoming Promises
Bridger covered the last of the supplies with heavy canvas before meeting his boss at the front of the worksite. “Looks like you’re making progress.” Ike waved his cigar hand and smacked Bridger’s shoulder with a hearty thud using the other. “I have an errand for you, and a favor to ask.”
Bridger stepped from under his bony fingers. “What’s that?”
“First, I need you to pick up supplies at Anthony’s store. Tell Cecil you’re the new man for the weekly pickup. Got that?”
Bridger squinted into the sun, rubbing dust from his hands onto an old blue handkerchief. “Sure thing. I can see about supplies for Lola’s job while I’m there.”
He followed as Ike nodded him into a walk. “I also wondered if you’d be interested in working the saloon tomorrow evening. Lots of cowhands rumble into town with money burning a hole in their pockets. Things get busy, might get a little rowdy. It’d be good to have you on hand.”
Bridger adjusted his hat and tucked the handkerchief into his back pocket. “I prefer not to work in any saloon, Mr. Tyler. Besides, I hoped to do some work at Lola’s.”
“I’ll give you tomorrow afternoon off for that.” Tyler drew the promise out like a bone waved before a hungry dog, totally ignoring any preference Bridger might have. “Pay’s good.”
Ire brewed in Bridger’s chest. No good ever came from having a greater interest in money than you ought to. And outright trouble came when someone else discovered the weakness. Still...he thought of Frank holed up in that hotel room, of the fine tools Lola’s father had, of his promise to take care of his brother and his dreams for his own business. “I said I don’t much cotton to working in a saloon, Mr. Tyler. That’s not what I signed on for.”
“Agreements can be adjusted, right? I’m talking this one time. If I don’t get more men somewhere, you won’t have much chance at a restful evening, anyhow.”
Bridger stopped, his boots kicking dusty rock ahead. “What about the others?”
“Ah, they’re only muscle.” Ike’s voice grew as slick as the mustache wax he used. “You have something they’ll never have—intellect. They can handle situations that get out of hand, true. But you, sir, can prevent the problem in the first place. Besides, I’m shorthanded without you.”
Back home, old Reverend Harvey read warnings about idle flattery, and Bridger wasn’t fool enough to believe this was any more than that. He scanned the street, watching wagons rumbling around the bend that led to Lola’s place. Frank would hate it if—
“I’ll pay you double what the other men get, if you keep quiet about it.” Tyler grinned, leaning back with his hands clasped before him and a too-wide smile. “And Sunday off.”
He’d be free to go to church. Bridger rubbed a hand along his scar. Frank would pitch a fit about him working in the saloon, but keeping his promise to attend church might smooth things over. Besides, Frank would never settle to sleep if things got wild next door. His conscience seared him. But double the pay?
“I’ll do it.” Bridger stopped and faced Ike’s knowing smirk. “Like you said, it’s one night. But no more.”
“That’s the spirit. I believe it’s always wise to keep an open contract. It’s good to see you’re a flexible sort, Bridger.” Ike clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t forget my order from Mr. Anthony, now. You can drop it in the saloon kitchen with Mattie if I’m not in my office. Then you’re on your own until tomorrow night.”
Bridger nodded him off, stopping by the water trough while Ike sauntered down the street.
Bridger wet his handkerchief at the pump and washed over his face and hands. Did Toby know of Ike’s offer? Somehow, Bridger didn’t imagine he’d be pleased if he did. Then again, Toby wasn’t easy to figure.
Bridger had little time to wonder. If he didn’t stop woolgathering, he’d never make it to Anthony’s store before it closed.
But he felt no hurry to return and tell Frank about the change in his working arrangements, either.
* * *
A tiny bell chimed as Bridger stepped through the door into Anthony’s General Store. Cecil Anthony, a tiny man with olive skin and a thick gray mustache, greeted him from behind the counter with a cheery hello. “What can I do for you today, sir?” he asked. Bridger couldn’t place the bold accent, but he smiled at the brightness of it. Mr. Anthony tapped the worn counter with thick fingers, his apron still crisp and white as the day wound down. Sunlight slipped through the front windows and gleamed across his smooth head, glistening along his spectacle frames. He stood straight and firm, though he barely rose above Bridger’s chin. His square shoulders matched his jawline, and Bridger knew in an instant he liked the man.