Page 23 of Wyoming Promises
“I’m here to place an order for some wood lengths, if you can get them.” He sidled against the counter. “Pine boards.”
“Sure-a thing, sir. Let me get an order slip.” Mr. Anthony reached under the counter and pulled a pencil from behind his ear. “What sizes you need?”
“I hoped you could help me with that. Do you have records of what you ordered for Mr. Martin in the past? I’m to make coffins for his daughter, and—”
“You’re the man a-helping Lola?”
“I guess so, sir. She hired me to build them, providing my work meets her approval.”
Anthony slapped his pencil next to the tablet on the counter and nudged glasses down his Roman nose. His bushy eyebrows drew together and the man’s stare pinned Bridger in place. Though his head tilted down to meet the old man’s gaze, he dared not break from it.
After a long moment, the shopkeeper leaned away and picked up the pencil again. “Humph! You’re a-going to do a fine job for Lola, or you’ll find a new place to do your business, you hear? Don’t you be bothering that fine girl, either. You understand-a me?”
Bridger bit back a smile. He had youth and strength on his side, but somehow, he didn’t doubt if he bothered Lola in any way, this man would dole out justice. “Yes, sir. I only aim to do a good job for her. Strictly business.”
Mr. Anthony harrumphed again, pushed his glasses into place and pulled out a ledger from behind his counter. He made little musical clicks of his tongue as he searched through the pages. “Here we are, sir. I can duplicate the last order I placed for Mr. Martin, God rest his soul. It’s about-a time—he gave me an order every six months.”
The shopkeeper shuffled to a supply room behind shelves at the back. “I understand her business has been better than she’d like of late,” Bridger said, by way of conversation.
Mr. Anthony swung around with a fiery glare. “And what would you know about-a that, sir? Who are you?”
Bridger gulped, sticking his hand in the pocket of his slicker. “Bridger Jamison, sir. I meant no disrespect. I heard it from my boss, Mr. Tyler. See, I’m new in town and I—”
“Then you had-a better speak more carefully about things you’re only learning about, Mr. Jamison. You’re one of Ike’s boys, is that it?” His tone made Bridger thankful for the empty shop. He felt as if he’d been caught with his hand in the candy jar.
“I suppose that’s right, sir. As a matter of fact, Mr. Tyler asked me to pick up his weekly order. I’m the new man,” he offered weakly.
“Has you out handling business for him already? He must see something special in you that my old eyes are missing.” Anthony’s scowl deepened and his fists grew stiff at his sides. Then he spun on his heel and disappeared in the back room a moment before returning with his notepad and a thin envelope.
Bridger stood silent, confused about the sudden cold fury bursting from the man. Mr. Anthony came to the front of the counter, shoving the envelope under his nose. “Here’s Tyler’s ‘order.’ Burt Sampson didn’t have everything, but he’s expecting to make up for it next week.”
Bridger stared at the envelope, slowly reaching to pull it away from the end of his nose.
“If that’s a problem, you tell Ike he can come and talk with me himself. You got-a that?”
Bridger shook his head. “I’ll tell him. I supposed his order would come in a box or a crate, something for the hotel he’s building, that’s all.”
Mr. Anthony stared at him a moment, then shook his head, tramping to his place behind the counter again. “Oh, that-a be something for his hotel, all right.” He stretched his arms along the counter, knobby hands grasping at the smooth, weathered wood.
Bridger held his breath in pause, not sure what Mr. Anthony might be doing. He tried to think of what he’d said to offend the man and wondered if it were age or temperament that affected his change of tone. Bridger shifted his feet, dusty boards squeaking around his boots.
The older man blew a long, forced breath. “I’ll place the order you need, for Lola’s sake,” he said, his voice low and graveled. He looked up, fire shooting from his eyes. “I suppose I ought to be glad you can do what she needs you to do. Ike, he’ll make sure you treat-a her right.”
“You have my word, Mr. Anthony. The last thing I’d do is hurt any woman.” If Mr. Anthony detected something in him to be wary of and talked to Lola about it, he could lose the job before he even tried.
The man flapped his hand as if swatting at a fly. “Beh! So you say.”