Page 27 of Wyoming Promises
His boss took a longer-than-gentlemanly gaze at Lola, then met his stare with a smirk.
Bridger tightened his grip on the smooth rolled back of the pew before him, seething. Lola was too fine a woman—a lady—to have any man look her over that way.
He bit the inside of his cheek in frustration. Frank waited, holed up in their little room at the boardinghouse, barely able to sleep with excitement of hearing about church service secondhand, all because a woman mistook his attentions in that last town. And this man, leering at women from the pew!
The song ended and Bridger fell to his seat a half beat behind everyone else, fighting his ire with Ike.
The pastor returned to the pulpit and leaned over it. “I don’t trust folks too well,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.
A low murmur of laughter floated over the crowd, and Bridger found himself leaning closer. “Not that this is a confession. Folks who’ve known me longest and best aren’t at all surprised to hear it, I’m certain. But I have struggled with it. I mean, I’m a ‘man of the cloth,’ called by God, after all. How can I be so skeptical of other people?”
The man paused, returned to a full stand behind the pulpit and flipped open his Bible. His heavy brows bobbed over the rim of his glasses as he searched out the page. “I want to start this morning with the reading of Romans, twelve-nine.”
The congregation stood, Bridger with them. He crossed his arms over his chest. His mind lacked as much practice in attending to a speaker as his spirit at attending to God. But the pastor certainly had caught his interest.
* * *
Lola greeted familiar faces with a smile, hiding her consternation—she hoped. She hadn’t been able to put aside the distractions of the past week well enough to attend to Pastor Evans’s fine sermon. Especially after seeing Bridger Jamison slip in just before service started. Could he be one of the good guys after all?
She staggered, jolted to attention as she flowed into the vestibule with the rest of the congregation. “Excuse me—”
“Pardon me—”
Instant warmth flushed her cheeks as Bridger steadied her with a careful grasp of strong fingers. “Welcome to Quiver Creek Church. It’s good to see you.”
Bridger grinned, a half smile that tugged against his scar. “Surprising to see me, you mean.”
That truth brought a prickle of embarrassment, and denial was useless. Ike always told her she’d make a poor poker player. “Well, I hope you were blessed just the same.”
He followed close through the doorway, brown eyes alight. “A fine sermon—reminded me of my grandfather’s preaching when I was a boy. I admire your sanctuary, too. Someone took a lot of care in building it.”
Pride filled her heart. “My papa did much of it, the pulpit and altar and such.”
Bridger glanced around, and his attention returned to her in a way that brought peculiar comfort. “No great surprise to me. I’ve found the care a woodworker takes with his tools tends to reflect his craftsmanship. I also appreciated the singing, thanks to a particularly strong soprano—”
“Miss Martin is a woman of many talents.”
Ike. Her smile tightened, suddenly forced. While Bridger’s conversation brought warm joy to her chest, the disappointment of Ike’s rude interruption doused the feeling.
“Most fine ladies are,” Bridger said. His jaw rippled and boots shifted as he widened his stance. He nudged closer, but not improperly so. He turned toward Ike as if he sensed her irritation and wanted to shield her. She shook her head. Enough romantic notions—Ike’s dalliance had taught her better.
“I appreciate your compliments, gentlemen,” she said, “but if you’ll excuse me, I want to catch up with Grace.” She extended a gloved hand toward Bridger, feeling a tingle as he clasped her fingers. “I trust I’ll see you this week. And here for service next week?” Lola glanced away from Bridger, lest the hope she heard in her own voice shone too prominent on her face. Her fingers lingered a moment longer in his rugged hand. Wasn’t it right she should be eager for this man to show reverence for God if he were going to work for her?
“Lord willing, I surely hope so.” A fine row of white split his lips, even if it puckered his scarred cheek all the more. With a nod toward Ike, he crossed the churchyard toward the boardinghouse.
Ike cleared his throat, drawing her attention from Bridger’s easy stride. “Makes me uneasy, that one.” His lips drew a sneer. “Never hired a drifter who’d darken a church door. Could be he’d do anything to get in your good graces.”
“Why, Ike Tyler, isn’t that a bit cynical?” Lola protested, but her heart tripped at the thought he could be right.