Page 28 of Wyoming Promises
He drew to her side as Bridger crossed the road and became lost among the buildings of town. “I only think of your safety, Lola. Are you certain you don’t want me to send Toby along, keep an eye on that one?”
She drew her arms around her waist. “No, I impose too much already. Besides,” she said, a light shudder passing through her as the cool spring air blew across the still-bare trees overhead, “I have to start trusting a little more.” She only prayed Bridger deserved it.
Chapter Eight
Bridger glanced around before cutting alongside Lola’s place to reach the woodshop behind. He bypassed her front door like a thief, but she kept the key at the back, and the less he disturbed her, the better.
He didn’t pine for a return through that front door, anyway. The gleam of fear across Lola’s face the night he’d brought the sheriff’s body to her haunted his memory. Bold as she had been, he recognized it. He hoped seeing him at church this past Sunday had eased her mind about him.
Maybe her wariness gave Ike Tyler the notion to watch out for her. Strange for Tyler to trust him for the job so early on, but then, the thought of any others in the crew being charged with her care made his skin crawl. And that included Ike.
He shook his head. Was it any concern of his, the company she kept? Ike had made it clear his hat was still in the ring, but Lola gave no impression she felt the same. A successful—not to mention beautiful—businesswoman had no reason to give one whit about a seedy saloon owner...or the rough-looking characters he hired.
Lola’s lilting soprano carried across the breeze in a tune he faintly recognized. He slowed his steps, hesitant to interrupt. She sang as pretty as she looked. He adjusted his hat. No time to dally with such thoughts. He whistled “Battle Cry of Freedom” as he rounded the corner, announcing his presence.
Lola twirled with a gasp, fingers trailing across her mouth. A pink flush graced her cheeks. “You startled me.”
“I apologize, ma’am. I’ve come to start on those coffins, if that’s all right.”
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Your show of industry is admirable, Bridger.” She grasped the rail with one hand and slipped a loose wave of hair behind her ear with the other. She wore a simple white shirtwaist with sleeves that rustled gracefully in the soft morning breeze and her blue-gray skirt lacked fancy, but everything about this woman spoke of gentleness and refinement, a true lady. Even with a basket of laundry in her hands.
“I won’t be able to do much until more supplies arrive,” he said. “I came to take a closer look at the tools, find out exactly what I have to work with, now that I have daylight. I haven’t had a chance to study your father’s notes yet, but I’ll see everything is in good working order.” He paused, reluctant to end the conversation. “Can I, uh, get the key?”
“Sure.” She stretched inside to grab it, never leaving the back porch. Her warm, smooth fingers brushed his calloused ones as she handed the key over the rail to him. “I was about to have some lunch. Are you hungry?”
Bridger glanced at the sun, nearly overhead, and tried not to think of the hearty lunch he’d sneaked over to their room for Frank. “Don’t bother on my account, ma’am. I didn’t come to disturb you.”
She leaned away, but a wide smile lit her face. “But I didn’t hear you say you aren’t hungry. It’s no bother, trust me. It’s also not a grand offer. Just a cheese sandwich and a little vegetable soup. You go on and get started. I’ll bring it out to you when it’s ready.”
“I shouldn’t be long. I don’t expect you to—”
“If you did, I wouldn’t have made the offer. Besides, you need to stay strong and able to do this work because you’re not getting paid until you’re finished.” She adjusted the laundry basket and nodded him on. “Go ahead. I’ll be out in a jiffy.”
Bridger opened the lock on the shed and stepped inside. In the light of day, layers of dust made the shop look like one of those newfangled photographs he’d seen during the war—everything still and frozen in some shade of rust. The morning light allowed him to see more than the lantern had shown. A box of rags under the workbench would get him started.
By the time Lola knocked at the doorjamb, Bridger had cleaned the worktable and settled into the corner on a high stool to inspect and wipe down tools. He slipped off to take the tray from her, noting with a little disappointment it contained lunch for one.
He smiled his thanks, feeling his scar pull tight.
Lola glanced around. “It seems you’ve made a good start here,” she said, her voice choked and tight. “I haven’t touched the place since...”