Page 32 of Wyoming Promises
The final section was labeled simply Coffins. The narrow section contained few words but several sketches with numbers for measurement.
He sat up in surprise. “Here it is, Frank. Doesn’t look like Mr. Martin used it much after he took his course, but it gives me some idea of how to get started. Who’d have thought?”
“I knew,” Frank said. He slashed the pencil lightly back and forth over the center of the page.
Bridger smiled. “You knew how to build a coffin and didn’t tell me?”
“Nope, Bridge. But I knew you’d find how to do it, ’cause I prayed Jesus would help you find out how to do it.”
He slid from the bed to peer over Frank’s shoulder. The detail in the spray of flowers caught him by surprise. “That’s good, Frank. Even better than your horses.” He sniffed the air. “I believe I can just about smell them, they look so real.”
“Except they aren’t colors. I saw a bunch down by the creek today when I was going for a walk—I didn’t bother no one, either,” he defended.
“I didn’t say you did,” Bridger said.
“You would have, though. I know.”
Bridger thought back over the number of times he’d reminded his brother not to be in anybody’s way or to attract attention in the weeks since they’d settled into Quiver Creek. Too many to count. Maybe he should back off a mite. Between the mess in the last town that could have landed Frank in jail and his own repeated warnings, maybe the message had finally gotten through.
“I guess I have been telling you that a lot, and I’m sorry it’s got to be this way for a while yet. But we barely escaped big trouble last time. I have to keep you safe.”
Frank turned back to his work. “I know, Bridge. We’re a scary-looking pair, and I’ll do what you say. But I still have an idea that Miss Lola would like a pretty bunch of flowers like that. Except she’d want colors.”
Bridger punched Frank lightly on the shoulder and slouched on the end of the bed. “We can’t really be thinking of giving flowers to Miss Lola or any other lady around here. But I might be able to do something about finding some colored pencils.”
Frank’s face lit up like candles on a Christmas tree. “Honest?”
Bridger nodded. “Anthony’s General Store has a lot of different things, and if he doesn’t carry them, I’m sure he could order them for you. I’ll see if I can place the order when I stop in Monday to check on the wood I ordered.”
Frank looked doubtful. “But they cost lots of money, right? And we can’t eat them or wear them, even.”
Bridger felt his insides twist. Apparently Frank remembered more about Pa’s teaching than he figured. Their father had often pointed out that if a purchase wasn’t something to be eaten, or worn, it was a waste of money. Except, of course, the alcohol that Pa claimed kept him warm enough to save the price of a coat and filled his gut better than flour and steak. Only it hadn’t done much for the rest of the family.
“I have money for it, Frank. I told you, this is a good job. Mr. Tyler pays better than anyone I’ve ever worked for, and with what I’ll make once I get started on those coffins for Lola...why, we’ll be out of here with our own little spread in no time.” Though maybe not too far away.
The time he spent with her, helping her, had become the best part of his days. Even after leaving his job with Ike, wouldn’t Lola still need his skills? Would she want him to stay?
He shifted on the saggy mattress, feeling the thrum of new opportunity for the first time in a long while. “But I know it isn’t easy for you staying hid around here. If some colored pencils for your drawings make it easier, well, I think we can spare a few bits to get them, all right?”
A broad smile bloomed on Frank’s face. “Thanks, Bridge! You’re the best!”
“Well, it may be a while before we can get them, so don’t go puffing me up just yet.”
Frank stood and threw beefy arms around Bridger’s shoulders, almost knocking him back to the mattress in his excitement. “That don’t matter. You’re the best for even thinking of it. I wouldn’t trade you for the handsomest brother out there!”
Bridger laughed as Frank settled down at the desk again and turned to a fresh page. He made a mental note to add a new sketchbook to the list but didn’t mention it. He wasn’t sure he’d survive another dose of Frank’s gratitude.
Bridger copied information he needed from Mr. Martin’s notes onto a separate sheet. Then he unclasped the sheaf of loose papers. It only made sense to look through everything, in case Mr. Martin had made changes or noted what to do for various sizes that might be needed. He shuddered. Hopefully Lola would never have need for any tiny ones a young child might require. Too sad to think on, let alone build.