Page 33 of Wyoming Promises
The pages contained the same precise writing, but now they were numbered to maintain their order. Here he found information he could use on figuring amounts and prices of supplies to buy ahead, should he need them. He’d keep them to study further.
Continuing to flip through, he found copies of business statements for families Lola’s father had helped over the years. Mr. Martin ran a modest business—several slips marked paid before the balance read zero. Toward the bottom of the stack, Bridger found a thick set of papers in a separate, smaller folder marked Sheriff McKenna.
He fiddled with the clasp for only a moment before curiosity got the better of him. Inside he found loose ledger sheets of some sort. The top of each paper had Q.C. Business Association written. The dates ran from about a year before to about six months ago—right around the time Lola said her father had been killed.
He ran his finger down the smooth pages, noting the amounts deposited at monthly intervals. Next to most payments, a name listed someone from Tyler’s outfit. Who would trust Ike to handle finances for such an organization?
About halfway through, he noted other names occasionally written in all capital letters. Some were scratched out with a steady black line ending in moved out. Names like Mr. Anthony’s he recognized as other business owners in town.
He flipped to the front of the folder again. He’d be the first to admit he knew little about ledger sheets and less about business associations, but a group that ran with a bottom line of zero classified as unusual, and seeing the file labeled for local law enforcement seemed downright strange. Did Lola know anything about this? Whatever this was?
She seemed adamantly sure about the sheriff’s respectability. Then again, he doubted she knew about this file, either. Why would her father keep it hidden in his workshop, mixed in with everything else?
“What’s wrong, Bridge?” Frank’s look told him he’d been frozen for a moment.
“I found some papers that look funny.”
“Like a joke?” Frank asked, reaching for the papers with thick fingers.
Bridger waved him off. “No, no, not laugh-at-it-funny, just strange-funny, the way this arithmetic looks.”
“Funny numbers?” Frank asked, his brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Maybe.” Bridger checked the clock. He stashed the papers, placing the separate sheaf on top. “I have to get over to the hotel site for guard duty. Listen, you watch yourself walking out there this evening. The sun’s sticking around a little later every day, makes you easier to spot, you know? Just don’t—”
“Bother nobody. I know.” Frank pulled his cap low over his eyes. “I never do.”
Bridger tied his holster securely to his leg and covered it with his long coat. “Sorry. I guess I can’t help worrying enough for the both of us. Just...be safe, all right?” He blew out the lantern, leaving them in almost complete darkness.
“All right.” Frank nodded solemnly.
Bridger checked for a clear hall, but rarely saw the other men, to the point he wondered if most didn’t take rooms elsewhere. “Remember, I’ll be late, but I’ll try not to wake you. You try to do the same until the sun’s up, at least.”
Frank’s grin shone from under his cap brim. “In time for church, though, right?”
Bridger thought about a comfortable pillow and what it must be like to sleep until a body had its fill.
“Yes, in time for church,” he said. If it kept Frank content for a few weeks longer, he could sacrifice a little shut-eye. But the cost of Frank’s safety grew by the day.
* * *
Lola fastened the last of the bedclothes on the line with a wooden peg as it caught the breeze and billowed. The snap of the wet corners blended with the rhythm of pounding inside the woodshop.
Bridger had worked like a desperate man from the day the supplies arrived, starting early in the morning and working through lunch before heading over to work on the hotel, which had made excellent progress over the past few weeks. Lola had not been in favor of the plan for such a large, ornate building. But a fine hotel likely attracted a more respectable crowd than the seedy rooms of the boardinghouse. And didn’t it prove Ike’s interest in moving toward a more respectable business?
She swiped loose hair from her forehead where it clung from the steam of hot, soapy wash water. She checked the time on her brooch. Early for lunch, but some cold lemonade would taste good.
Bridger’s soft whistle carried through the air. Perhaps he’d enjoy a break, as well.
Inside, she squeezed the tart fruit, arrived fresh from California, and stirred in sugar. She remembered the molasses cookies she’d made the day before and placed some of those on a tray, too.