Page 38 of Wyoming Promises
Lola followed behind as her friend opened the door. Jake Anderson reined to a stop and dismounted, greeting them with a doff of his hat.
“I heard I might catch you here, Miss Martin, and was happy to take the advantage away from any prying eyes in town, if that’s all right. I won’t take long—I just wanted to let you know I’m back in town.”
“I’m glad to see that,” Lola said, squeezing past Grace to stand on the bottom step. “There’s been another death in town, and we wondered when you’d be able to return.”
Jake removed his notepad from an inside pocket. “I heard the local mercantile owner was found this morning. He was elderly, though, correct?”
Lola crossed her arms before her. “He had more years on him than most around here, but ‘elderly’ hardly suited him, either.” She thought of the round bruises across Mr. Anthony’s dusky skin. “It doesn’t seem right he should be taken that way.”
Jake gave a wry grin, rubbing his hand along his wide jaw. “All in the Lord’s timing?”
Lola sensed his question, thinking again on the pattern of black-and-blue splotches. “To be honest, I’m not entirely convinced, Marshal.” She glanced up at Grace, thin wisps of blond hair blowing across her hollow cheeks. Images of death slowly molded together in her mind. “What are the chances a young sheriff would die in the mountains the same way an old man died in his store?”
Chapter Eleven
Bridger shifted in the back pew as Pastor Evans delivered the eulogy for Cecil Anthony. While he barely knew the man and had not earned a fair impression from him, he attended the service to pay his respects. He hoped to have the same kind of fire in his belly at Mr. Anthony’s age.
Ike told all his men to be at the service, and they obeyed, standing in a gang at the back of the sanctuary, looking as comfortable as a cat in a pond. Bridger focused on the minister, glad he’d arrived on his own.
Mr. Anthony’s daughter, a petite middle-aged woman, had traveled with her son for the service. He heard she planned to take the body back East for burial next to her mother.
Bridger never considered anything further than being buried where he fell. Fighting in the war, men were fortunate to get a marker for their graves. Home had been the dust under his feet for so long he doubted a soul would remember him back in Indiana. But as he offered condolences to Cecil’s family, he considered the peaceful rest upon the businessman’s face. The coffin he’d fashioned, his first attempt, had turned out well. Lola did important work, and it gave him a good feeling to be part of it.
He caught Lola’s profile as she sat in the front pew, focused on the minister. The black velvet hat and cape she wore could not outshine her hair, the length of it curled and twisted in a rich mass at the base of her neck. Her dark lashes and wide eyes were noticeable even at this distance, and her pale skin spoke of the sadness she felt as well as her beauty. Who would look out for her now, with Mr. Anthony gone?
“Saying goodbye is not easy. We don’t like to do it even when we have reasonable expectation and intention of seeing our loved ones again within a few days,” Pastor Evans said.
Bridger clasped the top of his hat in his hand and nodded in agreement. Ike had put him in charge of seeing Mr. Anthony and his family to the rail depot with another supply order to pick up for the return trip. Frank wouldn’t like it, and Bridger knew he’d taken the coward’s way by waiting to tell him just before he left. But the money had been too good to pass up.
He thought of the savings that grew in the little pouch stashed in his saddlebags. Before long, he’d need to consider a bank at this rate. If he held on to this job for several more months, he might have the funds to get his own place and set up shop. A year or two, he’d afford that little ranch Frank dreamed about.
If only Frank would listen to reason and stay put. Bridger didn’t like the idea of leaving him for what might be the better part of a week, holed up in that room. But it had to be...for a while longer.
“But the Lord does not leave us comfortless. He sends His spirit in special ways at these hardest times. He will not leave our minds weary and our fragile hearts without protection,” the pastor continued.
Lola bowed her head into her gloved hands, but the sound of her muffled sobs traveled to where he sat. Ike swept a handkerchief from his suit coat with grand flair and tapped it against her shoulder.
Bridger’s scar pulled taut as his jaw clenched. He shifted forward in the pew, irritated with Ike’s hovering. Irritated, too, with the way Lola allowed it.
He stiffened in the seat. Ike said he’d once had a claim on her heart and planned to again. He couldn’t picture a fine, Godly woman like Lola with a barkeep, though. People and circumstances changed, and he grudgingly admitted Ike possessed qualities a lady might mistake for charm. Except something more rang false when it came to Ike. Bridger couldn’t nail down anything for certain, but it didn’t dovetail.