Page 39 of Wyoming Promises
Pastor Evans drew his attention again with his gentle smile and direct way of saying things. “Cecil lived a good life, he’d be the first to tell you, and a Godly one witnessed by we who knew him. Our town will miss him, but he isn’t lost forever. To those who love and serve Jesus Christ as he did, Cecil has only moved into the storehouse of God, and we’ll see him again someday.”
Bridger tapped his hat brim with his bandaged finger. Could that have been what riled Mr. Anthony about him? He’d believed in Jesus, the Son of God, from the time he’d been a little feller at his grandmother’s knee. But that foundation seemed to lack a first story, let alone whatever built up beyond that. Did the old man sense the lack in him?
He stood with the rest of the town for the minister’s final prayer. Trusting Jesus was real didn’t seem nearly so hard as believing that mattered in his daily life. In the same way, Frank knowing their need for money came easier than understanding why he’d be gone for a week. Bridger squared his shoulders at the thought of the coming fight.
* * *
Lola opened the door for Bridger and Ike’s men to carry Mr. Anthony in for one final night as her guest. “Place the casket on the table.” She unpinned her hat and set it on the stand in the corner.
Toby and Jasper Ferris dropped their end with a careless thump. “Be careful!” she said. “Mr. Anthony deserves more care and respect!”
Bridger and the other men lowered the foot of the coffin with a gentle slide against the leather-covered table. She took a deep breath and held the door open, her nerves working overtime. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, fighting tears from her throat.
Her head bowed, she blinked tears away as they filed out without comment. One pair of boots stopped in her vision. Bridger.
“That was a real nice service, Lola. You do a good thing here.”
She smiled, pleased he’d made a point to tell her so. “You did, too. Most men would not take as much care with something so...practical.”
His grin came gentle, lifting the edge of the scar. “Every piece of wood deserves my best work, the way I see it. Maybe even more so for such...practical things. Besides, your pa left clear instructions. I can tell he took pride in his work, too.”
“Thank you.” She’d missed Bridger over the past few days, busy with arrangements for the Anthony family and meeting with Marshal Anderson. “It was good of you to come, being new to town and all. I’d be happy for you to continue your work for me, if you’re still of a mind.”
“That’s what I wanted to tell—”
A sharp knock drew her attention to the door, still open in her hand.
A broad figure filled the entry. “Lola, I wonder if I might speak with you a moment?” He glanced at Bridger. “Is this a good time?”
“Of course...Jake. Uh, come inside.” She motioned him in, closing the door partway. Bridger stood frozen, a blank, uncertain look on his face. She sensed tension building from his squared shoulders to his rough hands, resting where his gun belt would be.
“Jake, this is Bridger Jamison. He’s the gentleman I spoke of before. Bridger, this is Mar—Mr. Jake Anderson, from up Montana way. He’s come to Quiver Creek on business.”
“What kind of business might that be, sir?” Bridger asked. His tone drew out soft and low, belying his stance.
Jake waved his hand in a friendly gesture. “Any business that proves exciting. A little bit of everything to get what I need.”
“Sounds interesting.” Bridger’s tone fell flat and his eyes glazed. He appeared...suspicious.
“I’ll be in town for a while now, Mr. Jamison, and I’d enjoy learning more about your work.”
“That so?” He shot a hard glance at Lola and she flinched. “Miss Martin must’ve had plenty to say about me. You have need of a carpenter?”
“I may. One never can tell which acquaintances might be most helpful,” Jake said, his tone cool.
“Bridger has shown himself to be a fine craftsman.” She closed the door to a finger-width to prevent their voices from carrying to any passersby. “In fact, in working with him over the past week or so, I feel confident that you might share with him the nature of your occupation. We could use Bridger’s help.”
Bridger’s gaze threw daggers her way. What was he thinking?
His jaw quaked. “Is that right? Sounds rather cozy, now, doesn’t it?”
Did he think...? Was Bridger jealous?
Jake looked between them, and she bit her lip. The marshal had wanted to introduce himself in his own way and time, but he’d have to question Bridger at some point. The sooner he sorted out Bridger’s story, the sooner he could focus on his other matters, right?