Page 45 of Wyoming Promises
“I suppose the Quiver Creek Business Association wouldn’t be so interested in having women on the board, is that it? Even if you could teach them a thing or two?”
Mattie blinked, drawing up on the stool as if she’d been struck. “I didn’t think Ike planned to tell you. He seemed to think it would be easier if you weren’t familiar with that part of his business.”
Her disappointed tone confused him. “He didn’t really tell me. I figured it out when I saw some records. I’m not as dumb as I look, you know.”
“I never took you for dumb, sugar, but I may change my mind if you tell Ike you know.” She raked long fingers through her silky curls.
“I don’t see the harm in me knowing.” Bridger tamped down his rising excitement. Something about the business association wasn’t on the up-and-up, and Ike Tyler’s hands were mired in it up to his elbows, at least.
“No,” she said, but the curl in her lip said otherwise. “I thought I judged a man’s character a little sharper than that, and I didn’t figure you for... Well, that’s neither here nor there. It’s not like I have any room to talk.”
Bridger scratched his chin. “Maybe you should talk more about what’s important, let the fellows who come in here know how smart you really are. You could do better than Ike, Mattie,” he said, keeping his voice low. The call of a magpie wafted through the air.
“Sugar,” she said with a laugh, “I can’t wait around forever for another cowboy like you to come through Quiver Creek. Besides, once he convinces that lady undertaker he’s good enough for her, well, I don’t suppose Ike will be interested in anything but business after that.”
Bridger buried his face in his mug, gulping the last of the bitter drink. Had Frank really interrupted something between Lola and Ike? Could Lola’s father have been part of Ike’s scheme? Somehow he couldn’t line up the daughter Mr. Martin raised with his growing certainty of Ike’s involvement in illegal gain. The marshal’s interest, Ike’s bottomless finances that failed to match a saloon’s profit and now Mattie’s comments only added to his nagging suspicions of the man. But he needed more. Marshal Anderson may have questions about Ike, but wasn’t it suspicion about himself that had actually brought the man to town? And what did it all mean for Lola? Bridger shifted his saddlebag again, avoiding Mattie’s gaze.
“Oh, no, sugar, not you, too.”
“What?”
“I’m not some blithering fool, honey, and I ain’t blind. You’re falling for her, too, aren’t you?”
Bridger pushed upright from the bar. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, Mr. Tyler has his own ideas about her. I’m only helping her the way he asked,” Bridger said. “He also wants me to run some deliveries, so I’d best be on my way.”
Mattie slipped off the stool and stood between him and the doorway. “Don’t rush off. I don’t blame you, you know. She’s a beautiful woman—smart, classy...respectable, you know? She’d be a heap further ahead with you than with Ike, that’s for sure.”
“I’m not sure she believes that.”
“She will,” Mattie said. She stood on tiptoe in her flat slippers and pressed her warm, soft lips against his jaw. “I can’t help it, Bridger Jamison. I still see you as one of the good guys.”
“Thanks, Mattie. Any man with eyes ought to see what a lady you are. A smart one, to boot!”
Mattie flushed. “It’s nice to know there are men out there who care to find out.”
He glanced at the angle of the sun starting to peek through the windows. “You’d best get to sleep, and I’d best get my delivery under way. I don’t want Mr. Anthony to miss his last train ride.”
More important, the sooner he left, the faster he could return. The press to get back already weighed heavier on him than it had a few moments ago. Until he figured out what was happening in this town, the closer he stuck to Lola, the better.
* * *
Lola dumped a mass of dried flowers behind the woodshed and pumped water for a fresh bouquet. This morning silvery lupine waited at her back door, still damp with spring dew.
Secret flowers didn’t seem Ike’s style. His grand conspicuous nature had once held her attention, like the striking flash of a long blade, until she found herself on its cutting edge.
Her first thought had been of Bridger. His rough exterior hid tenderness, but she witnessed it in so many little ways—the care he took with the tools, his soft knock at her door each time he came for the key, his adamant concern for maintaining a gentlemanly distance as he worked. How could she have dealt with Mr. Anthony’s death without his help? His comforting presence?