Page 51 of Wyoming Promises
Lola stared at Grace, wishing a stiff breeze could blow the heat from her cheeks. “You’ve hardly spoken a dozen words to the man and you know that about him?”
Grace nodded, the wisdom of experience shining in her blue eyes. “I saw it in Pete enough to recognize it.”
“Ike’s been keeping an eye on my place, too,” Lola admitted.
Grace’s lips drew a firm line. “But the flowers aren’t from him.”
“No,” she said. “I discovered it in a roundabout way, but no, they’re not from him.”
Grace huffed. “Not his style to give a woman something nice without gaining credit for it.”
Lola thought of their conversation earlier that morning. “He’s trying to change, Grace. If the Lord won’t remember his sins against him, how can I?”
“Because God gave you memory for a reason,” Grace said. “Ike had no right, what he did to you. It’s irksome to see him prospering, I’ll tell you that.”
Loyalty and shame swirled in her chest so that Lola lacked the muster to provide a convincing defense. “He doesn’t expect me to forget that, only to give him a chance moving forward,” she said.
“Then you be sure you use your God-given memory to stay wary. I don’t trust him.”
Lola rubbed a hand over her wrinkled brow. “You’re telling me you feel better about a virtual stranger hanging around my place than you do Ike, whom we’ve known for years?”
“Yes,” Grace said, her voice a harsh whisper. “Just as you have learned about care and compassion from watching your father in his line of work, Lola, I’ve learned from watching Pete. Sharing his experience and the Lord’s discernment have made me a good judge of character. Bridger may be facing some rough circumstances, but there’s something solid at the core of him.”
“But not Ike?” Lola asked.
Grace shook her head with vehemence. “The only thing solid about Ike is his bank account,” she said. “And that only adds to my reasons for not trusting him.”
Chapter Fifteen
Bridger jarred from a doze as the wagon bounced over a deep rut. He rubbed his jaw, feeling stubble that only added to his rough appearance. The lack of sleep didn’t help, either. He’d been a fool seven ways from Sunday, to have gone so long without figuring Ike’s scheme. How could he allow the lure of money to blind him?
Still, more questions plagued him. The Axlebees had fallen on rough times with the mister laid up from a bad fall, when Ike swooped in to offer the loan they needed to tide them over. But it came at high interest and no room for delayed payment. How many others had fallen for similar deals? Or did Ike operate on a case-by-case basis, using whatever means necessary to gain control? How many people were being hustled? And did Ike have any partners?
Bridger carried more questions than answers, but Ike’s bankroll blinded him no longer.
He rolled into town in a dust cloud, all sluggishness drained from him in his frustration.
He dropped the materials at the hotel site and stormed toward the boardinghouse. He froze at the top step. Ike waited at his door, and Bridger sent a silent prayer that Frank had slipped out or managed to remain silent until he left.
“How’d the trip go, Jamison?” Ike asked, cigar swinging from his fingers.
“You know that better than I would,” he said, not bothering to hide his irritation.
Ike drew to full height with a cultivated sense of calm, adding to Bridger’s fury. “What’s all this? I understand none of the men like being away from the comforts of home, such as they are,” Ike said, waving the cigar toward his door. “But it’s my business transactions you were conducting, and—”
Bridger stepped forward, hating that he had to tilt his head to look the man in the eye. “Let’s just say I learned a lot on this trip, Ike. More than I care to know.”
Ike slumped against the doorjamb, twirling his cigar between his fingers. “It seems to me you didn’t learn as much as you forgot, if you think I’ll tolerate that tone from you or any of my men.”
Bridger formed fists in either hand, muscles tense and ready to pounce. “I’ll grant you, I’m not the sharpest chisel in the toolbox, but you’re not as smart as you’d like to think, either.”
Ike’s hand rested at his shoulder, cigar at Bridger’s ear as he drew closer.
A solid punch across his chin a second later sent Bridger into the opposite wall, his advantage lost in fatigue, Ike’s greater height and the factor of surprise. He kept his footing and lunged, only to be shoved back.
“Hold on, now,” Ike said, holding his hand up, palm toward him. His frustrating, controlled smile returned. “Before you go getting all riled, let me tell you why I’m here.”