Page 52 of Wyoming Promises
Bridger followed Ike’s gaze to the door of his room, and cold dread sank in his chest. “Go ahead. What are you doing here?”
Ike took a slow puff, blowing a smoke ring toward the low ceiling. “It’s no concern of mine who a man keeps in his room, you understand...”
Bluff! “I agree, but what’s that to do with me?” Bridger fought the urge to glance at the door, his heart beating hard, high in his dry throat.
“Let me prove to you how smart I am. I don’t involve myself in the private lives of my men. I don’t expect them to involve themselves in mine, and it works out best all the way around.”
If Ike detected the twitch of his fists, he chose to ignore it. “When a man works so hard to keep something...or someone...a secret, tucked and hidden away like a gold piece, well... A man doesn’t do that kind of thing without reason. That makes the secret a powerful one, and gives me a valuable commodity. Do you understand me now, Mr. Jamison?”
Bridger squared his shoulders and widened his stance. Silence reigned behind the door, but he didn’t dare challenge Ike’s assumption by opening it. “I suppose I might,” he said, crossing his arms. “If what you’re saying is true. As for what I’m saying, a man can die for what he doesn’t know around here.”
Ike smoothed his mustache over his growing smile. His laugh rumbled down the otherwise silent hallway. “I reckon you’re right, Bridger.”
His shoulder shook at Ike’s slap, but he held his ground. Thoughts shaved off in all directions through his mind, but the solid core remained focused on protecting Frank...and Lola. Best to stay on as one of Ike’s men, for now. “I’m glad you understand my position. So tell me. What exactly have you hired me for? Stop keeping me in the dark.”
Ike wavered upright from his over-calm lean against the doorjamb. He flicked the butt of his cigar and turned toward the stairway with a heavy hand at Bridger’s shoulder. “No rush, Mr. Jamison. Now that we understand each other, we have plenty of time to discuss the fine details.”
* * *
Ike sauntered down the narrow stairway and around the corner before Bridger opened his boarding-room door. The room remained dim in early afternoon, but Frank sat at the desk, solely focused on the paper and colored sticks in his hand. Bridger tossed his saddlebag onto the bed and moved to wash the top layer of grime off his arms at the dry sink.
“Bridger! You’re back!” With a wide smile lighting his face, Frank looked like a child who’d found a lost puppy.
Bridger dipped his hands in the lukewarm water and reached for the soap, fighting the fury in his chest with slow, deliberate movements. The heat it radiated could melt a candle. “Not a moment too soon, either. What have you been up to while I was gone, Frank?”
His brother showed enough wisdom to avoid his direct glare, at least. “I walked away from town so’s no one would try to talk to me, and I drew lots of pictures. And I didn’t talk to one person the whole time.”
Bridger winced. Being trapped in the room for long periods of time over the past weeks had been hard for a fellow who liked to talk as much as his brother. No other soul to run his mouth off to must have been nigh onto torture. Bridger scrubbed his face, groaning his frustration into the washcloth. Its mustiness drowned the soapy scent.
Frank stood at his side in an instant. “You hurt, Bridge?”
He stared a long moment at his brother’s pale, blank eyes, full of concern. Frank had no part in the problem he’d created. “Not like you think, no. But I’m in a big mess here, Frank. Bigger than the last one.”
Frank’s gaze traced over his face before his big frame crashed to the bed with a bounce. His broad shoulders slumped and his whole being sagged. “You mean we got to leave here?”
Bridger scooped water in his hands and raked it over his dusty hair, the ends dripping down his collar. “That’s part of the problem, you see. We can’t leave this time. Not yet, anyhow. But it’s not going to be easy to stay, either.”
Frank’s face took on a slack expression that foretold a rare moment of clarity. “Are you worried about me?”
Bridger nodded. He choked at the utter dejection on his brother’s face, forcing his thoughts over the grit in his throat. “I always worry about you. But even more with this.”
“We ought to pray, Bridge. Ma would tell us to pray for what to do.” Frank’s firm declaration came on a husky whisper. “We ought to go to church, too. People could help us.”
Frustration forced Bridger to the opposite wall. He groaned and rubbed rough fingers over his eyes. He swiveled to face his brother. “Did Ma’s praying ever save me from one of Pa’s whippings? Did her prayers keep Pa from drinking every spare cent we had?” Anger welled from his gut. His words burst louder, colder, more hateful than he’d ever allowed. “Where were those fine church people when I showed up at Sunday school with a black eye? Do you have any idea how many times I prayed to God that Pa wouldn’t find me for another beating?”