Page 68 of Wyoming Promises
Lola slipped away from the door, narrowing the gap. “He’s entitled to keep his own counsel. It’s his family, after all. I’m certain he had good reason.” Hearing her own doubts repeated from Ike’s slick tongue cleared her mind. At least Bridger’s reasons had nothing to do with selfish whims and heedless treatment of others, as Ike’s transgressions had been. “Neither of us is in a position to judge.”
Ike straightened, smoothing his mustache. “You don’t hide family that’s harmless, Lola. That’s all I’m saying.”
“But sometimes you try to hide them from harm. Bridger had his reasons, and he’s entitled to them.” She couldn’t stifle the yawn that overwhelmed her. She didn’t try. The night air crept through her housecoat, bringing a shiver across her shoulders.
“I’ll be on my way, Lola. I don’t want to deter you from well-earned rest. It’s only that I’ve seen the two of you together a great deal since he returned, and I’m worried about you. As a gentleman and as caretaker of this town, I feel it’s my duty to protect you from his kind and their ruffian ways.”
Ruffian ways? Bridger wore gentility like a pair of boots—worn and dusty from use, but as much a part of him as his teeth. The clock on the mantel gave a single soft stroke. “I must get to sleep, Ike. I’ll see you in church tomorrow, and I’m sorry for being so cross. It’s been a long day, but I do appreciate your concern and the things you’ve been doing to help the people of Quiver Creek.”
Ike smiled and gave a gallant bow. “I appreciate the recognition, Lola,” he said. “Good night.”
She closed the door and fastened the latch and lock. Most homes didn’t use them, but she’d had them installed after Papa died as a measure of security to her mind, if not in the physical sense. She’d been glad of it many times over.
But as she made her way up the stairs and slipped between cool blankets to finally rest her head, the nagging question lingered: Why was Ike so interested in Bridger at all?
Chapter Nineteen
Lola clipped up the steps behind the Jamison brothers as the church bell pealed across the narrow valley. “Good morning, gentlemen.” She greeted them with a smile as she shook out her shawl. “It’s wonderful to see you this fine morning.”
Frank looked as fresh as a new penny, his copper hair tamed by water and parted with care. His bright expression drew her awake after a short, restless night. He clasped her hand, shaking it with a staccato beat in his eagerness. “Good morning, Miss Lola. I’m so happy Bridge brought me today.”
She recalled the verse: “I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into the house of the Lord.” Behind his brother, Bridger stood worrying his hat brim, his bleary eyes proof he hadn’t rested any more than she had. “I can see that. You must have slept well.”
“I was almost too excited,” Frank said, fussing with his string tie and brushing his worn wool suit jacket. “But Bridge said if I didn’t shut up and go to sleep, he wouldn’t bring me no matter what. You look awful pretty, Miss Lola.”
She smiled at his flirtatious ways. “With these rings under my eyes, you speak with more flattery than fact. But thank you, Frank. It makes a girl feel good to know her attempts to fix herself up aren’t entirely in vain.”
Frank’s eyebrows dragged down, curling at the edges like a question mark.
Bridger nudged him from behind. “She means it was nice of you to say,” he said. He peered at her over his brother’s shoulder, the message in his brown eyes clear. “But don’t push her kindness.”
Frank glanced at his brother and then turned his subdued grin toward her. “I won’t. You’re welcome, Miss Lola.” He leaned close, yet his conspiratorial whisper echoed in the tiny vestibule. “Thanks for what you did, asking me to help. I wanted to come since we got here, but after you needed me, he couldn’t hardly say ‘no’ no more.” He patted her forearm and stepped to the entry, waiting for Bridger.
Bridger drew closer. The caramel-colored shirt he wore under a tan vest lay crisp over his lanky frame, accentuating his dark skin and coffee-shaded eyes. Everything about him spoke of earth and strength and ruggedness, and he had no business appearing so handsome when she intended to keep her distance.
He leaned closer, his breath warm at her ear. “I owe you an apology,” he whispered.
She refused to meet his gaze, focused instead on Pastor Evans as he made Frank’s acquaintance. “You did, last night.”
She risked a glance. He tipped his face away, his deep scar more pronounced with the angle, then swung back, frustration or embarrassment in his eyes. Maybe a bit of both. “But after having last night to ponder on it, I’d like to apologize properly.”