Page 58 of Wyoming Promises

“But there are a lot of different angles to your job—the science, the caring for families, the accounting and business end of running a mortuary.”

She shrugged, unsure where his questions were leading. How much could he care to know? “I’ve done so much of it with Papa for so long, I don’t think on it in that sense.”

“Are there any, I don’t know—guilds, organizations—for your profession?” he asked.

Her heart skipped, sensing more to his questions than idle curiosity. Her profession was hardly proper dinner conversation, but the drone of the busy crowd made the quiet corner where they sat feel cozy, far removed from the other patrons. “Possibly back East. Nothing like that here. Even if there were, a woman among the ranks would not be a welcome addition.” Ike sidled by with an interested stare. “I’ve only been able to operate here because people knew my father and need my services. Even with that, I know Ike’s had to run interference at several turns.” Gall burned bitter to admit it.

“What about general business associations? Would they invite you into one for Quiver Creek if it existed?” An insistent press echoed in his tone. Why would he be so concerned?

“One time, I overheard Papa talking with Mr. Anthony about some such organization, but I guess nothing came of it. Ike would play a hand in it, and neither of them were too impressed with anything Ike did. After Papa died, I heard nothing more about it.”

Mattie delivered steaming plates and set them on the table with a saucy wink. “You enjoy that, darling. And you needn’t worry about who’s to pick up the tab on this one. Mr. Tyler says your meal is on the house.”

Lola met Ike’s smiling face as he stood on the other side of the bar, pouring a drink. He raised it in toast to Bridger, who had swiveled to see him, too. She couldn’t see Bridger’s eyes, but his jaw worked into a stubborn set. Some unspoken message passed between the men as Ike crossed to his private door.

She gave a nod of thanks as Ike disappeared into his office. Bridger faced her again. “Suppose Ike had gone ahead and started an association? Would he include your father?”

She picked up her knife and fork to begin her meal but felt her wrist clamped in Bridger’s tight grasp. Her pulse jumped. “He’d probably try. But Papa relied more on what a body did than on what a body had to say, and it would take more than an invitation from Ike to convince him.”

Bridger released her and slumped back, his voice soft and muted as if he’d forgotten their meal or her company. “So he wasn’t involved.”

She backtracked the conversation in her mind, trying to find where she’d lost the path. “Involved in what?”

Bridger leaned close, his voice still low, his focus intent on her face. If she didn’t know better, she’d say the outcome of the world hung on her next words. “Did your father owe Ike or his men any money?”

“What are you talking about? Papa didn’t need a loan. If he had, he’d have borrowed from the bank, never from Ike.” Was he trying to accuse Papa of something? Protective anger left a bitter taste in her mouth. How dare he suggest—?

His hand shot forward, covering hers with a touch that held coolness and warmth at the same time, soothing. “Then why in the world did he make weekly payments to Ike’s men for the Quiver Creek Business Association?”

* * *

Bridger tilted in the saddle as his mount climbed the steep trail into the mountains, Jake Anderson close behind. The air cooled. A drizzle of rain slicked his skin, raising gooseflesh within his damp sleeves.

Riding around a sharp bend, Bridger searched the mountainside for the lightning-struck tree that marked his and Frank’s campsite that night.

He trotted a few feet ahead to the dip in the trail where they had found the sheriff’s body sprawled. “Here,” he said, jaw clenched. Moving stiff and solemn, he dismounted.

Marshal Anderson slid to his feet and joined him, staring at the dusty earth. “You’re sure?”

Bridger studied the trail, the trees, the rugged land. “Not exactly something you forget too easy, the spot where you find a dead body.”

The marshal nodded and pulled his notebook from his coat pocket, gaze intent on the ground. Trees overhead blocked most of the light, but Anderson held the paper close to his face and reviewed what he’d written before he surveyed the scene further. “That rock, it was there when you found Sheriff McKenna?” He pointed toward a heavy stone.

Bridger toed it with his boot. “Yes, it seems to run underground enough to anchor it.”

Marshal Anderson glanced from his writing. “A month past makes a cold trail, Mr. Jamison. What else looks to be disturbed?”

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