Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (78 page)

“Grace, this is U.S. marshal Jake Anderson.”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma'am, although I'm sorry for the circumstances. From all I've gathered, few men lived up to the honor of the badge like Pete McKenna. You have my sincerest condolences.”

Grace nodded as the marshal took the offered seat. His large frame looked almost comical folded into the flowered chair with gilded edges.

“I beg your pardon for my appearance, ladies. Had I known I would be meeting with such fine company so soon, I would've taken greater pains to clean up before coming. I like to talk to the source of the initial complaint before I make my presence in town known, if possible, and I came off the trail just this morning.”

“No matter, Marshal. Would you care for some coffee?”

He waved her off. “No, thank you. I won't stay long. I only need to get some preliminary information for my inquiry.”

Lola sat and leaned forward. “I hadn't expected you so soon, sir. Law enforcement isn't usually high priority in the little towns around here.”

He grimaced as he pulled out a small pad of paper and a pencil from an inside coat pocket. “To tell you the truth, I was already headed this direction on another investigation. But my superiors passed your telegram along to me, so I wanted to start with your case.”

Lola swallowed the knot of unnamed fear in her throat. “Do you think they're connected?”

The marshal's smile calmed her. “That's what I'm here to find out, ma'am. I'm sure hoping they aren't.”

Lola studied Grace, rigid in her chair, teacup frozen at her lips. Did she also suspect something?

“From the telegram, I gather the body was discovered on the evening of April 17. Is that right?”

Lola nodded. “That's when the—Pete—was brought to me. The man found him out on the trail late that afternoon, from my understanding.”

Marshal Anderson nodded, glancing at Grace. “Did you know the man who discovered the body?”

“No.” Lola shook her head.

“Not a local? Did you get his name?”

Lola scooted to the edge of her seat, pinching her fingers together. “Bridger Jamison.”

The man jotted some notes. “Can you describe him for me?”

“Dark...brown hair in need of a trim, brown eyes...a scar that cuts across his face. Slight to medium build, but strong—he carried Pete in over one shoulder without trouble.”

“Scar, you said?”

“Yes, old, but very distinct. Runs from his temple to his lip.” Lola traced the path on her own face to demonstrate. The memory of his stance in the dimly lit doorway brought a shiver.

Jake Anderson paused in his writing to stare at her. “Any chance you know where he went from here? It would be helpful to talk to him and learn the details of how and where he found the sheriff.”

“He's still in town,” Grace said, finding her voice. “He's working for Ike Tyler.”

“Tyler?” The marshal flipped farther back in his notebook and tapped his pencil against some notes. “He's the saloonkeeper, right?”

Lola looked at Grace, her eyes reflecting the same curiosity she felt. She nodded slowly. “That's right.”

Jake made further notes and then turned to Grace. “I know it's not easy to answer questions like this when grief is so fresh, Mrs. McKenna. But do you know of anything in particular your husband was working on in regard to his position as sheriff? Did he mention any cases he had conducted, or particular trouble with anyone in town?”

Grace took a sip of tea, then settled the trembling cup in her other hand, as if trying to draw warmth. “No, he hadn't. He rarely discussed his job with me. He thought I'd worry too much.” She glanced out the window. “He was right, but I worried anyway.” Her voice ended in a whisper-soft break.

“I reckon that would've been the case regardless of his job title, ma'am,” the marshal said kindly. He stood abruptly, tucking his notepad back into his coat. “I may have questions for you later on, as the investigation progresses. Again, my sympathies for your tragic loss.” The warmth in his eyes conveyed a depth of sincerity that seemed to bolster Grace.

Lola smiled at her and faced the lawman. “I may have been premature in bringing this matter to your attention, Marshal Anderson. Mr. Jamison's sudden arrival late in the evening, along with his appearance at the time...”

“Never hurts to be cautious, ma'am. I have to testify for a case in Billings next week, but I plan to return and continue looking into other matters. It won't hurt to have a talk with Mr. Jamison and have him take me to the place where he found Sheriff McKenna, make sure his story checks out.”

Lola stood to see him out. Grace also rose, teacup clattering to the saucer on the table at her side. “I really must be going, if you'll pardon my hasty departure, sir. My parents are arriving with the stage, and it's due anytime now.”

The marshal took her hand and bowed slightly over it. “Of course, ma'am. I'd see you to your destination, but for now, it's best folks don't know who I am or what I'm doing here. It's easier to get the truth if people believe I'm a drifter passing through.” Lola felt the quick grasp of his hand around hers as she held it out. “To that end, I'd appreciate if the two of you didn't mention our visit to anyone for now. Rest assured, I'll inform you of anything I learn about your case when I'm certain the matter is closed.”

Lola walked her guests to the back entry. Grace reminded her to come for lunch next week as she left.

Grace tugged into the wagon and gathered the reins. Holding them taut in her inexperienced hands, she gave a tremulous smile and a tiny wave before slapping the horse's rump into motion. They watched her continue around the bend deeper into town.

Marshal Anderson followed her with his gaze from the bottom step. “Strong woman. She seems to have the determination it will take to survive, though it won't be easy.”

Lola nodded her agreement. “I hope I haven't waylaid you, sir. This is probably a goose chase I've set you on, being too hasty and allowing my imagination to carry me to the telegraph station before good sense could catch up.”

“Please don't concern yourself with that. It only makes sense to look into the sheriff's death while I'm here. But please, call me Jake. I don't want to tip my hand too early. I'm asking you to not betray this trust until the time is right.”

Lola tucked a hair behind her ear, pulled loose by the breeze wafting from the cool peaks. “You have my word, Jake. Believe me, I'm anxious to have this matter settled.” The memory of Bridger's gentle voice and kind brown eyes sent a warm ripple across her shoulders. “Because it gets more complicated by the day.”

Chapter Seven

B
ridger slipped into the end of the row, third from the rear. Sometimes sitting in the farthest pew made a man as conspicuous as the man seated on the front bench. He placed his hat next to him on the seat and brushed dust from the brim. Given the length of time since he'd sat in a sanctuary, he felt a mite dusty himself. A tiny woman with snow-white hair nodded and smiled as she passed along to a pew nearer the front. The music had started, and Bridger smiled at his fortunate timing as the minister came in through a door behind the pulpit.

He studied the church, grand in its simplicity. Cedar lent its red-gold luster to the walls and exposed rafters, giving the meeting room a rich hue. A pine altar made with simply designed spindles spanned the front. Directly behind that, a narrow pulpit with a beveled front stood before the pastor. A small cross made of dark mahogany hung above. Tiny panes of real glass blocked together to allow a view of the sunrise sweeping over the mountains. It couldn't be easy for a minister to compete with that kind of distraction.

The sheriff's widow, dressed in black, played a tiny organ off to the side. A slight pause in the music brought everyone to their feet, and Bridger grasped the smooth wood of the pew ahead as he joined them.

“Welcome to the Lord's house this glorious day!” The reverend smiled over the crowd, his head and shoulders barely seen behind the pulpit. His thinning gray hair was carefully groomed, and kind brown eyes peered over small spectacles situated at the end of his nose. “I'm Pastor Rhett Evans, and whether you greeted me on the street yesterday or I've never had the pleasure of seeing your face before this moment, I hope you'll feel at home here and that you'll return often, as the Lord allows.”

Bridger would've been tempted to chalk such cheery talk up to a clever method of filling the offering plates later, if he were more cynical. He glanced away. It had been too long since he'd been in a church service, among other believers. Besides, strength radiated from this man—his hands, his stance, his gaze. His demeanor spoke of integrity and peace. Bridger ducked his head in shame, shifted his feet and added his voice to the others singing “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee.”

A sweet, lilting soprano drew his attention to the other side of the sanctuary. Lola Martin stood, hair delicately rolled along the side of her face, ending in that long, black cascade at her back, her slender neck graced by a high lace collar. Directly behind her stood Ike, hymnal opened in one hand, more show than song.

His boss took a longer-than-gentlemanly gaze at Lola, then met his stare with a smirk.

Bridger tightened his grip on the smooth rolled back of the pew before him, seething. Lola was too fine a woman—a lady—to have any man look her over that way.

He bit the inside of his cheek in frustration. Frank waited, holed up in their little room at the boardinghouse, barely able to sleep with excitement of hearing about church service secondhand, all because a woman mistook his attentions in that last town. And this man, leering at women from the pew!

The song ended and Bridger fell to his seat a half beat behind everyone else, fighting his ire with Ike.

The pastor returned to the pulpit and leaned over it. “I don't trust folks too well,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.

A low murmur of laughter floated over the crowd, and Bridger found himself leaning closer. “Not that this is a confession. Folks who've known me longest and best aren't at all surprised to hear it, I'm certain. But I have struggled with it. I mean, I'm a ‘man of the cloth,' called by God, after all. How can I be so skeptical of other people?”

The man paused, returned to a full stand behind the pulpit and flipped open his Bible. His heavy brows bobbed over the rim of his glasses as he searched out the page. “I want to start this morning with the reading of Romans, twelve-nine.”

The congregation stood, Bridger with them. He crossed his arms over his chest. His mind lacked as much practice in attending to a speaker as his spirit at attending to God. But the pastor certainly had caught his interest.

* * *

Lola greeted familiar faces with a smile, hiding her consternation—she hoped. She hadn't been able to put aside the distractions of the past week well enough to attend to Pastor Evans's fine sermon. Especially after seeing Bridger Jamison slip in just before service started. Could he be one of the good guys after all?

She staggered, jolted to attention as she flowed into the vestibule with the rest of the congregation. “Excuse me—”

“Pardon me—”

Instant warmth flushed her cheeks as Bridger steadied her with a careful grasp of strong fingers. “Welcome to Quiver Creek Church. It's good to see you.”

Bridger grinned, a half smile that tugged against his scar. “Surprising to see me, you mean.”

That truth brought a prickle of embarrassment, and denial was useless. Ike always told her she'd make a poor poker player. “Well, I hope you were blessed just the same.”

He followed close through the doorway, brown eyes alight. “A fine sermon—reminded me of my grandfather's preaching when I was a boy. I admire your sanctuary, too. Someone took a lot of care in building it.”

Pride filled her heart. “My papa did much of it, the pulpit and altar and such.”

Bridger glanced around, and his attention returned to her in a way that brought peculiar comfort. “No great surprise to me. I've found the care a woodworker takes with his tools tends to reflect his craftsmanship. I also appreciated the singing, thanks to a particularly strong soprano—”

“Miss Martin is a woman of many talents.”

Ike. Her smile tightened, suddenly forced. While Bridger's conversation brought warm joy to her chest, the disappointment of Ike's rude interruption doused the feeling.

“Most fine ladies are,” Bridger said. His jaw rippled and boots shifted as he widened his stance. He nudged closer, but not improperly so. He turned toward Ike as if he sensed her irritation and wanted to shield her. She shook her head. Enough romantic notions—Ike's dalliance had taught her better.

“I appreciate your compliments, gentlemen,” she said, “but if you'll excuse me, I want to catch up with Grace.” She extended a gloved hand toward Bridger, feeling a tingle as he clasped her fingers. “I trust I'll see you this week. And here for service next week?” Lola glanced away from Bridger, lest the hope she heard in her own voice shone too prominent on her face. Her fingers lingered a moment longer in his rugged hand. Wasn't it right she should be eager for this man to show reverence for God if he were going to work for her?

“Lord willing, I surely hope so.” A fine row of white split his lips, even if it puckered his scarred cheek all the more. With a nod toward Ike, he crossed the churchyard toward the boardinghouse.

Ike cleared his throat, drawing her attention from Bridger's easy stride. “Makes me uneasy, that one.” His lips drew a sneer. “Never hired a drifter who'd darken a church door. Could be he'd do anything to get in your good graces.”

“Why, Ike Tyler, isn't that a bit cynical?” Lola protested, but her heart tripped at the thought he could be right.

He drew to her side as Bridger crossed the road and became lost among the buildings of town. “I only think of your safety, Lola. Are you certain you don't want me to send Toby along, keep an eye on that one?”

She drew her arms around her waist. “No, I impose too much already. Besides,” she said, a light shudder passing through her as the cool spring air blew across the still-bare trees overhead, “I have to start trusting a little more.” She only prayed Bridger deserved it.