Wyoming Promises

“No more than what you expected. We brought back all you ordered, sir. That’s the main thing.” Bridger removed his hat and stood, feeling drops of water from his still-damp hair sinking into his dusty collar.

“So Johnston gave you trouble?” Ike asked, and the eagerness of his tone grated on Bridger’s frustration.

“I handled it, sir. And I appreciate the warning.” He smacked his hat against his leg to air it out. “Toby and the others are unloading supplies now, but you said you wanted to see me as soon as we made it back.”

Ike grinned and stood. “I wanted to hear how things went and to give you this for today.”

Bridger opened the envelope Tyler handed him. Five dollars? “What’s this for?”

“Today’s pay. Starting tomorrow, you’ll be on the roster, get paid regular every Friday. Today was the start of those extra jobs I mentioned. Thought it might help if you had a little cash in your pocket.”

Bridger slipped his hat back on his head. “Five dollars for one trip?”

“I told you, I treat my men well. If you brought back everything on that list, it’s nothing compared to what you saved if Mr. Johnston had decided not to honor our agreement. Regular wages are a dollar a day, plus room and board, but you show me you can handle it, I’ll have plenty extra jobs to pass along.”

“I’d appreciate that, sir.” Bridger stretched his arm over the desk to shake Mr. Tyler’s hand. Ike’s grasp crushed, but not a callus to be found on those long, pale fingers. The overall effect lacked strength but not force. “It means a lot to me to have the opportunity.”

“I hope so.” Ike slid a cigar out of a large wooden box on his desk.

“Well, sir, unless you have something more for me, I plan to grab some supper and head to my room. I’ll be ready for an early start tomorrow morning.”

Ike’s smile pulled to one corner as he lit the cigar. “Come on back over later. The night’s young and you’ve earned yourself a good time this evening.”

Bridger shifted as Ike shook out the match and took a long draw. “Unless you need me, I plan to see Miss Martin about those coffins before I turn in. I’d like to check out the tools and materials I’ll need so I can start early next week.”

Ike glanced out the window by his desk. “Not quite dusk yet—you ought to have time. You’re in a lot of hurry, though, son. All work and no play—”

“All due respect, Mr. Tyler, you ain’t near old enough to be my pa, so I’ll thank you to not call me ‘son.’”

Fire blazed across Ike’s face, but he ground out his cigar with deliberate slowness, snuffing his anger out with it. “Merely a manner of speaking, and I apologize.” Ike’s stare penetrated in a way that made Bridger’s anger build. “You seem in an awful big hurry to make money. How much do you owe?”

Bridger stepped closer, tilting his chin to meet Tyler’s snide glare. “I told you, I don’t owe any man. But I do have plans for that money, and the sooner I can earn my way out of here, the happier I’ll be.”

Ike moved to the edge of his desk and leaned against it. “You’re planning on leaving already?”

“Not exactly.” Bridger stepped back, pulling his shoulders straight. “But there’s nothing wrong with a man having plans for something more, and I have some of my own.”

Ike crossed his arms and stared at his feet a moment, as if considering. “I understand that drive myself, Bridger, and I like to hire men who have ambitions. Keeps them focused. But hold those aspirations in check. Nothing interferes with my plans.”

“You won’t have any complaints about my work, Mr. Tyler. I guarantee you that. But you also won’t stop me when I’m ready to move on.”

Ike stood and smiled, giving Bridger a hearty pound to the shoulder. “Well, then, I guess it’s my job to be sure you’re in a position you can’t walk away from.” He smiled in a way that didn’t connect with his tightly controlled anger of moments before. “I can do that, Bridger. I can. And I have a whole crew out there to prove it.”

* * *

Bridger trudged up the stairway and creaked open the door of the room he shared with Frank. It wasn’t large by any standard, but it held a bed, a battered desk and a dry sink with a mirror, along with the two of them, without anything getting knocked over every time one of them turned around. The cleanliness of the room surprised him, even if the walls sorely needed to be planed and painted, and stood paper-thin. All told, they hadn’t had a nicer place to stay since they’d left home—and maybe before then.

Frank sat at the desk near the window, scratching pictures of horses into the old copybook he’d carried with him all the way West. Bridger peered over his shoulder, admiring the graceful lines of ink seeping into the thick pages. “For such a big guy, you sure can hold that tiny pen well.”

Frank wiped the nib and carefully stopped the ink bottle before turning. “I was just here waiting on you, Bridge. I sat by the window so I wouldn’t need to light no lanterns.”

“All right,” Bridger said. He set the covered plate he carried onto the desk next to Frank and turned to the dry sink. Frank never lit the lantern. He’d been afraid of fire ever since the night of the accident. Bridger shook his head as he washed. He’d tried to get his brother to strike a match once he’d...recovered, but after a while, Frank’s continued fear made him give up.

“That’s okay. I shouldn’t be this late most nights. I can light it before I head over to Miss Martin’s place. You want supper? Might as well eat while it’s still hot.”

Frank beamed and peeked under the cloth covering the plate. Bridger watched his face light, then fall as he flipped the cloth back.

Shaking his hands and wiping them dry, Bridger pulled the napkin away. “What’s the matter? There’s plenty here. Pull out the camp plate and we’ll split it.”

Frank sighed and moved for the plate and utensils they kept on the tiny shelf over the bed. “Steak and baked potato again?”

“Yep, and what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothin’.”

“I like steak. I’d eat it every day if I could.” Bridger cut the steak and potato and slid half onto the spare plate. “You don’t like it?”

“Sure.”

Frank sat on the bed and took his plate, staring at it with resignation. “I like fried chicken and mashed potatoes, too, Bridge.”

Bridger cut into the steak and sampled a bite, cooked through and fairly tender. He cut another bite before answering. “I’m sure the menu changes. I’ll ask Mattie, okay? Now eat before it gets cold.”

“Wait! We have to say grace first.” Frank laid his plate to the side and bowed his head. Bridger wiped his mouth with a guilty nod. Frank never forgot to say grace—even for a meal he wasn’t particularly fond of.

“Jesus, thanks for this food, and for my brother, Bridger, who doesn’t get mad when I do dumb things and who got this food for us. Amen.”

Hair prickled down Bridger’s neck. “What ‘dumb thing’ did you do, Frank?”

His brother, suddenly interested in the meal, avoided his glare. “Nothin’ special.”

“How about you tell me and I’ll decide.” He felt frustration wave up. After spending the day with Toby, trouble was the last thing he needed.

“You said I could go for a walk during the day.” Frank didn’t go so far as to point at him, but Bridger heard it in his tone.

Bridger pushed his plate aside and drew a deep breath. He’d long learned that getting angry with Frank only made the problem worse. “That’s right—I did. So where did you go?”

“Around the field by the church...”

“And?”

“And back through the town, the way we rode in...past that lady’s house.” Frank’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“What lady?”

“The lady with the pretty black hair, who lives in that house around the bend.” It came out in a whoosh of soft breath.

“Miss Martin?” Bridger looked out the window and across the roofs of the businesses next door. “What happened?”