When they reached the stage depot, Curry was mildly disappointed to see that the luggage was not yet loaded onto the Bridgerton stage. He recognized Miss Grady's pile, along with his own saddle. Next to it were two leather suitcases. He surmised he'd be helping load again. Only one other passenger waited in the lobby, a stout, middle-aged man in an expensive-looking, conservatively cut dark suit, a gold watch chain looped from his vest, a bowler hat perched on his head. As they approached him, he pulled his watch out and consulted the time, then snapped it shut, tsking impatiently
"Howdy," Curry greeted the man. "I figure iffen we're gonna spend the next couple days together we might as well introduce ourselves. I'm Thaddeus Jones and this here's - ." Kid gestured to Miss Grady, attempting to introduce her, but was interrupted.
"Bridger. Harold Bridger. Of Bridgerton, Colorado."
"I reckon that means you must be someone important, seein' as that's the name of the town we're headin' to."
"Yes indeed, I founded the town and I own the hotel, saloon, and the bank," he pronounced self-importantly.
"I was gonna guess you were a banker," the Kid drawled lazily, slouching against Amanda's tower of trunks and bandboxes.
Bridger looked annoyed that this person of obvious low status continued to waste his time with attempted conversation. He asked in a sarcastic tone, "Oh really. How did you know?"
The young cowboy eyed him appraisingly, then replied, "Oh, I suppose the fine suit, the air of prosperity." And the smug self-satisfaction and attitude of superiority, he added silently to himself. Aloud he continued, "I kind of have a sixth sense when it comes to bankers." He smirked a little, as if enjoying a private joke with himself.
"How droll," Bridger stated, then started to turn away, continuing to ignore the young lady who was watching the exchange with measured patience, apparently trying her utmost to appear decorous and ladylike in front of the literal Founding Father of her new place of employ. Curry once again attempted introductions, saying, "Mr. Bridger, allow me to introduce you to your town's new schoolmistress, Miss Amanda Grady."
Amanda thrust a lace-mitted hand toward the portly gentleman, pleased that she had remembered to pull the ridiculous but apparently crucial accessories on after breakfast. That and her sun bonnet, which hid all but the most unruly of her auburn curls beneath its modest brim. She worried briefly if she was supposed to offer her hand first or wait for the banker to do so, but ignored the qualm. Being careful not to speak too fast, as she tended to do when she was excited or nervous, she said formally, "How do you do, Mr. Bridger? I am so looking forward to teaching the children of Bridgerton. And I want to express my sincere gratitude for sending Mr. Jones here to escort me safely from Red Hill."
Bridger peered down at her hand as if examining it for dirt, grasped it limply, and released it almost immediately. Rather than return Amanda's greeting, he said somewhat peevishly, "It wasn't my doing. I was against it. A waste of money, in my opinion." Again he moved as if to turn away.
Once more Curry spoke before the other man could disengage, "But Mr. Bridger, you couldn't very well have expected a young, unmarried lady to travel unaccompanied all the way from Red Hill to Bridgerton?"
Bridger responded with alacrity, as if the young lady being discussed was not standing right next to him, "If the School Board had listened to my advice, we would have hired a schoolmaster, not a mistress. Such a person would have been perfectly capable of getting himself to his new place of employment without assistance. Therefore, the town of Bridgerton would not have had to throw away hard-earned cash on the services of a saddle tramp." He paused, examining the younger man's face for the effect of his words. Although he was met with Curry's practiced poker face, he thought he detected a subtle change in the man's stance, a slight coldness in the blue eyes. The banker prided himself on his ability to read people. Sneering slightly, and again dripping sarcasm, he asked facetiously, "Oh, have I offended you, Mr. Jones? It seems I too have a sixth sense, at least when it comes to sniffing out saddle tramps." At the word "sniffing," Bridger's nostrils twitched insultingly above the clipped mustache, as if he were smelling something unpleasant.
Curry didn't rise to the obvious bait. A slightly crooked smile graced his handsome features, but his eyes remained cold. Again with the lazy cowboy drawl, he parried, "I guess that depends on what you mean by a saddle tramp, Mr. Bridger. Iffen you mean a fella who travels from town to town, tryin' out different jobs, meetin' new people, and seein' as much of this big, beautiful country as possible, then I guess that's me. And not ashamed of it."
Miss Grady, ever a crusader against bullies of all ages, felt the need to defend her escort from the snobbery of the supercilious banker. Trying to keep her voice modulated, she interjected, "Mr. Bridger, just yesterday Mr. Jones single-handedly stopped a runaway team of horses, thereby saving everyone on the stagecoach from injury and possibly death."
Bridger completely ignored her comment - if he'd even heard it. He stared at the young woman rudely while she spoke, then snapped, "If the School Board insisted on hiring a female, the least they could have done was find a more mature one. Just how old are you, young lady?"
Despite the abruptness of the questioner and the personal nature of the question, along with the vague recollection that one of the many things Mrs. Battleaxe had drilled into her was that a lady never tells her age, Amanda drew herself up to her full 5 feet 1 inch, squared her shoulders and answered confidently, "I am 25 years of age and have been teaching school for four years. I am a graduate of the Illinois State Normal University. I bring both my experience and advanced training to the children of Bridgerton."
"Hmph, 25. Well, at least you're an Old Maid, even if you don't look like one," was the boorish reply.
Kid could handle being insulted himself, but it went against his nature to stand by mutely while a lady was being maligned. He straightened his posture. His words were polite yet firm, "Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Bridger, but I'm afraid I can't allow you to insult Miss Grady like that."
"Oh, have I insulted you, my dear?" Bridger inquired condescendingly.
Before Curry could respond, Amanda surprised him by echoing his earlier words, her hazel eyes flashing and her veneer of Battle-axe inspired decorum slipping a touch to reveal the spirited young woman beneath, "I supposed that depends on what you mean by "Old Maid," Mr. Bridger. Now if it means an intelligent, independent woman who doesn't need a man to forge her identify, then of course I'm not insulted." She smiled prettily.
Whatever Bridger was about to say remained unsaid, for at that moment the driver arrived. He was several decades younger than Deke Stone, but just as scrawny, with a full head of bushy black hair and a beard to match. He grinned widely, pulling at the brim of his battered Stetson and said, nodding to each passenger in turn, "Howdy folks. Mr. Bridger. Name's Shecky. If we leave in the next ten minutes, and the journey goes uneventful-like, we'll make the Way Station by dusk. We'll light out for Bridgerton at dawn tomorrow and I should have you all there in time for dinner, God willin' and the creek don't rise."
"Spare us your colorful sobriquets, Mr. Sheckerson, and get this gear onto the stagecoach," instructed Bridger, as if he were in charge of the whole operation.
"Let me give you a hand, Shecky," offered Curry, beginning to gather up pieces of luggage.
"Brock! Brock!" Bridger suddenly bellowed what sounded to the Kid like "rock" and swiveled his florid face from side to side, as if he were searching for something or someone.
"What's with him?" Curry muttered out of the side of his mouth to the driver as he helped him manhandle the heaviest trunk toward the stagecoach. "What's he want a rock for?"
"Oh, you'll get used to Bridger," the wiry coachman responded. "I brung him back and forth from Granite Bluff to Bridgerton so many times, nothin' he does surprises me no more. But he ain't sayin' 'Rock,' he's sayin 'Brock.' It's his assistant, Will Brock. Bridger drags that poor boy with him everywhere he goes and henpecks him worse that any old biddy I ever seen." He paused to mop his sweaty forehead with a faded blue bandanna and surveyed the scene. As he picked up a large carpet bag and handed it up to the Kid, now perched atop the coach, he changed the subject, "That little schoolteacher sure is a purty thing, ain't she?"
"Yep. And smart as a whip," Curry rejoined. "Them kids in Bridgerton are real lucky to get her. Wish I had a teacher like her when I was a kid. Maybe I woulda stayed in school longer."
When they had all the trunks, valises, carpetbags, and other luggage securely lashed to the back and roof of the coach, and Kid's little mare once again tied to the back, Shecky called the passengers to board. Curry offered his hand to Amanda, who took it graciously, but then clambered aboard in her usual tomboyish fashion. Curry couldn't help suppress a grin when he saw her obviously remember Mrs. Batenhorst's advice at the last minute and hastily reach down to yank her skirts over her slim ankles – but not until after he'd gotten a nice view.
Kid pulled himself in behind her and sat next to her on the bench seat. He was half-tempted to sit with the driver again and spare himself the company of the obnoxious Harold Bridger. But then who knows what insults the banker would heap upon the innocent Miss Grady without the Kid there to run interference? Just then Bridger himself thrust his head through the door and scowled at the two passengers already aboard. "Brock and I will need to sit on that side. We have work to do and we can't possibly do it riding backwards," he ordered.
Miss Grady, no doubt showing the patience of a veteran schoolteacher, smiled sunnily and moved to the backward-facing seat. The Kid sighed audibly to show his annoyance and took his time, deliberately moving slowly to the opposite bench.
"And no idle chatter or foolish prattle from you, girl. We will brook no distractions."
Curry valiantly resisted the mounting urge to flatten the pompous banker.
Amanda looked as if she was resisting an urge of her own as she settled herself across from Bridger and Brock, who pulled a sheaf of papers from the large leather satchel he toted.
"Good thing I brought a book to occupy my idle mind." She opened the thick tome she had been reading aloud to old Mr. Trent the previous day and buried her nose in it.
Curry felt a sudden impulse to start singing, a move guaranteed to annoy, but instead he folded his arms across his chest, tipped his hat over his face and dozed.
