Above the Bridge

Above the Bridge

by Deborah Garner

Copyright © April 2012 Deborah Garner

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

EXCEPT FOR BRIEF TEXT QUOTED AND APPROPRIATELY CITED IN OTHER WORKS, NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM, BY PHOTOCOPYING OR BY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS, INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE OR RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS, WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE COPYRIGHT OWNER/AUTHOR.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I owe heartfelt thanks to so many people who helped bring this book into existence.  I'm extremely grateful for the help of Carol Anderson, Jay Garner, Karen Putnam and Nancy Roessner, all gracious readers who provided insightful feedback on final drafts.  Special appreciation is owed to Elizabeth Christy for her outstanding editorial assistance, as well as to Luke Tabor for cover design.  And big hugs go to my Wyoming "big sister," Mary Udy, who tolerated my never-ending obsession with getting this story written.

In addition, numerous research sources deserve thanks for the outstanding services they provide:

The Jackson Hole Historical Society and Museum is a gold mine of knowledge on area history.  Shannon Sullivan, Curator of Collections, was especially helpful in providing valuable fact-checking expertise and access to photographic archives.

The Teton County Library's research section on local history provides a wealth of information on the history of Jackson Hole.  Of particular help was the book, "A Place Called Jackson Hole: A Historic Resource Study of Grand Teton National Park," by John Daugherty, with contributions by Stephanie Crockett, William H. Goetzmann, and Reynold G. Jackson.

The National Museum of Wildlife Art offers top-notch educational resources about wildlife, ecology, art and western heritage, as well as an outstanding view of the National Elk Refuge. 

The Craig Thomas Discovery and Visitor Center boasts a magnificent relief map of Jackson Hole, detailing near infinite possibilities for hiding - or discovering - hidden treasure.

Additional thanks go to many other family members and friends - you know who you are.  Above all, I am grateful to Paul Sterrett and to my father, Bruce Garner, for believing in me.  Without their patience, support and encouragement, this book would never have been written.

For My Father

CHAPTER ONE

Just before midnight, Paige Mackenzie walked to the door of her room, twisted the cool, metal knob and stepped outside.  She glanced around the half-filled parking lot and vacant sidewalk, peered up and down the street at the dark windows of nearby stores and leaned back against the inside of the door frame.  Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly, a frosty cloud of white slinking away from her lips and out into the late October night.

Looking
up
, she watched the moonlight dissipate softly across the cloudless
sky
.  It had been that way for several
nights
.  As with each recent
evening
, she stood under the ceiling of stars and felt a gentle peace settle over her, one of many welcome changes in her life.

It had been almost a week since Paige had arrived in the western mountains of Wyoming.  And it had taken her that long just to begin accepting the quiet nature of the area, a jolt of a change from her hectic New York life.  She had spent the previous week driving across the country, slowly leaving the Atlantic coast and eastern life behind her.

Wyoming had been a shock to Paige.  The open land seemed to go on forever and the highways stretched endlessly into the distance.  Crossing the state from the east, the open fields had encouraged her mind to wander.  Each mile she covered had made the next one feel even more welcome.  Though she was traveling with a purpose, she knew any geographic change had the potential of kicking up the unexpected.

She had stumbled into Jackson on a late Friday afternoon, finding a room in town at the Sweet Mountain Inn.  She’d dropped her overnight bag on the bed and set up her toothbrush, toothpaste and favorite lavender soap on the narrow, glass shelf in the bathroom.  The last leg of her trip had been long and tiring, five hundred miles from Denver in one straight shot.  The previous day’s drive had been just as taxing, another five hundred mile stretch from Topeka to Denver.  It was tempting to collapse on the bed and rest.  But curiosity outweighed exhaustion and the lure of the unfamiliar town called out to her.

Fighting fatigue, she’d cupped her hands under the bathroom faucet and splashed cold water on her face.  A look in the mirror confirmed what she suspected.  She looked as tired as she felt.  Her eyes, usually a sparkling green, appeared dull and lifeless.  She turned her head slightly to the side, noting, as she had many times before, that she’d inherited her father’s nose and strong jaw line, along with her mother’s smooth skin and high cheekbones.  Running a brush quickly through her auburn hair, she set out to explore.

Sauntering slowly down the main street, she’d let first impressions of the town sink in.  Store windows displayed western wear, cowboy hats and impressively realistic wildlife sculptures. Upscale galleries showcased exquisite photographic works, while jewelry store windows framed unique, one of a kind, artist creations.  Smaller shops sold homemade candies, ice cream, local huckleberry jam and fresh roasted coffee beans, as well as a hefty assortment of souvenirs for the multitude of tourists the area attracted.

She had paused to order a vanilla latte to go from a small coffee house, hidden away in an old log cabin on a side street, a sign above the door announcing it
as
The
Blue
Sky
Café.
 
Adding
a
raspberry-orange
muffin to her purchase, she had continued to wander through town, arriving finally at the town square. On a park bench, surrounded by trees and attractive landscaping, she had begun to contemplate the possibilities her visit might hold.  Though not yet defined, they felt endless.

Now, on this cold, crisp night, her back pressed against the solid wooden door frame, thoughts tumbled around in her mind, just as they had on that very first day.  What had brought her to the west, to Jackson Hole in particular?  She’d been given a fair amount of latitude in choosing a location to research.  A trip down the Atlantic coast would have certainly been easier, but it was something she had done many times before.  She’d always managed to keep from wandering but now, at the age of thirty-four, she knew she was ready to step outside the familiar.

Susan was always good about listening to Paige’s input, which was something Paige appreciated about her editor. She’d been a little surprised that Paige had chosen to distance herself so far from familiar territory, yet the more they had discussed various options, the more Susan had felt that Paige’s proposal was feasible.  It had been some time since the paper had done a story on anything outside of the immediate region.  It made sense that the east coast readership would be drawn to a story about a western Wyoming area.  Jackson Hole had seemed a good choice.

Paige stepped back inside, eased the door closed and listened for the click of the latch.  Out of habit, she locked both the doorknob and the deadbolt above it, though she was aware many residents of the area didn’t lock their doors at all.  It was just one of many differences she’d noticed upon her arrival.

Other differences included the slow pace of life, the way people took their time to explain things, the patient attitudes they had when listening.  Cars stopped at crosswalks and horns didn’t honk the split second traffic lights turned green.  The few traffic lights there were, that is.  Merchants weren’t afraid to accept local checks.  Strangers weren’t greeted with looks of suspicion.  It appeared in this town that people were actually innocent until proven otherwise, a proof that apparently was rarely necessary, according to the almost nonexistent crime rate.  Within these observations Paige had begun to breathe a little easier, to relax into the calm peace of the mountain town.

It was during the first few days after arriving in Jackson, maybe four, maybe five, that Paige noticed Jake.  She’d taken her usual place in line at the Blue Sky Café, right behind another regular she recognized as a woman who wore a different hat each day and right before Old Man Thompson.  At least that was what Maddie, who ran the popular, funky café, called him.

Paige was stirring sugar and cinnamon into her sturdy paper cup, clutching the heat-protecting wrap with her free hand and watching Maddie hand Old Man Thompson a plain bagel, toasted well, with light butter, just the way he’d ordered it the morning before.  And the morning before that.  She had just tapped the edge of her spoon on her cup and was reaching to deposit it into a glass marked for used spoons when a jingle of bells on the front door caught her attention.  Glancing over her shoulder, she first saw the weathered cowboy hat, tilted slightly to the left of a fine-chiseled face.  A bit sun-kissed, Paige thought, most likely from working outside.  Faded blue jeans and a red and blue plaid shirt blended in with the hat and tanned complexion.  A scuffed pair of brown boots peered out from below the jeans.

“Hey, Jake,” Maddie shouted across the counter.  “What’ll it be today?  Black coffee and a cinnamon roll?  Or black coffee and a blueberry scone?  Or black coffee and black coffee?”

The man she called Jake took a few strides over to the counter, his boots clicking against the old, wooden floor.

“You know me too well, Maddie, old girl,” he said with a slight smile.  “Black coffee and black coffee it is.”

“Who’re you calling an old girl,” Maddie said, holding back the coffee as Jake shook his head and laughed.

“Maddie, you look younger to me every day,” he crooned, “I wake up each morning and just can barely wait to get here and see you and your pretty face.”  He raised both of his hands and smacked them against his own face for emphasis.

“Take your coffee, you sweet talker, you,” Maddie replied, waving away his outstretched money and signaling the next customer to move up in the line, a slight woman who had entered just after Jake.

Taking a seat in the corner, Paige grabbed a copy of the local paper and tried to bury herself in the morning news.  A stark contrast from The New York Times that consistently landed on her doorstep each morning at home, this paper was filled with stories unique to the immediate area.  A wildlife conservation group was protesting newly increased hunting quotas.  The town council had turned down a proposal for a major commercial remodel, based on blueprints that detailed building heights that were well above those allowed by the planning commission.  A few pages into the paper, an impressive list of musical appearances stretched down the right side of the crisp newsprint.  It was clear the town’s new Center for the Arts pulled in big names.

“I’d try to get tickets for Willie Nelson if I were you,” a woman passing by the table said, noticing Paige looking over the event section of the publication.  “He was amazing the last time he was here.  If it’s sold out, try for Bob Dylan.  Or Joan Armatrading.”  Paige offered a quick thank you as the woman scooted out the door.