Page 47 of Wyoming Promises
Shock froze her a moment. “But, Ike, I—”
“I am poised to make my mark on this town. With you beside me, well...” His voice trailed off as his eyes searched her face. “I won’t push you. I know you’ve been dealt a lot these past few months, but you’ll see that all things work out for the best in the end.”
Lola smiled at his earnest expression. “You’re still an old charmer, Ike Tyler.”
He stepped away, a broad smile peeking below his thin mustache. “Not charming—sincere. I’ll prove that to you. All on your time. I assure you, I can be patient...for a while, at least. But say the word, my dear, and I will shower you with flowers, candy, all your heart desires and more.”
Lola raised a skeptical brow. “But not before?”
Ike held his hand over his heart, bowing slightly. “I promise.”
She considered his words, his expression. She believed him, probably more than was wise at the moment. But he hadn’t been the one to leave the flowers at her door, either. Somehow that thought didn’t comfort her as much as she thought it would.
“If you’ve changed, really changed,” she said, “I’ll be glad to see it. You deserve as much opportunity for redemption as any man. As for the other...” She searched the streets, wishing a clear sign would swoop down and tap her on the shoulder. “We’ll have to take that as it comes. But I appreciate your promise to not push the issue and allow me to discover the truth about you in my own time.”
His hands covered hers, and his face brightened. “That’s all I ask, Lola.” He dropped his hands as if suddenly aware he’d breached his intentions. His coy smile broadened. “Just a chance.”
Lola nodded, resigned in his exuberance. “Every man deserves that, Ike.” She smiled.
His gaze lingered a moment, then he spun on his heel and swept his arm toward the hotel with a grand bow. “What do you think? Will this gain the attention of visitors to our fair town?”
“I don’t see how they could miss it. It certainly looks impressive. When do you expect to have it finished?” she asked, catching on to his excitement.
“Another month or more, I’m afraid. Hopefully we’ll convince the railroad to bring a line this way. It would increase profits for ranches to the north, too.”
“Not to mention your own?” she said, peering under the porch roof from the steps.
“I am a businessman, after all,” Ike defended. “I’m waiting for shipments of some fine appointments to go in the rooms. Tasteful, distinguished—”
“Is Bridger to bring them?” She missed him not being in the woodshop each morning to work.
“If they’ve arrived in Ralston, yes. Why?”
Lola drew her arms around herself, holding the shawl close. “I wondered when you expected him.”
“By week’s end, another day or so at most. How’s he coming with your projects?” Ike’s tone held more nonchalance than his features.
“He only finished the one casket, and I needed it for Mr. Anthony. I hope he can finish more before I get any more guests.” They had been used too quickly of late.
“How long do you plan to continue this...your...the business?” Ike asked.
Lola whirled, the momentum of her bustle forcing her down a step. She tapped a finger against her chest. “My business has been better than I’d prefer these past months, Ike. Instead of thinking what else I should do, the Lord has shown me how valuable the service I provide is to this town. I expect to continue it until He shows me otherwise.”
Ike held both hands up. “No reason to turn on me, Lola. I’m not arguing your decision, only asking.” He leaned against the stair rail. “Besides, it’s a fair question. I may be the first to bring it to you, but I’m not the first to have asked it.”
Lola gave a polite nod to a group of women passing on the sidewalk, her lips drawn tight. “I know what they think.” She slumped, descending the rest of the steps. “To be honest, I wouldn’t be able to continue without all the help you and your men have given me. If you hadn’t sent Bridger my way, Pete might have been my last guest.”
“You’re one of the few homegrown gals still around, and people are concerned about you. Don’t blame them for that.” Ike twirled his mustache, pulling the end into a fine point. “After all, you can hardly call what you do ‘conventional.’”
“Not conventional because of what I do, or not conventional because I’m a woman doing it?” She demanded an answer, her hand sliding to her hip in a most unladylike stance.