Page 48 of Wyoming Promises
“I’m not trying to argue with you, Lola. I’m asking you to consider appearances.”
“Are you saying you won’t help me anymore?” Her heart pounded. What would she do if he didn’t?
Ike swooped close, his voice firm but quiet. He glanced at the bustling shoppers moving around them. “No, I’m not saying that, not at all. But I care for you, and it hurts me to hear what people say.”
“I don’t need you to speak for me.” Her tone rasped, weak and unsure even to her own ears.
“I won’t presume to. Not yet, anyway. I only meant to see if you were aware.” He breathed deep and released it with a huff. “And possibly to find out for myself.”
“I’m not some half-brained ninny, Ike. I know what some folks think about this job. I grew up with it for most of my life. I know it’s not common, what I do, and less so for a woman. But the business has to continue. I have nothing else to—”
“Yet. I’m hoping to change that, too.” He smiled. “Don’t be cross with me, Lola. Not when we’ve decided you ought to give me another chance. But don’t be surprised to find me at your door more often. I want to watch over you. After all, you’re not only a dear...friend.” He grasped her wrist and drew her close, the pressure firm. “Your business deserves my protection as much as any other in this town. I intend to keep my eye on you...whether you appreciate it or not.”
Chapter Fourteen
Bridger stood ramrod-stiff, afraid of bumping shelves of glasswork in the sweltering room. He’d found Axlebee’s Glassworks a few streets off the main road, and while the sun barely topped the trees, he determined it would be his last stop.
Heat from the glass furnace blasted through to the front room, adding to his weariness. Traveling with a full wagon and an order of glass windows didn’t ease his restlessness, either.
He couldn’t get to Quiver Creek fast enough. Time had dragged like an ant pulling a moose this past week, and even busy days of loading supplies and rumbling through towns to find what Ike needed didn’t help.
A short, round woman poked her head through a side door and bustled toward him. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, sir. How may I help you today?”
“I’m here to pick up the order for Ike Tyler, over in Quiver Creek. Is it ready, ma’am?”
The woman blanched as she tied an apron around her ample girth, then blazed a glance his way. “You’re a new one, laddie. A far sight more handsome than any of the others I’ve had the misfortune to meet, but ’tis no matter if you’re working for the likes o’ that one.”
A back door slammed. “Woman, you’ll hold your tongue!”
The smithy limped his way around shelves of glass with careful tread. The older man stooped, thin spine bent from years of work.
Bridger shifted his boots, trying to find a stance that didn’t make him feel like the devil himself under their stares. It seemed Mr. Anthony wasn’t alone in his low opinion of Ike Tyler—or anyone who worked for him. And between the greetings he’d garnered and the realization that the marshal had questions about his boss, Bridger suspected folks had more reason than Ike’s too-slick, off-balance personality to hold a thinly veiled wariness against him.
He needed to get back and talk to that federal marshal...and check on Lola.
“Mr. Tyler sent me for his windows. Are they ready?” Bridger handed the order slip to the woman.
She ripped it from his grasp, never breaking her fiery gaze. Her lips clamped tight and Bridger braced for another blast.
Mr. Axlebee stepped forward and pulled the paper from his wife’s grasp, handing it back to Bridger. “I’m afraid the order isn’t ready,” he said. “Train was delayed last week with a spring flood, and I didn’t get the materials I needed to finish on time.”
Bridger removed his hat and raked a hand through his hair. That would mean another trip, not to mention the delay in setting the windows in the hotel. “When can I tell my boss to expect them, then? They were to be ready for this week.”
The man glanced at his wife before answering. “We need two more weeks to get it all.”
“Isn’t there part of the order I could take today?”
The man nodded toward his wife, who carefully withdrew a metal box from behind the shelf and opened it with a rusty key. She fumbled inside a moment before pulling out a wad of bills. Her icy stare drilled through Bridger. She licked her thumb and thrust each one to the counter, like a punch to his face.
“Here!” She settled the bills together and tucked them into an envelope before shoving it under his nose. “It’s all we can pay for now.”