Page 79 of Wyoming Promises
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Lola tucked stockinged feet beneath her on Mother’s rocking chair and settled into the cushions with a favorite book. While the days had warmed considerably into May, evenings still made a fire necessary. She enjoyed the coziness of the house, quiet after a busy week.
A knock drew her from the story with a start. She waited, listening for another to tell her which door to answer. Ah! A visitor!
She scrambled to the door, wondering what might have Grace out so late. No one else from town came to mind, especially since she’d cleared the air with Ike.
She cracked the door open. Bridger paced on her porch in the shadows. It brought to memory the night they’d met, but now the thought brought a small smile. How wrong she’d been to judge him on appearance alone. “It’s rather late to start working in the woodshop tonight, isn’t it?” she teased.
His feet shifted and he glanced about. “I know it’s not exactly proper, Lola, but can I come in?”
She blinked, her smile falling flat. His tone sounded strange, low and tight. The door wobbled from her grasp and opened wider. “All right. Sure, come in.”
He leaned through and pulled the hat from his head. Lantern light revealed a purple haze around his left eye and scuff on his chin. Was that a cut on his lip? Her heart clenched and she reached toward him. “What happened to you?”
Pulling his hand from his side, he blocked her from drawing near. He stepped closer to the fire, but without the loose ease he normally carried. “Sit down, Lola.”
“You look like twenty miles of bad road. You sit, before you topple. My bag of medical supplies is—”
“I’m fine, Lola. Take a seat.”
Her hands fluttered over her hair, smoothing loose strands. Confusion and alarm vied for her attention. “I didn’t expect company,” she said, her tongue caught in a stutter. “I was lost in a book and—”
“This isn’t a social call. I probably should have gone to the mortuary.” His brown eyes flickered a moment, and then the light blew out like a lantern before a storm. “I have business with you, Miss Martin.”
She wrinkled her face. “‘Miss Martin’? What’s going on, Bridger? I should hope we were well beyond the formalities of—”
“I said, sit down!” His hand at her shoulder startled her and shoved her to the soft seat behind. “My boss sent me to clear up a matter of some money you owe.”
Lola jerked, thankful for the chair under her. “Money? Your boss? You mean Ike? I don’t owe him any money.”
“Your father borrowed money before he died. You’re required to pay the balance, or Mr. Tyler will own your business.” His voice sounded wooden and stiff, but perhaps that quality came from her mind.
“But I live here!”
“Exactly. Your home and business both can be claimed.”
Lola poised on the edge of the cushion. “My father ran a fine business in this town. He had no need of a loan. This is preposterous!”
Bridger withdrew a small book from inside his coat with stiff purpose. “He secured funds to send you to medical school, Lola.”
“But how? Why? He had no notion I wanted to be a doctor!” She blinked hard to wash tears from her eyes.
Bridger faced her, his expression stone-hard. “Mr. Tyler says he wanted to have the finances before he told you, but he inquired back East about your acceptance into college.” His shoulders twitched and his voice softened. “Your father knew you better than anyone, Lola. He knew, and he wanted to give you your heart’s desire.”
She flew to her feet, forcing Bridger back a step. Her clenched fingers shoved the book against his ribs and he grimaced. “Tell me what’s going on here! What’s happened to you? You’re hurt. Let me—”
“No!” His voice rattled the windows. He grasped her wrist in his hot, calloused hands and pushed her away with firm pressure. “Look in this ledger and tell me this isn’t your father’s writing.”
She stared at him, his eyes devoid of light, all tenderness vanished. Her gaze dropped to the book in his hand, and she took it from him. She opened the front cover.
The original sum on the front page staggered her. She fell back to the chair with a gasp. The figures were written in crisp, neat rows, carefully recorded. She couldn’t deny her father’s hand.
She shook her head, the numbers swirling as she studied the book through a veil of tears. She flipped over the next several pages, but the balance remained where it had upon Papa’s death. Tallying the amount of seven months’ payments in her mind brought a cold chill to the pit of her stomach. Maintaining the payment would be difficult enough without late payments to account for. Why would Papa make this kind of bargain? Her dreams weren’t worth Papa’s loss.