Page 31 of Wyoming Promises

“Miss Lola, you hear me? You watch yourself, and you don’t trust Mr. Tyler nor any of his men any further than you can-a throw them.”

“You know I’ll be careful. Ike has looked out for me, just as you have, Mr. Anthony, but we’re only friends.” Lola smiled and moved her basket to the counter. “I appreciate your concern, though.”

“They cause you problems, they have-a problems with me, you hear? I refuse their business!” Mr. Anthony’s tone grew louder and more adamant.

“Please, don’t do that! It would mean your retirement, and I’d hate to see it.”

“Ah, Miss Lola,” he said, placing warm hands over hers. “There are too many others who need me here to retire now. God has-a given me strength and health well into my years. I may not be able to do what truly needs done in this town, but I still am spry enough to make things not-a so easy until that man comes along.”

Lola laughed. “I’m sure that’s so, sir.” She watched as he tallied her order. After paying the bill, she settled on the high stool at the end of the counter. She smiled, thankful for Mr. Anthony and other townsfolk the Lord had surrounded her with. “Now, let’s see what the fine ladies back East are calling fashion these days.”

Spring styles might be frivolous enough to tear her thoughts away from Mr. Jamison for a while. His lean image and dark eyes formed in her mind’s eye. She shook her head. Because something certainly needed to.

Chapter Nine

Bridger rested against the headboard on his bed, the box and sheaf of papers from Lola’s place beside him. He turned the lantern up as the skies became dark and the town grew quiet outside the window. Soon the rumble of Quiver Creek would be confined to the space next door. But with late nights and early mornings this past week, he doubted it would keep him from sleep.

Frank worked in his sketchbook at the desk. Sighs of frustration and tones of glee mixed with the sound of pencil scratching across the heavy paper. Bridger took advantage of Frank’s preoccupation to take a closer look at Mr. Martin’s information. He had wanted to get a feel for the work space first. Now that he’d organized the shop, he needed specifics to do the job right.

Not sure what he’d find, Bridger delved first into the box. The patina of the wood aged it more than the barely yellowed papers. It wasn’t large, but even dovetails and sanded edges marked a quality of workmanship that matched the care of the woodshop in which he’d found it.

He sifted through several letters inside the box, among the cedar lining, which appeared to be from Mrs. Martin to her husband or perhaps her beau at the time, given the dog-eared corners. He flipped through the stack, amazed a man would hang on to such a memento.

“Pa never held on to anything so worthless. And anything valuable, he sold to buy more whiskey,” Bridger said aloud.

Frank started, pencil held tightly above the picture of a flower he’d been focused on. “You ought not speak of him that way, Bridge.”

His jaw clenched. He never knew if Frank sometimes forgot what Pa had done or if his forgiveness honestly extended that far. But it only upset him for anything bad to be mentioned about Pa, and living every day knowing Frank had been the one to suffer most at their father’s hand in the end, he kept his thoughts to himself. Bridger set the letters aside.

“What are you working on?” he asked, hoping to distract his brother back to his drawings.

“Pictures.” Frank moved his pencil gracefully over the paper, sometimes pushing hard and other times with a light hand that belied his size.

“Do you still have room in that book?”

“Lots of room.”

They fell into silence again, and Bridger returned his attention to the box. He couldn’t say he expected to find much in the way of instructions. Most carpenters worked in the same line as great cooks—without a recipe. But Lola seemed to think her father had plans written down somewhere.

Flipping through the pages of a worn copybook, he found neat capital letters written purposefully on the pages. Certain pages folded into the binding to mark different sections. Bridger noted titles such as Basics of Human Anatomy, Burial Preparation and Business Accounting Practices written along the creases—Mr. Martin’s school notes. Bridger scratched his head. “I hadn’t really thought about a man needing schooling for undertaking.”

“You need school for all kinds of important jobs, Bridge.” Frank never glanced up from his artwork.

Bridger continued reading the headings, reluctant to search too far for fear he’d learn more than he cared to about preparing a body to be buried. Had Lola gone to a school like this? He shook his head. It seemed unlikely for a woman to be permitted into such a school, if they did exist.

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