O’Dell rounded his desk. “You’re making a mistake. With your popularity, you could become a very rich woman.” He waved the money from his desk in the air. “This is only the start of what you will be losing.”
“Saving a man’s life is worth the cost. Good day, gentlemen. Our association is now over.” Lydia pivoted toward the door, and Abraham rejoined her side. For a brief moment, her hand clasped his, as if she were garnering the courage to walk out, then she grasped the brass knob.
Mr. O’Dell cleared his throat. “Not quite so fast, Miss Pelton. Given that your manuscript was due soon, I assume that you have a good portion of it already written. Is that true?”
Lydia remained facing the door. “It is.”
“And do you still have that unfinished manuscript?”
“I do.”
“I will purchase your unfinished manuscript for the price of your Billy Poe advance, minus the interest. Marcus is familiar enough with your writing. He can finish it.”
She glanced at Abraham, then slowly turned around.
No. She couldn’t be considering that offer. Her savings might have suffered from her choice, but if her bank statement were any indication, she could well leave that money behind and still have plenty to buy whatever baubles she desired.
Abraham whispered, “Don’t be tempted. Remember what’s at stake.”
She took a step closer to O’Dell. “You do know if you were to publish it, a man might die?”
“The police will catch him long before that. This book has the potential to give him a second chance at life. Just think. He’ll have escaped a jury and a vigilante. It might very well be the thing that turns him into a model citizen.”
The slithering snake. Given the man was Clemens’s uncle, it must run in the family.
A glimmer of hope sparked in Lydia’s eyes before a frown dug its furrows in her forehead. The war of uncertainty showed her as susceptible as Eve to Lucifer’s tongue. O’Dell knew the lengths Lydia had gone to be published, had heard her arguments for quitting, and now, instead of releasing her, he sought to entrap her by her desires.
That might have worked if she were alone, but Abraham would not stand idly by. Ultimately the decision was hers, but he would fight for her even when she battled against herself.
He slipped his arm around Lydia’s and leaned in. “Why are you debating? You know what you came here to do and why. Nothing has changed.”
Her head snapped toward his, and their noses brushed. The painful reminder of her victorious bet shot straight through and made him flinch.
Lydia angled away and offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry, and thank you.” The next response she directed at O’Dell. “As tempting as your offer is, I cannot accept. Good day.”
“Both advances, then.”
She shook her head and turned her back, Abraham gladly following her lead.
“Both advanceswiththe interest returned.”
She stilled, and Abraham could feel the battle resuming.
O’Dell sensed it as well and jumped on her indecision. “Three hundred and forty dollars is more than I’ve ever paid for a manuscript, and you don’t even have to finish it. You’ll get the money and potentially save a man’s soul.”
Abraham closed his eyes and waited for the battle to be lost. Change was too hard. The temptation too great. Greed always won out, leaving someone to be hurt in the end.
“No.” The single, confident word left no room for more argument. Lydia released Abraham’s arm and exited without a backward glance.
In that moment, Abraham could honestly say he’d never been prouder of another person. He grinned as he trailed her into the hall and closed the door on O’Dell’s attempts to offer a more enticing bribe.
O’Dell’s muffled voice rose, but Lydia kept marching.
By the time she reached the corner, Abraham had caught up. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you. I don’t know that I could have walked away without you there.” Her steps slowed, and a heaviness seeped into her tone. “The money didn’t tempt me so much as the thought that maybe there was still a purpose for my writing. What if he was right and this last story didn’t bring judgment but restoration?” As they reached the door, her eyes found Abraham’s. “What if my stories actually made a positive difference?”
The desperate, broken wistfulness pleaded with him to understand, and made his chest ache with compassion for her. “God may not be calling you away from writing forever. He may choose to restore that part of your life some day in the future.”
