Wyoming Promises. Kerri Mountain

“Mister, all I need is a job in a town big enough to not attract attention to myself. No man has been able to intimidate me since I left home to join the War Between the States when I was eighteen, so you’re wasting your time trying. Now, if you want a hard worker who knows how to mind his own business, you got it. But no one owns me, and you best understand that from the start if you’re looking to hire me.”

      He pulled his hand out of Ike’s loosened fist. For a moment, the man’s eyes flashed hot, but it passed in an instant and he threw his head back with a hearty laugh. “Now I like that—a man who won’t let himself be pushed. Yes, sir, Bridger, you’re exactly the man I’ve been looking for. I just wanted to be sure we had an understanding.”

      Bridger nodded and kicked his chair under the table without breaking his gaze. “I’ve understood men like you since I wore short pants, sir. You got no worries from me. I only mean to do the job, collect my pay and live quiet.”

      He stepped around Ike, tipping his hat to Mattie and another friend of hers as he stomped out the doors. Her coy wave lacked the warmth of Miss Martin’s determined green eyes.

      The sign in the window caught his eye again as he untied his horse. This was the first notice of work he’d seen in almost a month. The town and Ike’s saloon had all the up-and-coming signs that would help him save what he needed to start his own business. Ike’s tone set him off, but experience taught him big talk often came from lesser men. Ike relied on others to do the real work for him. He probably pulled that tone with every new hire. With the lack of sleep and food he’d had over the past two weeks, he might have misunderstood Ike’s intent, anyway.

      He hoped the lady undertaker made no mistake about his. Bringing the sheriff into town on the back of a horse had to raise questions, but his conscience prevented anything less. He hoped Miss Martin found rest tonight, in spite of the trouble he’d brought to her door.

      All he knew now was he needed to get his horse to the livery and get a couple hours of sleep. He had to get back to camp and move Frank into town before sunup. He’d learned the hard way, keeping Frank away from other folks—especially beautiful, refined ladies such as Miss Martin—saved a lot of trouble in the end.

      Chapter Two

      Dawn slipped over the sharp ridges to the east of town as Bridger rode the slopes north of Quiver Creek. His brother, Frank, rode beside him, half-asleep. The few hours in a real bed had done wonders, but Frank hadn’t had that luxury. Thankful for the moonlight, Bridger had headed back up the trail to wake Frank and clean up the meager camp they’d set the night before, not far from where they’d found the sheriff’s body. He needed to get Frank into town before folks started stirring. It would be much easier to get Frank into their room undetected.

      “Frank? You with me?” Bridger asked, his whisper echoing in the silence of the morning.

      Frank shifted in the saddle, rubbing beefy fists into his eyes. He blinked dully and breathed deep, drawing himself awake, then turned his ruddy face to Bridger with a wide smile. “Good morning.”

      Bridger couldn’t help but smile back. “Morning, Frank. We’re almost there.”

      “Good. I like town, seeing all the people.”

      “Shh!” Bridger warned. “Remember what happened in that last town? We need to stay put for a while this time, Frank. We can’t do that if you get too nosy again—”

      “I didn’t do nothing!” Frank protested. “I didn’t do what that lady said, Bridge—”

      “I know. I know you didn’t. But sometimes...well, people don’t understand what a great brother you are. They think—”

      “I know, Bridger. We’re a scary-looking pair, right?”

      “Right. Me with the scar, you all big and strong... We have to be...careful, that’s all. I have the promise of a good job here, a chance to make enough money so we can afford a place of our own like we’ve been talking about.”

      “With horses?” Frank asked.

      “With horses,” Bridger conceded. He knew enough about farming and ranching to hold an odd job now and then and enough to know he wanted something different. But all Frank wanted was horses to care for. He’d never seen a man who knew the beasts better. “But to do that, I need you to help me. You have to do as I say.”

      “I always try, Bridger. You’re smart. I know that.”

      Bridger winced. Frank did know that, just as well as those folks who saw fit to judge him. Frank’s brain worked slower, and his speech was thicker and simpler, but not enough to make him unaware of his own deficiency. Then, too, Frank’s looks didn’t help him—tall, broad, rawboned—everything like their father. Before Frank’s...before his brother lost that part of himself, a keen, teasing wit and sharp mind had kept the young ladies back home plenty impressed with Frank Jamison. The familiar knot twisted in Bridger’s chest.

      “I’m just saying I need you to do your job. It won’t be forever, Frank. Just until we save enough for a little spread. Nothing fancy—a few horses for you, a woodshop for me. Away from town, but close enough I can sell my furniture to those fancy outfits back East...”

      “And some chickens and a dog.”

      Bridger looked at his brother, smiling at the dream they’d been talking about ever since he’d made it back home from the war. “The way you keep adding animals to the list, we’re going to need a bigger barn.”

      Frank grinned and rubbed his sleepy eyes again. “I’m tired.”

      “I know you are. We’re almost there, and then you can sleep in a real bed and get a good rest.”

      “Real beds cost lots of money,” Frank said, eyes closed again.

      “Not this time. It’s part of the pay for the job I found. Meals, too, I think.”

      “You don’t have to cook no more?”

      “Nope. They have a cook.”

      “Better than you, right?”

      Bridger glanced from the trail to his brother’s dozing form. Every so often, hints of Frank’s old, teasing self would slip out. But never at his whim. Still, sometimes it was hard to tell.

      “Not just better than me—good.”

      They wandered onto the main thoroughfare in silence, Bridger thankful for the quiet that greeted them. The town felt deserted.

      “We’re here,” he said, sliding down and tying his mount. Frank did the same. “We have a room upstairs here.” Bridger nodded toward the dilapidated boardinghouse. It had to have been one of the town’s original structures. But it seemed sparsely used, if not quiet. A saloon next door made for a rowdy neighbor, but it beat the hard ground and would have to do. He only needed to convince Frank. “You can get a good sleep, in a real bed. How’s that sound?”

      Frank nodded, eyes still heavy from his early-morning wake-up call.

      Bridger motioned him to follow as they walked toward the rear entrance, which lay in shadows from a few spindly aspens. Between the trees and the distractions of a lively saloon next door, Frank would be relatively free to come and go. The notion of this dingy building and the tiny room they’d share being Frank’s new prison gnawed on him. But only for now, just until he settles in—

      “What’s this place? People drink here!”

      Bridger pivoted, hand on the doorknob. He had hoped the dimness would disguise the nature of the establishment next door. It would be easier to have this debate once they were tucked away in the room upstairs.

      “Listen, Frank,” he said, moving to his brother’s side. He raised his hands to his brother’s shoulders and tried to draw him away from the narrow alley between the boardinghouse and the saloon, filled with broken amber bottles and litter.

      “I’m