Wyoming Promises. Kerri Mountain

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 not working there,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. “But the man who gave me the job, he owns this place. He’s building a hotel, Frank, and I’m going to help him with that.”

      “Saloons make people mad, Bridger. Folks drink too much and get loud and fight, and—”

      “The owner, he keeps it from getting to that. I watched him throw a man out last night for causing trouble. It gets loud, maybe, but with music and people, Frank.”

      “God doesn’t like people drinking and fighting. I don’t want to stay here.”

      Frank’s voice grew louder. His eyes darted while his breath heaved. Bridger knew he had to calm him before he bolted.

      He pressed his hands on either side of his brother’s head, acting as blinders to everything except his own face. “Listen! Calm down and listen to me, all right?” Frank’s breathing eased as Bridger spoke in low tones. “It’s going to be all right, you hear me? We’ll be together, and it’s only for a little while. We’ll sock away every penny and get those horses. I don’t like living here any more than you do, pard, but it’s the first sign of work I’ve seen in weeks.”

      “Mama wouldn’t like it, Bridge,” Frank said, his voice soft, quiet, still tinged with fear.

      Bridger sighed. Frank was right, but she hadn’t exactly stopped Pa from spending the majority of his time in such a place, either. No sense in bringing that up to Frank, though. “She’d be sad to know if we were going the way Pa did, but we’re not. This is only a place to rest up, lie low awhile, until we can afford our own place.”

      His brother’s dull eyes shifted, trying to see beyond Bridger’s hands, but he held firm. “With horses?” he finally asked, his voice softer and not so panicked.

      “With horses.”

      Frank shook his head, pulling away. “No drinking, either, Bridge.”

      “Nothing Mama wouldn’t approve of,” he promised. He hadn’t ever been a drinker. But Frank had reason to be suspicious, given what they’d grown up with.

      “I miss her,” he whispered. “Can we go to church?”

      Bridger lowered his arms, taking a step toward the stairway. “You know we can’t. Folks don’t—”

      “You can. You can go and tell me about it.”

      Bridger took his hat off and raked his hands across matted hair. “I can’t promise, Frank. But, well...I’ll try, all right?”

      Frank beamed. “Thanks.”

      “So you’ll stay here?”

      “I have to stay with you, Bridge. We’re a scary-looking pair, remember?”

      “I remember.” He grabbed his brother’s thick arm and led him up the dark stairs to their room. Frank had sacrificed his independence for Bridger’s life. He never mentioned it, and maybe the fact was lost in his muddled thinking. Or maybe he chose not to remind his little brother of it. But Bridger could never forget.

      * * *

      “We often ask the Lord ‘why’ in cases such as this,” Pastor Evans said. “And the simple answer is ‘because it’s the Lord’s Will.’ When our pain is fresh, that answer leaves us hollow. It’s only with time and faith that we can come away from grief stronger and, at the same time, with greater reliance on God.”

      Lola shivered in the morning mountain shadows as Pastor Evans gave the eulogy for Pete McKenna. She stretched her arm around Grace, who stood shrouded in black with a heavy veil to hide her tears. Had it been only six months ago their positions had been reversed when Papa died?

      Lola squeezed Grace’s shoulders in support as a soft wail broke from under the black veil, and she scanned the crowd standing silently around the gaping hole in the ground. The Rigger family looked almost as sorrowful as Grace. They lived farther up the pass and had asked for Sheriff McKenna’s help in tracking the mountain lion bent on killing off their herd. Mrs. Rigger squeezed her husband’s hand and gathered their two little girls close, no doubt thinking how easily it could have been her husband’s body that man had found.

      Lola rocked Grace as Pastor Evans guided those in attendance in the 23rd Psalm. Her eyes settled on that same man in question. He stood behind Ike, shovel in hand and hat pulled low. But she recognized the deep, angry scar that crossed his face.

      Her heart jumped as his gaze locked on her, surprising her with a warmth she’d missed at their first meeting. But she didn’t turn away. Let him know she recognized him. She hadn’t expected him to still be in town, let alone be here as they buried Pete, but she was glad to see him. It would make the U.S. marshal’s job that much easier when he arrived.

      She had sent a request early the very next morning after Pete had been brought to her door. She was sure the marshal would have questions for him when he arrived. She’d like to ask a few of her own, but patience reigned. The law would prevail.

      Lola gave Grace a parting hug and kissed her cheek with a promise to visit soon. Her heart ached to watch her friend leave with Pastor Evans to deliver her home.

      She waited for the crowd to clear before turning to Ike and his men. Ike Tyler had been especially helpful in the months since her father’s death. For as much as Papa had disapproved of their courtship, Ike had proved himself a good friend even after she ended that part of their relationship over a year ago. Papa didn’t trust him but hadn’t refused her from seeing him. He didn’t push the cut deeper by reminding her of his reservations when she’d found Ike kissing Mattie, either. After she broke their engagement, Ike had bought the saloon, and she realized how very wrong she had been about him.

      Ike had assured her it all meant nothing, insisting it was “only part of business.” While wisdom prevailed, it didn’t help that Ike Tyler was a handsome cut of a man and had done everything in his power to help her in her grief.

      She tilted her head to see his hazel eyes peering at her. His long fingers stretched out as if to grasp her arm, but he caught himself and held back with a soft smile. “Anything more you need?”

      “No, thanks, Ike. I’ll gather up the flowers to lay across the grave when you’re finished and place the cross.” She wiped a tear that rolled unbidden down her cheek. “I wish there were more I could do for Grace, that’s all.”

      Ike took her hand with a gentle squeeze. “I know you do. You will, in time. Why don’t you let my men tidy up when they’re finished so you can join her now at the church?”

      She caught his hopeful smile. He always found a way to give her what he thought she needed most. “You’ve done so much already, Ike. I don’t want to take advantage.”

      “Nonsense.” A smile touched his narrow lips before he set his men to task with a nod. “I’ve hired an extra man. They’ll have things finished in no time.”

      She watched the men shovel dirt back into the