Kerri Mountain - Wyoming Promises

Frank sat at the desk near the window, scratching pictures of horses into the old copybook he’d carried with him all the way West. Bridger peered over his shoulder, admiring the graceful lines of ink seeping into the thick pages. “For such a big guy, you sure can hold that tiny pen well.”

Frank wiped the nib and carefully stopped the ink bottle before turning. “I was just here waiting on you, Bridge. I sat by the window so I wouldn’t need to light no lanterns.”

“All right,” Bridger said. He set the covered plate he carried onto the desk next to Frank and turned to the dry sink. Frank never lit the lantern. He’d been afraid of fire ever since the night of the accident. Bridger shook his head as he washed. He’d tried to get his brother to strike a match once he’d...recovered, but after a while, Frank’s continued fear made him give up.

“That’s okay. I shouldn’t be this late most nights. I can light it before I head over to Miss Martin’s place. You want supper? Might as well eat while it’s still hot.”

Frank beamed and peeked under the cloth covering the plate. Bridger watched his face light, then fall as he flipped the cloth back.

Shaking his hands and wiping them dry, Bridger pulled the napkin away. “What’s the matter? There’s plenty here. Pull out the camp plate and we’ll split it.”

Frank sighed and moved for the plate and utensils they kept on the tiny shelf over the bed. “Steak and baked potato again?”

“Yep, and what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothin’.”

“I like steak. I’d eat it every day if I could.” Bridger cut the steak and potato and slid half onto the spare plate. “You don’t like it?”

“Sure.”

Frank sat on the bed and took his plate, staring at it with resignation. “I like fried chicken and mashed potatoes, too, Bridge.”

Bridger cut into the steak and sampled a bite, cooked through and fairly tender. He cut another bite before answering. “I’m sure the menu changes. I’ll ask Mattie, okay? Now eat before it gets cold.”

“Wait! We have to say grace first.” Frank laid his plate to the side and bowed his head. Bridger wiped his mouth with a guilty nod. Frank never forgot to say grace—even for a meal he wasn’t particularly fond of.

“Jesus, thanks for this food, and for my brother, Bridger, who doesn’t get mad when I do dumb things and who got this food for us. Amen.”

Hair prickled down Bridger’s neck. “What ‘dumb thing’ did you do, Frank?”

His brother, suddenly interested in the meal, avoided his glare. “Nothin’ special.”

“How about you tell me and I’ll decide.” He felt frustration wave up. After spending the day with Toby, trouble was the last thing he needed.

“You said I could go for a walk during the day.” Frank didn’t go so far as to point at him, but Bridger heard it in his tone.

Bridger pushed his plate aside and drew a deep breath. He’d long learned that getting angry with Frank only made the problem worse. “That’s right—I did. So where did you go?”

“Around the field by the church...”

“And?”

“And back through the town, the way we rode in...past that lady’s house.” Frank’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“What lady?”

“The lady with the pretty black hair, who lives in that house around the bend.” It came out in a whoosh of soft breath.

“Miss Martin?” Bridger looked out the window and across the roofs of the businesses next door. “What happened?”

“Nothin’, I promise! She didn’t even see me.” Frank always managed to tell the story through his protests.

“Why would she? You weren’t anywhere near her, right?”

“But I had to help the cat and that’s all, Bridger. I didn’t mean to fall and crash her door.” His brother looked at him with a curious mix of determination, fear and truth.

“‘Crash her door’? Hard? Did she hear you?”

“She didn’t leave the porch or nothin’. I ran away quick. I know you said—”

“Calm down, Frank.” He stood and settled his brother with a hand to his shoulder, his thoughts flying like a racehorse. “She probably didn’t even hear you.”

“Yes, she did! I heard her tell the other pretty lady.”

Bridger groaned. “If you’re close enough to hear, you’re too close, Frank!” His anger echoed against the bare walls, and he forced his tone to ease.

“I’m sorry, Bridger. Don’t be mad. I know what you said. It was dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”

Bridger slumped to the bed next to his brother and wrapped an arm around his broad shoulders, swaying a little until his mind cleared and Frank’s breathing returned to normal.

“I’m sorry, too, Frank. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s been kind of a long day for me. I’m not really mad.” He stood, looked at his brother’s repentant face and grinned. Frank would never intentionally frighten anyone or cause trouble. “Listen, I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. Miss Martin didn’t see you, right?”

Frank nodded. Bridger breathed a sigh of relief.

“Good. And I’m to go and talk with her this evening, anyway. I’ll see if she says anything about today. It’s probably slipped her mind already. In any case, she wouldn’t know it was you. But you have to promise me, Frank. You have to promise you’ll stay away from the busy part of town. And no going near people’s houses, all right?”

“All right.” Frank nodded with vigor, eyes gleaming with promise.

Bridger sat down again and bumped shoulders with Frank. “It will be all right. We scary-looking guys have to watch out for each other, that’s all.”

* * *

Lola started at the faint knock outside her front door. Another late-night guest? She marked the book she read, smoothed her hair into place and wound her way through the empty preparation room. Blue sky peeked through the window, but muted gray crept over the buildings as the sun sank below the mountains.

With a deep breath, she opened the door. “Mr. Jamison?”

“Bridger, ma’am.” Though his stance took full advantage of what height he had, his eyes drooped with fatigue. “I hoped it wouldn’t be too late to take a look at your father’s workshop. I’d like to find plans and see what supplies are on hand. Then, if I think I can do the job, I’ll start next week, if that’s agreeable to you.”

Tension across her shoulders eased at his businesslike tone. “That sounds fair...Bridger. Come in and I’ll get the key.”

His weary eyes scanned the room over her shoulder, then glanced along the street behind him. “With all due respect, ma’am, I think it’s best I meet you around back at the shed.”

Whether the nature of the room behind her or concern for her reputation prompted him, Lola appreciated his propriety.

Bridger’s shadowed form rounded the corner as she stepped onto the narrow porch. The brilliant sunset of a clear day lent a golden glow to the last rays that clung in spots around them, reluctant to make a complete escape. It burnished the rim of his hat, highlighted the angry scar across his face, lit his eyes with a warm glow.

Lola forced her attention to her trembling hand. She jammed the key into the lock. Bridger Jamison brought far more questions than she had answers.

“The U.S. marshal should arrive in a few days.” The lock sprang open and heat rushed to her cheeks as she faced the man.

Bridger dipped his head with a quirked smile. “Be glad to see him myself, ma’am. I’m anxious to clear any poor notions of my character.”

How many times had her father cautioned her about thinking out loud? “I apologize for the insinuation. You did a good thing, finding Pete and bringing him in like you did. I’ve just learned to be leery of strangers.”