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 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
