***
Blake ran a hand over his horse’s hind quarters checking his legs for injury and looking to see if he was well cared for. The leggy gelding had been handpicked by his father as one of the best horses on the Broken J, and Blake couldn’t fault the animal. It had seen him through some hard times and the hazy ride to Cheyenne, over rough trails and high plains, had proven the animal’s worth once more.
“We’re looking after ‘em good,” an older man stepped up to the standing stall, a half peeled apple in one hand and a knife in the other.
Blake’s, golden gaze flicked over the knife, watching the man’s every move. “Fine horse there ifn’ you wants to sell it, I’ll give ya a good price.”
Blake let a crooked grin shift his lips. “Not for sale,” he said.
“Looks like a runner,” the man persisted slicing off a bit of apple and lifting it to his lips with the knife. “Ifn’ ya need some ready cash. Feedin’ him ain’t cheap ya know, especially here in the city.”
“He’s not for sale,” Blake repeated careful to keep his voice smooth but firm. “I’m rather partial to him. I’d also like my gear, if it’s handy.” He smiled at the edgy hostler meeting the man’s gaze. “Don’t worry, I can pay.”
“Over here,” the man gestured with the knife, turning toward a small room along one wall. “I ain’t bothered nothin’ everything is still there.”
Blake cocked his head looking at the man from under the brim of his hat. An hostler wouldn’t get far in a city like Cheyenne if he was dishonest, but this side of town had been slipping into disrepair for a long time. Things could have gone either way, and it was only by chance Blake had found the place.
“Nice to know,” he drawled lifting the heavy saddle blanket that covered his saddle and unbuckling the saddle bags before hefting them onto his shoulder. “I’ll be in town a while,” he continued casually. “I’d appreciate it if you’d look after my horse.” The lean cowboy dug in his breast pocket and pulled out a gold coin tossing to the man. “That should cover his keep, and there will be more if you promise to keep him until I or a family member returns to collect.”
The hostler stabbed the apple core with his small knife and grabbed the coin from the air. “If you’re a bettin’ man I could run that roan of yours for ya too.” The words hung in the air a moment longer than the coin had until Blake shook his head.
“No, I might need him quick and don’t need him tired out. If something changes, I’ll let you know.” It was obvious the man was playing all angles of his trade to maximize profit in this dying business.
“Fair ‘nough,” the man said, slipping the coin into his pocket and stepping outside.
Blake watched as the older man finished the apple and handed the core to a horse in a long stall. Once he was sure the hostler had moved on he slipped out of the stable and along the street toward the mission and the door that led to the little house outside the adjacent church. It would be nice to be somewhere he knew he was known and safe. His head pounded as he reached the door, but he smiled happy to be with family for a spell.
Scanning the street and seeing no one around Blake twisted the knob, pushing the door open only a fraction and slipping inside. Pausing just inside the door the young lawman let a warm sense of peacefulness engulf him. Family meant help, hope, and home.
Chapter 3
Blake stepped through the door calling to his cousin as he took in the neat sitting room and tiny dining area on the other side of a short hall.
“Blake,” A burly man with dark hair and a warm smile hurried down the hall his hand extended in greeting. “Mary said you’d be along, but I didn’t hear you knock.” Barrister Abrams smiled, raking his blue gaze over his wife’s cousin. He had first met Blake as no more than a boy, but the man before him wore a hard look in his wary gaze.
“Where’s Mary?” Blake asked. “I know she has questions, and I couldn’t discuss things in the mission.”
Barrister chuckled. “By the way she was chattering on about your appearance, I’d say she has a lot of questions.” The older man pointed to the bandage around Blake’s head. “I’d say you have a lot of explaining to do any way you look at it. How about some coffee?”
Blake nodded once, following the man everyone called Bar toward the small kitchen, arriving just as Mary stepped through another door.
“The children are doing their homework,” she smiled, turning to reach for three mugs while her husband lifted the coffee pot from the small stove. “We can have a nice quiet talk and find out what’s going on.” Her serious eyes and raised brows left no room for argument
Blake shuffled his feet knowing that Mary wanted to know about the wound he had received and why he had turned up in Cheyenne. It wasn’t going to be a happy conversation, but there was no avoiding it.
“I’m after the Branson gang,” Blake said, as he lifted his now full mug and met Mary Bridgette’s shocked gaze. “I’m young and unknown to them, so it was decided that I would be the one to try tracking them down. It didn’t work out so well,” he finished pointing at his bandaged head.
“Do they know who you are?” Barrister asked. “Will they be looking for you here?”
“I don’t think so.” Blake flicked his eyes between his cousin and the man she had married. Bar, had fought in the Great War and had met Mary when she had sailed to France as a Salvationist. Now they ran the
