Chapter Two
Copper Bend — Wyoming Territory
Copper Bend looked smaller than Caleb Whitaker had remembered.
Six years should have changed more than a coat of paint on the sheriff's office and a new hitching rail outside the mercantile.
Time should have softened old grudges and buried old stories beneath newer ones.
Instead, the same crooked boardwalk stretched along the street.
The wind still carried the familiar scent of leather and cattle, and every glance down Main Street tugged loose another memory he'd spent the past six years trying to bury.
Caleb kept his hat low as he rode past the livery, though little could disguise a man built like him.
Years of ranch work had broadened his shoulders and thickened his frame until he filled the saddle with easy confidence.
His dark blond beard was rougher than when he'd last ridden these streets, and the hard Wyoming sun had left his skin permanently bronzed, but his green eyes were the same ones the town remembered.
A stable boy paused with his broom halfway through another sweep, his curious gaze following Caleb farther than good manners ever should have allowed.
Outside the dry goods store, an older woman interrupted her conversation long enough to watch him pass before leaning toward the man beside her with the eager look of somebody who'd just remembered an old piece of gossip worth repeating.
He'd expected no warmer welcome.
Copper Bend had always enjoyed a scandal, and six years hadn't dulled anyone's memory of the man accused of stealing cattle from neighboring ranches.
Caleb had ridden away carrying little more than his saddle, his horse, and unearned shame the town had never seemed eager to let him forget.
He hadn't returned to search for apologies, though.
The stock association north of Cheyenne cared very little about old accusations.
They wanted an experienced tracker willing to follow missing cattle across rough country, and the trail had led straight toward Copper Bend.
Caleb knew brands, grazing routes, and cattle rustlers well enough to command good wages.
Plus, refusing the assignment would've meant walking away from honest work simply because his pride still smarted at an old wound.
Pride rarely paid for supper.
His horse carried him farther down the street, each familiar building stirring more memories Caleb would prefer not to relive.
He remembered hauling wagonloads of lumber past the mercantile with Jonah Bell, laughing because half the load had fallen into the mud before either of them reached the ranch.
He remembered standing inside the hardware store counting every coin twice before buying what they hoped would be enough nails to last another season.
He remembered the afternoon the bank had approved their loan, when two young ranchers walked outside trying to look confident while privately wondering if they'd just borrowed enough money to ruin themselves.
The memories might have remained welcome if they'd ended there. Instead, they carried him toward the day his neighbors all called him a thief while the one man who knew the truth never saw fit to open his mouth.
Caleb drew a slow breath and loosened his grip on the reins.
Then he turned his horse toward the saloon.
He needed information before he began tracking stolen cattle, and few places gathered more rumors than one full of ranch hands nursing coffee or a whiskey after a long morning's work.
If fortune finally decided to treat him fairly, he'd learn what he needed and be able to ride out again before sunset.
Sadly, fortune had never shown much enthusiasm for his company.
He tied his horse outside before heading into the saloon. The swinging doors creaked as he stepped inside. He crossed the room without acknowledging the curious glances that followed him.
The saloon keeper looked up, recognition flickering across his face before habit pulled him back into professionalism. "What'll it be?"
"Coffee."
The fellow looked at the pot, then back at Caleb. "It's been sitting there since breakfast."
Caleb rested one forearm on the counter. "Maybe it's improved with age."
The remark earned a laugh from one of the poker tables.
"I admire your optimism," the saloon keeper said as he filled a cup.
Caleb slid a few coins across the counter and accepted the coffee. Mug in hand, he turned to study the room. The drink tasted exactly as promised. He drank it anyway. Years spent drifting from ranch to ranch had lowered his expectations where coffee was concerned.
His attention moved across the saloon instead.
Two cattle buyers argued over brands near the window, while a traveling salesman guarded a ledger as though it contained the nation's treasury instead of a list of unpaid accounts.
Three ranch hands crowded around the stove, one of them vaguely familiar beneath a fuller beard and a thinner hairline.
The man recognized Caleb almost immediately and murmured something to his companions without taking his eyes off Caleb.
Caleb raised his coffee in silent acknowledgment, and all three found fresh interest in their drinks. His gaze drifted toward another table when a laugh reached him from the back of the room. The sound stopped him more effectively than somebody grabbing his shoulder.
He hadn't heard Jonah Bell laugh in six years, yet recognition came before he could put a name to it. Caleb turned slowly, searching the crowd of faces until he found the man sitting alone near the rear wall. The years had changed Jonah more than they had the town.
The broad-shouldered young rancher Caleb remembered had grown painfully thin.
His coat hung loose where hard work had once filled it out, and the lamplight revealed an unhealthy pallor Caleb couldn't ignore.
Only Jonah's smile remained familiar, though even that seemed to cost him more than it once had.
Jonah lifted two fingers in greeting.
Caleb held Jonah's gaze, but left the greeting unanswered.
Around them, the saloon recovered its voice as conversations resumed, yet the room felt strangely distant as Caleb looked across the years separating them.
Once, they'd worked side by side, sharing long days and dreaming about the ranch they'd build together.
Then came the accusations. The town condemned him, and Jonah stood silent while Caleb lost everything.
Jonah nudged the empty chair opposite him with the toe of his boot. Caleb set his coffee on the nearest table and crossed the room, stopping beside the chair without making any move to sit.
"Caleb." Jonah's smile carried a hint of the young man Caleb remembered, though what appeared to be illness had stolen much of its ease. "I heard you were back. Didn't know whether to believe it."
"Rumors outrun stagecoaches."
"They always have." Jonah looked him over, his expression thoughtful. "You've changed."
Caleb's gaze settled on Jonah's face, which had a few new lines. “So have you.”
Jonah laughed softly. “I was hoping you’d stretch the truth a little.”
Caleb left the remark where it fell. “What do you need?”
The smile faded. “A conversation.”
“We had one six years ago.”
“I remember.” Jonah offered nothing beyond those two words. No excuse, nor an attempt to defend himself.
Caleb had expected an argument. Quiet acceptance proved far harder to dismiss. "I've got work waiting." Caleb turned toward the door, but he didn’t get far.
"I don't have much time left, Caleb."
His hand paused on the back of the chair. When he looked back, Jonah had lost the easy smile altogether.
"The doctor quit answering my questions," Jonah said. "A fellow learns what that means after a while."
Caleb closed his eyes briefly before looking back at his once chosen brother.
Jonah nudged the chair again. "Sit down."
Every instinct urged Caleb to walk away before Jonah could drag him back into a past he was still trying to escape. Yet the stranger sitting across the room bore little resemblance to the friend he'd spent years trying to forget. After a long pause, Caleb pulled out the chair and sat.
Jonah settled back once Caleb finally took the chair, and a flash of relief crossed his face before he masked it. He wrapped both hands around the coffee cup sitting untouched before him and glanced toward the bar, where the saloon keeper polished the same glass with remarkable dedication.
"I would've invited you somewhere quieter," Jonah said, "but I've reached the age where waiting for the perfect opportunity feels a bit ambitious."
Caleb rested one arm across the chair back. "You always did enjoy making life sound cheerful."
"It annoyed you often enough that I kept doing it." Jonah smiled, and Caleb hated how familiar it looked. For one reckless moment he remembered the boy who'd shared coffee, food, and impossible dreams with him. Then he remembered the man who'd stood silent while those dreams were taken away.
Caleb met his eyes. "What do you want?"
Jonah lowered his gaze. "The ranch isn't doing well."
Caleb gave a dry laugh. "You managed to wait nearly a full minute before asking for help."
"I figured if I started by asking after the weather, you might walk out before I reached what I really wanted. Thought I'd work my way up to it."
Caleb didn't smile. "Didn't work."
Jonah chuckled. "No. I was afraid of that. You've never been much for easing into anything. I still remember you diving straight into that creek in March just because I said the water couldn't be that cold."
Caleb's eyes narrowed. "It was cold."
"It sure was. Took me an hour to stop laughing." Jonah smiled for a moment before it faded. "Still, I thought it was worth trying."
Caleb studied him. "You kept the ranch."