Page 3 of Rangers Last Promise

Why didn’t any of them ever tell me?

I remove the remaining clothes from the bag and find a leather journal tucked beneath a false bottom. The cover is cracked and darkened around the edges. Grant’s initials are pressed into the leather.

G.E.

I open it carefully.

The first pages contain dates, locations, lists of supplies, and notes about men identified mostly by nicknames. The writing is so small and hurried that I have to hold the journal closer to read it.

Doc says Miller will make it. Don’t know how. Man has steadier hands under fire than he does eating breakfast.

A broken laugh escapes me.

Grant told stories about the medic who patched everyone up, but I don’t remember him ever using the man’s real name.

He always called him Doc.

I turn another page.

Kane is going to get us all court-martialed if he doesn’t stop running his mouth. Wolf nearly punched him tonight. Trigger took bets.

My smile disappears.

They were together.

Not men who occasionally crossed paths during Grant’s time in the Army.

They served together.

Fought together.

Grant wrote about them like family.

I turn another page. Then another.

Wolf.

Trigger.

Blaze.

Doc.

Their names are everywhere.

These men have seen me in town. Wolf has poured coffee for me at the Last Stand Tavern. Trigger has sat beside me at Sheriff Tate’s office while we discussed security for the Fourth of July celebration.

They knew exactly who I was.

And they never once told me stories about Grant.

Never told me they had stood beside him in Afghanistan.

Never told me they knew the brother I lost better than almost anyone alive.

Why?

I force myself to keep reading. The early entries sound like Grant—sarcastic, confident, worried about everyone except himself.