Jesse Cordell's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

They rode west for two days before Mortimer spoke about anything that mattered. Jesse kept pace, proving he could sit a saddle without complaining and make camp without needing instruction. On the third morning, Mortimer poured coffee and finally said what Jesse had been waiting to hear. "You want to ride with me, you need to prove you're more than just a cook." Mortimer pulled a branding rod from his saddlebag and tossed it across the fire. Jesse caught it by reflex. The iron was cool in his hands, the stylized R worked into the brand with careful detail. "Ferguson Ranch. You bring me five head wearing that mark, we'll talk about what comes next." Jesse's throat went dry. He'd heard the name before — everyone had. The Ferguson spread was the biggest operation in three territories, with more hired guns than some towns had citizens. The kind of place a smart thief rode around, not into. Jesse turned the branding rod over in his hands, feeling the weight of it. He'd spent weeks tracking Mortimer down, imagining this exact moment — the chance to prove himself with one bold move. But Ferguson wasn't just wealthy. The man had sheriffs on his payroll and enough riders to hunt a thief across state lines. Jesse looked up and found Mortimer watching him with flat, unreadable eyes. This wasn't a test of skill. It was a test of nerve, and Mortimer knew it. Jesse set the iron down carefully and met his gaze. "When do you want them?" Mortimer's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Two weeks. There's a sign marks the north border, five miles up the canyon road. You'll know it when you see it." Jesse nodded, committing to the job before his brain could catch up with his mouth. He'd wanted to impress Mortimer with ambition. Now he'd have to deliver on it, or disappear before the consequences found him.