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changed much in the intervening years. An imposing woman in her sixties sat behind a carved wooden counter, reading a book. She looked at Jimmy appraisingly, taking in his cheap clothes and beat-up duffel bag. At least he was clean.
    “Can I help you?” She didn’t sound hostile, just neutral.
    “How much would a room for tonight cost me?”
    “Fifty-five dollars plus tax. Sixty-five with a private bath.”
    He had a little over eighty bucks to his name. “I guess I’ll just visit the bar, then.”
    She nodded and returned to her book.
    A pair of swinging saloon doors separated the lobby from the bar. As he pushed through, he imagined himself in a ten-gallon hat, a holster slung low on his hips. But he couldn’t picture himself as either the hero or the villain. Probably he was one of those unlucky extras who dive behind a table when the fight breaks out but still get killed by a wayward bullet.
    At least nobody inside the bar appeared visibly armed. The light was dim, just enough to make things cozy. He could still discern the pressed tin ceiling, the worn wooden floor, and the elaborate bar running the full length of one wall. He’d be willing to bet that the bar was the one installed back in 1853.
    The place wasn’t crowded. In the center of the room, two gray-haired couples chatted loudly over glasses of wine while a few younger people, in twos and threes, occupied other tables. Up against one wall, a cute guy in his twenties sat alone, a big camera perched on the table as he poked at his phone. And at the far end of the room, the bartender was bringing glasses and beer bottles to a middle-aged blonde lady and her younger female companion. The bartender was tall and thin, wearing a blue plaid Pendleton overshirt and faded jeans. He walked with a pronounced limp.
    Jimmy strode to the bar, dumped his duffel onto the floor, and sat on a leather-upholstered stool. He liked this place. The Old West theme was genuine, not overdone, and the ambience was quiet and relaxed. No television blaring crap, no gaudy neon signs. The room even smelled nice, like furniture polish with a faint whiff of spices.
    As the bartender made his slow, uneven way back to the bar, Jimmy realized he’d misjudged the guy. Based on the stiff way he moved, Jimmy had assumed he was older. But it became clear as he drew closer that the bartender was probably not past his midthirties. He wasn’t so much skinny as lean. Sinewy , Jimmy thought. Strong. His hair was brown flirting with red, and a pointy chin, crooked nose, and a few interesting scars saved his face from being too pretty. His eyes, though… those were gorgeous. Almost the same deep blue as his shirt, and lined at the corners. He had a friendly smile too, a little lopsided, as if to offset his nose.
    “Can I get you something?” he asked as he walked behind the counter.
    Jimmy thought for a moment before replying. He should confirm that the guy was Shane Little, hand over the letter with a short explanation, and then skedaddle. But he found himself wanting to stick around for a bit. “If I order a coffee, will you mind if I just sit here awhile?”
    The bartender shrugged and waved at all the empty stools. “I think I can spare you a seat.” He turned and filled a white ceramic mug from the pot on the burner. “Need room for cream?” he asked over his shoulder.
    “Nope. I take sugar, though.”
    The bartender set the cup in front of him, along with a spoon, a cocktail napkin, and a little basket of sugar packets. Then he grinned and gave Jimmy a bowl of popcorn too. “We used to do nuts, but nowadays everyone’s allergic. Popcorn’s cheaper too.”
    “Thanks,” Jimmy said, returning the smile.
    And maybe they would have had a little more conversation and Jimmy might have turned over the letter. But just then a man across the room called, “Hey, Shane! Can we get another?” and held up an empty glass.
    “Hold your horses, Brandon. I’ll be there in a sec.” Shane