Page 5 of Chapel at Ender’s Ridge (Ender’s Calling #1)

A New Life

M orning brought new patrons from across the bridge.

Only two young men who sat straight-backed in the corner and gulped their drinks behind wide, clear eyes.

They bickered amongst themselves and cast furtive glances at Decker, then Safine when she sailed down the steps in rouge and heeled boots, announcing she was going to meet Three Hawks to replenish her stock of herbs.

She’d take Rotham’s horse with her. The barter system she and Three Hawks came up with years ago left his family in high standing and supplied Safine with local knowledge and medicine.

Over time, purely business became something more akin to friendship, and the sharp-witted man often accompanied her through the hills on her visits, pointing out the sprawling, tiny blossoms of taopi tawote and the spiked purple dome of hehaka pejuta.

Native practicality blended well with Safine’s craft.

When Decker accompanied her, he always paced behind and kept his distance—even though he suspected some of Three Hawk’s people were drawn by Ender’s Calling, they took care of their own and kept a wide, wary berth around Ender’s Ridge.

Seems like everyone else was also keeping their distance .

The saloon plunged into silence when Safine left and the two young men ducked out, leaving sweaty, crumpled bills on their table.

That damn newspaper article.

Decker had half a mind to pay the preacher a visit to read it now, before nightfall. Reading it sooner wouldn’t change a thing, and so he minded the saloon.

Main Street didn’t regain liveliness as the day dragged on—a few men trotted by, striking out for Amaretto as they took the more dangerous route through the desolate wasteland stretching behind the town, and two of the girls from the dance hall paraded through, flashing painted smiles and gauzy wings and seeking entertainment themselves when no customers arrived.

One amorite miner straggled in, running a hand through his long-neglected beard and asked about a barber—Decker pointed out the faded barber pole next to the long-closed bank, and said he’d have better luck across the river in Ridgewater.

The whiskey glasses sparkled after he wiped them twice, and even the cracked piano keys took on a shine when he polished them and sat to pick his way through a dull melody as afternoon faded to night.

Footsteps faltered at the threshold, accompanied by that swooping, pattering heartbeat. The song trailed off under Decker’s fingers.

Mr. Lane hovered at the door, crisp newspaper wrinkling in his hands. A delicate silver chain glinted around his throat under the loose eighth button of his shirt.

“Please keep playing,” he said. “It was a lovely song. ”

Decker stood and slotted the bench away instead. “I thought a man from back East would have a more refined taste in music.”

Delight played against his mouth. “You’re a keen observer, Decker.”

“You’re difficult to miss.”

“Am I that obvious of an outsider?”

“I’m afraid so.”

The silence stretched between them, prickling and stiff.

Mr. Lane thrust out the newspaper. “I’ve read what I needed to. Please keep it.”

“I intend to.” Sinking down on the closest wooden chair, Decker scanned the columns. Ender’s Ridge wasn’t mentioned in the headlines of the Silver Star , which he was grateful for.

The bold letters printed onto the second page hammered into him like nails in a coffin.

Fifteen Gone Missing In Ridgewater’s Old Town : Travelers returning from exploits across the river have reported unnatural happenings and lost memories in this town of sin.

Unease crept along Decker’s back like frigid water.

Claims have been made of beasts beyond imagination and dens of iniquity. Has the Devil made Ender’s Ridge his home?

Even the Devil himself couldn’t stop the pang of fear that gripped Decker as the words echoed in his head.

Devil’s Town.

Some of the missing people had been Decker’s kills, not chosen carefully enough in a moment of hunger.

Safine still had the evidence of his kills with her apothecary of human remains upstairs, and the river spirit who dragged their prey upstream didn’t hide them well enough if Ender’s Blessing was shifting.

Even the dancing girls scrubbing bloody footprints from their floors had their own share of travelers who hadn’t returned from their nightly revels.

All of them were in danger.

Mr. Lane shifted from foot to foot as if unsure whether to stay or go.

“My uncle was one of those who never returned,” he said, like he was testing the current of a deep, swift river.

“It’s been three years since he left and I…

I thought perhaps once I made the journey, he would be here. Maybe with a new family, but alive.”

It wasn’t wise to talk with Mr. Lane so frankly. But something about the preacher’s misplaced hope drew him in like a bird luring him away from her nest with a broken wing, and Decker was the foolish coyote slinking after him.

He folded the newspaper in sharp creases. “No one was surprised when he disappeared.” There was nothing to be gained by pretending Elias was alive.

“Did you know him?”

Decker thought of the hours Elias spent at the Goose , talking in fellowship with him . How he’d listened to Elias next door, lost in senseless ramblings, and how he looked as he killed him.

“No. No one did here, and we were better for it.”

Distress etched lines across the preacher’s face. “He had a family, a wife. How can you be so callous?”

“How can you come here and demand answers about someone three years later?” Decker asked sharply. “We didn’t miss him and those he left back East never attempted to find him.”

“His wife, my aunt, passed—”

“Pity.”

“Have I done something wrong, Decker?” A sharp breath left him and he pressed his thumb into his palm, rubbing next to his cut. “I’m not familiar with the customs here—if I’ve upset you, you have my deepest apologies.”

“Your apologies won’t fix what Elias Lane did to this town. We don’t want another preacher coming here, stirrin’ up folks,” Decker said. “Best thing you can do is catch the next train back East, before you become the sixteenth.”

“I’m only here to help those who need it. Walk in the Lord’s footsteps, lead a life of servitude, of humility and grace.”

Liar.

His sermon was so perfect it seemed rehearsed, words spilling out of him as tidy and manufactured as each shiny pearl button on his ironed shirt.

“We don’t need your damn preachin’.”

“I am here for so much more.” Conviction sharpened his words, a stake driven by unwavering faith rooted so deep Decker could have believed him. “I want to be here for more.”

“So did your uncle.” Decker stood and the preacher’s shoulders bowed as if waiting for a blow. “Go home, Mr. Lane.”

A desperate, aching look flashed through his face, like Decker’s words pressed a crown of thorns across his brow. His lips tightened. “I expect I won’t see you at Sunday service when I finish the chapel?”

“I expect not.”

He ducked his head in a nod. “It’s for the best.”

And before Decker could ask what, exactly, the hell he meant by that, he turned on his heel and brushed past Safine at the door, disappearing to his chapel with the Heaven-stretched steeple .

“Goddamn. Hope your newspaper was worth that .” Safine dropped her saddlebags to the floor and slipped behind the bar, snagging a towel to wipe away the dust coating her tired face before she poured herself a sarsaparilla.

Decker made an exasperated sound as he hoisted the full saddlebags over his shoulder, the tang of leather and horse-sweat seeping into his clothes and bringing him back to their simple life.

He needed to get his mind off the damn preacher, and after a day out in the hills, Safine usually came home with a few good stories.

“Out with Three Hawks the whole time?”

“You know how it goes with him.” She shook her head.

“All I needed was some extra herbs for the Dillon’s girl and two hours later he’s showing me the entire life cycle of the mullein plant, where it grows, how to find it without him.

” The furrow in her brow suddenly deepened and she took a long draft of her sarsaparilla before she cleared her throat.

“Government’s trying to push them onto a tiny tract of land.

Three Hawks is worried about the winter. ”

The harsh months were never easy on any of them, and the soldiers often took full advantage of weakened communities. If they were forced into even more limited resources, it would be a disaster.

“They know they can set up camp down by the river if things get bad,” Decker said.

He hated the feeling of helplessness creeping in.

It wasn’t much of an offer, not when the entire bend and valley used to be theirs, but it would afford some protection—though with the shifting of Ender’s Blessing, who knew how safe any of them were going to be ?

“I reminded him they always had a place.” Safine finally cracked a grin. “He said they’d come once there was no meat on their bones, so they could sleep in peace. I’m telling you, he’s onto us lately.”

“Seems like everyone is these days,” Decker murmured. The newspaper headline still made his head ache.

Three Hawk’s irreverence aside, the fact the Lakota spoke so freely of Ender’s Ridge didn’t bode well. They’d always known, of course, but the existence of who—or what—called Ender’s Ridge home, had been left unspoken among them until recently.

He shifted the saddlebag on his shoulder and joined Safine on the steps after she drained her glass.

“Find anything else out about our problem next door?” she asked, suspicion edging her words.

“He’s the nephew.”

Safine’s eyebrow arched and she stopped at the top of the staircase. “Still think we should wait until he goes off the rails to kill him?”

Laurie Lane ran from something.

Law, love, longing.

It would catch up to him, even in this town, and Decker would be there to strike when he no longer looked over his shoulder.

“We’ll give him a month,” Decker said.

Mr. Lane’s face flashed into his mind, pained and cloaked in recited lines.

Perhaps he’d been too harsh. But maybe he, alone, would force the preacher back to where he belonged without more bloodshed.