Page 6 of Chapel at Ender’s Ridge (Ender’s Calling #1)

Neighbors Being Neighborly

N othing solidified old friendships more than hiding an outlaw under the saloon bar.

“Christ, how do you reckon I’m supposed to fit—” Cricket wiggled his way between Decker’s feet and wedged himself under rows of glasses and piles of old cards.

He’d burst into the saloon at half past four that afternoon, insistent he needed a place to hide as the town marshal for Ridgewater was hot on his tail.

“The law don’t come here. Get up,” Decker said, careful not to step on Cricket’s hands as he scowled down at him.

“Fuck they don’t.”

Decker muffled a sigh as he glanced outside. Through the dust-streaked hazy glass he caught a glimpse of a man swinging off his horse. The pistols at his side caught the light as he strode towards the saloon.

Decker stiffened and flipped the curtain down, brushing the tops of his boots.

A few locals gawked at the marshal. Most knew better and minded their own business, pulling hats over pointed ears and blending with the shadows .

Silver-scroll spurs jangled harshly as he propped a foot against the brass rail and dug out a creased wanted poster. “Heard reports this fellow held up a stage last week and a fine lady in Ridgewater saw him headed this way not ten minutes ago.”

Goddamn rich folk, sticking their nose where it don’t belong.

Decker studied the grimy paper. It was a crude drawing at best but bore a slight resemblance to Cricket if it wasn’t for the scrawled hair falling below his shoulders. That explained his fresh haircut.

“Looks like every other fellow that forgot to go to the barber.” He slid the paper back, his polite smile freezing in place as a boot kicked against his shin from below the counter.

The lawman grunted, piggy eyes narrowing at him.

“Let me get you a drink.” Decker smiled. “On the house.” If Cricket wanted to be a little bastard, he could rot under the bar a little longer.

Safine would tell him not to pander.

But Safine wasn’t here, and he couldn’t risk pushing that line.

Three stiff drinks and one good-natured slap on the back later, Ender’s Blessing settled thinly over the marshal’s eyes, and Decker wagered he hardly remembered where he was as he wandered out the door back to his side of town. No telling if he’d be back or not.

Decker reached down and grabbed the cord of Cricket’s necklace, dragging him out from under the bar.

“Christ, Deck—” he choked out, yanking the leather away from him. “Careful what you start, I might like it.”

Decker scowled at him as Cricket made a show of straightening his ever-wrinkled shirt. The law shouldn’t have followed him across the river. But Cricket couldn’t know that, because he was Cricket .

“Be more careful.”

“What, afraid they’ll find all the bodies in the whiskey barrels?” Grinning, he made himself at home behind the bar.

Decker frowned as Cricket poured them some gin. “Might find yours if you bring any more back here.” He still accepted the drink. The boy didn’t know his right hand from his left, but he managed to keep Decker on his toes.

The outlaw had always been that way, from the very first time he arrived—though his bravado soon gave way to a scraped-raw heart he buried in liquor and crime, and Decker never quite knew what version of Cricket he was getting each day he hung around.

Today he was the cheerful Cricket, or so he appeared, and he clinked his glass against Decker’s.

“Here’s to escaping the law.” Downing the gin in one swig, he continued in a lazy drawl, “I was at the bank and heard tell there was some article a fancy newspaper man wrote about the town. The Devil’s Town . ” He wiggled his fingers at Decker.

Decker batted them away. “Unsubstantiated rumors,” he said. Blank stare. “Fancy newspaper man is a liar.”

Cricket made an understanding sound.

Decker didn’t know which facets of the boy were a theatrical act and which were an actual lack of knowledge. Three years wasn’t enough time to dig down to the bones of Cricket Conklin.

The young outlaw stayed until nightfall, trying his hand at the piano and plunking mournful notes better suited to a funeral. Even Lucy Goosey didn’t like it, honking and nipping at his ankles, and she loved music .

“Do you think if I give him another drink he’ll stop?” Safine murmured to Decker as she sifted through the bone faro tokens piled in front of her.

They both tried not to support Cricket’s tendency to drink himself to sleep, but no matter how many concoctions Safine slipped to him, they couldn’t mend a broken heart. Decker couldn’t help but take pity on him; especially if taking pity meant saving their ears.

Decker pursed his lips. “If you give him another, he’ll keel over. Dead men don’t play piano.”

The saloon was more dead than Cricket’s piano skills.

We’ll be fine. The slow days will die down after the next newspaper comes out.

Business would be alright. The preacher next door would return to where he belonged. And Decker could continue his uncomfortably comfortable life.

A throat cleared at the door and Decker’s head snapped up from their game.

“Good evening.” The preacher smiled warmly as he pulled out a chair and sat, like he’d done it a thousand times.

Safine cut a glance at Decker. He met her gaze before his attention flicked back to the preacher.

After how their last talk had ended, he didn’t particularly expect Mr. Lane to still stick around—much less join them in the Goose.

Seemed like all the preachers had a habit of traipsing next door when the Spirit called them.

“Mr. Lane. What a surprise to see you here.” Decker reclined in his chair as Mr. Lane perched on his like a fledgling teetering at the edge of a nest .

Silence stretched between them, humming like telegraph wires, and Decker’s eyebrow arched.

He cleared his throat again. “You were right, Decker. Ender’s Ridge doesn’t need another preacher. I am simply here as a neighbor.”

“And what could a Father want in a saloon?”

The preacher’s smile dropped. “That title is not mine. Just Laurie. Mr. Lane, if you absolutely insist, is the most formal title I can claim.”

Interesting. Struck a nerve .

Decker inclined his head, humoring him. “What can I do for you?”

He propped his elbows on the table, mirroring Safine’s expectant pose. “I’d like a drink.”

Decker’s lips twitched. He supposed he could play his game, pretend he was only a neighbor and ignore his wife’s gaze boring a hole into his skull. “Be a shame to waste liquor.”

“I don’t intend on wasting it.”

Alright, Mr. Lane.

Decker wound through the empty tables and rummaged behind the bar for his best gin. Safine followed.

“What’re you doing?”

“Getting our neighbor a drink.”

“We’re supposed to be getting rid of him, not feeding him liquor,” she snapped under her breath, old wounds turning her thorny and stubborn.

The handle of gin—imported from her hometown of New Orleans—glinted between them after he poured a cut glass full .

“I didn’t expect him to stay after last night.” A grudging form of respect curled in his chest, making his ribs tight.

“Because he stayed, we entertain him?” Her eyes were hard under the copper curls swinging about her face.

Her dislike was based purely on bloodline, but Decker could admit he saw nothing of Elias in his nephew—if he did cause problems, this wasn’t the first time he shared a drink with a man he would drain.

“I haven’t seen you contribute to running him out of town,” he said.

Safine scoffed, arms folding in the picture of familiar stubbornness. “ I didn’t want to be the one to kill him. He’d look at me all doe eyed and I might feel bad.”

The new preacher did have a look about him, like a deer blatantly facing danger without having the claws and teeth to defend itself.

Mr. Lane’s arrival here would be handled as they handled most things; together, until they deemed him less of a nuisance and more of a neighbor. Or until they scared him off.

Returning to their table, Decker set the glass in front of him. “Drink up, preacher.”

Mr. Lane looked as if he was going to dispute that title as well, but then he murmured his thanks before downing the liquor in one go. He sputtered, wheezed.

Decker savored his own glass. “Least I didn’t give you the one cut with gunpowder.”

“No. No you didn’t.” He choked back a cough. “Might I have some water? ”

“Nope,” Decker drawled and stretched out his legs under the table.

Eyeing the last drop of gin in his cup, Mr. Lane slid it away before glancing at Cricket. He winced as the outlaw hit a particularly sour note. “Who’s the aspiring pianist?”

“Goes by Cricket. Pain in my ass.”

“Is there anyone in this town who isn’t?”

A softly amused smile curled Decker’s lip. “Safine.” She could also be a pain in the ass more often than not, but he’d grown used to her sharpness.

At the piano, she leaned over Cricket’s shoulder to light her cigarette with the one dangling from his lips.

“How long have you been married?”

“Seven years.”

“Seven?”

“You sound surprised.”

Mr. Lane’s lips pressed together, eyes trailing to Safine again. “I didn’t take you for the married type.”

Decker’s head tilted at the inexplicable tone buried in his words. “What did you take me for, Mr. Lane?”

The preacher studied him like he would an ancient manuscript. Methodical and calculating. Searching for something.

“You’re much like me,” he said.

“Is that right?”

“A man better left alone. It can’t be easy, managing a saloon and a happy wife of seven years. It’s rumored adultery runs rampant in these Western towns,” he said as though he knew something about living in Western towns that Decker didn’t .

“Is it adultery if there’s mutual understanding?” Decker asked softly.

Mr. Lane flushed—though it could have been the full glass he’d choked down. “I’m uncertain.”

Decker’s lips twitched. There was something to be said for Mr. Lane attempting to take his quips in stride.