Page 7 of Chapel at Ender’s Ridge (Ender’s Calling #1)

A small, smug part of him enjoyed seeing the straight-backed buttoned-up preacher squirm at his implied vulgarities. He’d come here with his mind made up about the West, and Decker had no interest in proving him wrong. If anything, he was going to be much worse than Mr. Lane imagined.

The piano wailed in the background as Cricket finished off his last piece before he wove through the tables and draped himself across the chair next to them.

“Mister, Mister, Laurie Lane. Decker couldn’t stop talkin’ about you this morning.”

Lying sack.

A slight smile still touched Decker’s lips.

Not bothering with a glass, Cricket stole the rest of the gin for himself and took a long swig.

He was used to talking an ear off while being several drinks under, and he continued cheerily.

“Need any help on the old place? No offense, but you don’t look like the type to know the hittin’ end of a hammer. ”

Brightening instantly, the preacher waved his patched-up hand and gave him a smile. “None taken. I can pay you if you can wield tools better than I can. I’m not much of a handyman.”

Decker didn’t have the heart to tell him Cricket’s jobs usually revolved around raking in cash with bullets and blood. If he did help with the renewal of the chapel, it would likely be the first honest work the boy had done in years. Still, there was always time for a turnaround.

“You got yourself a deal.” Finishing the bottle, Cricket pulled out his tin of tobacco and a wrinkled packet of papers and rolled himself another cigarette. “Sure you’re all dyin’ to hear of my time in Amaretto this last spring…”

With Cricket providing the nightly entertainment, the preacher’s neat hair soon fell in disarrayed curls about his face as he laughed at one of the outlaw’s stories.

“Goodness, you do have adventures,” Mr. Lane chuckled, one hand propped against pinkened cheeks and the other clasped around his third empty glass.

If Decker put aside their differences and his past with Western religion, he could call the time strung between them comfortable. As if Mr. Lane had always been here, chuckling and trying to form coherent words under the liquored haze.

Liquor glasses never ran dry as Decker toed the line between hospitality and homicide. Unaware he was caught between a husband who wished to keep the peace, and a wife trying to find a good reason to run him out of town, Mr. Lane relaxed in his seat and gave Decker a soft, drunken smile.

“I thought…” he trailed off, wistful. “I thought coming here was going to be much more lonely.” Hi shadowed eyes flicked between those at the table. “Thank you for being so welcoming.”

With caveats, preacher.

Decker smiled faintly. “Isn’t often we get someone new next door.”

“Last one wasn’t here long,” Safine said .

“My uncle.” He shook his head, then splayed his hands upon the table as if to catch his balance. “I’m afraid he got into trouble here. He was quite an abrasive man.”

Safine’s eyebrows shot up and she took a long drag on Cricket’s cigarette before she gave it back to him. He muttered something about say that again. Tapping his finger against his glass, Decker said nothing.

“Lots to do tomorrow,” Mr. Lane said, abruptly standing. He swayed and grabbed Decker’s shoulder.

Sandalwood soap and incense washed over him, driving in like nails on flesh. The preacher’s hand was hot, biting through Decker’s shirt, and he swallowed down the flame that coiled along his spine.

“Need some help getting back, Mr. Lane?”

“I wouldn’t refuse.” He gave him a hesitant smile and Decker stood, knocking his hand away.

The preacher’s shoulder brushed his own with every step towards the chapel. “You’re a…you’re a true gentleman, Decker.”

He scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Honest truth.” Mr. Lane’s low voice grazed along Decker’s nerves with a feather-light touch. He chose to ignore the way the man’s heartbeat slowed and steadied around him.

Once-proud arched chapel doors now sagged in the middle, a tired mockery of what they had been. Decker eyed them like an old enemy until Mr. Lane stumbled next to him, clutching his arm again.

“Easy, preacher.” He caught him and pulled him upright, counting the steps until the narrow door in the alley.

Ten, eight, five .

The sky flickered in the south from an incoming autumn storm, and the wind curled around them with a warm touch.

“Decker…the town isn’t as nice as you.” His words slurred, lilting and low.

It was a brief consolation that Mr. Lane was a sentimental drinker instead of a miserable one, but when Decker got back, Cricket was going to get an earful about pouring him that last drink.

Four, three, two, one.

Mr. Lane wandered to a halt in front of the parsonage room. His closeness set Decker’s body on edge and burned into him like branding irons.

“I needed tonight,” Mr. Lane said.

“Even preachers can do with a good drink sometimes.” Decker kept his tone light, counting heartbeats instead of steps. Ramblings of a drunkard. Nothing he hadn’t heard before.

The door listed to the side, slipping away from its hinges, and it groaned as Mr. Lane set his hand against the edge and steadied himself. His eyes were dark, glassy, and his heart fluttered in his chest.

“You’re a good man, Decker.”

He didn't move, taking in the smell of old pews and dusty Bibles. This wasn’t befitting of a man of God, no matter what Decker believed himself—rambling, inebriated, hanging on another man in public even if it was under the cover of darkness.

“You’re drunk, preacher.”

“Come see the chapel tomorrow.” Flushed and pleading, the wind almost swept away his words. “Please.” His breathless whisper thrummed against the ache in Decker’s chest .

Thunder rumbled in the distance, moving in like a cougar.

Decker should have felt like prey, his carelessness with a stranger bringing a swift death.

Instead, he was the hunter circling around a creature unknowingly inviting death to its burrow and begging for an audience. Decker took the opportunity to strike.

“Why did you come to Ender’s Ridge, Mr. Lane?”

The preacher laughed, but it was a distant, hollow sound. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.” His lips tilted in a wavering, drunken smile. “Tomorrow.”

The first few drops of rain pattered on the dust.

“Tomorrow,” Decker said.