“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.
