Chapter 6
Dynamite Between Teeth
Sunday afternoon, the chapel was as silent as a robbed grave.
Tuesday morning, Safine made spiced cider and joined Cricket across the alley for half the day.Working, they said.
Safine was fickle—she could have been finding the preacher’s weaknesses or he may have been winning her over—but one of them had to keep their mind unbiased. Laughter prodded at the edges of Decker’s mind, but he never moved from his post behind the bar.
Wednesday night, Decker tugged his curtains aside and caught glimpses of the preacher in his room under lamplight. Delicately defined arms. Shoulders scattered with faint freckles from his time in the autumn sun. Chest caving in a heavy sigh.
Saturday morning, a stranger collapsed behind the saloon.
“Decker!” Safine’s shout rang out.
Lucy Goosey hissed at him as he skirted by, ducking out the back where she knelt next to a limp form.
“He barely made it off his horse before he collapsed.”
Slipping his arms under him, Decker hauled him up, laying him on the back table after Safine cleared it with a practiced sweep of her arm. He turned an attentive ear to his pulse. Weak, but alive.
For now.
Decker flipped his wrist over, running light fingers over a weeping rope burn. “Safi.”
She frowned at the wounds and leaned closer, brushing a piece of grey debris from his lips. “What the hell?” Her fingers emerged with a flake of red paper. “Dynamite. He was eating dynamite. Jesus H.Christ.”
“Don’t think he's just starving. Somebody’s got it out for him,” Decker murmured.
The man finally stirred as Safine rubbed salve on the wounds. Eyes slitted open, then blew wide with panic and he lunged against Decker’s quick hands.
“She’s coming for me—” A coughing fit cut his desperate pleas short, blood speckling his lips.
Decker flicked the edge of his shirt back. Fresh bruising mottled his chest and a gash across his stomach fluttered and leaked with each ragged breath.
The man snatched at him and sunk his fingers into Decker’s arms. “Need a priest,” he rasped. “I need a priest—”
Safine pinned down his shoulder. “I’ll handle him, get Laurie if that’s what he wants.”
Decker made it across the alley in seconds. Hinges rattled as he pounded a fist on the planks.
“Mr. Lane!” Goddamnit it all, when he finally needed the little bastard, he wouldn’t open the damn door. “Mr. Lane!”
He whipped the door open, sleep-flattened hair falling in his wide eyes as he yanked a shirt on. “What’s gone wrong?”
“Stranger got into some trouble. Safine’s doin’ her best, but he asked for a priest,” Decker filled in as they strode through the alleyway.
“I’m not a—”
“You’re the closest thing we got.” Decker turned to him and set his hands on his shoulders. Mr. Lane stiffened instantly. “Give him a couple minutes’ peace and let him think you’re a priest. This is what you’re here for.”
He looked as if another protest was on the tip of his tongue, but he finally ducked his head. “I’ll do my best.”
The man groaned as Safine tipped a jar of brightly colored powder to his lips, blue grains trickling to green as they touched his skin.
Mr. Lane stared for a moment before he swept into action and grasped the man’s trembling hand. “You came to the right place, my friend. Safine is wonderful, she’ll do everything she can for you,” he murmured, smoothing his other hand over the man’s damp forehead. “Make your peace with God, and he will make peace with you.”
“Bitch is comin’ for me.” The words gritted like rough boards, and the preacher glanced at Decker. He motioned to keep going and passed Safine a clean cloth. It quickly soaked with scarlet when she pressed it against the wound on his stomach.
