“What are you implying, Mr. Gibson?”
“Folks say things.”
“What folks?” Decker bit out, the words leaving an acidic taste in his mouth.
“The paper. ThatSilver Star.” Gibson looked as if he wasn’t sure his old friend was to be trusted, if he wasn’t one ofthem monstersin the article.
“Rumors, Mr. Gibson. TheGooseis always open if you and Callie need a drink. Been real quiet since the paper.” Decker smiled, tight-lipped, and tipped his hat before securing the gate behind him.
I got a newspaper stand to visit.
Brittle boards hammered over the deep, fast-flowing river gave way to the wide, dusty street of Ridgewater. Most folks only knew of this side of the town. Meticulously painted white buildings andtheir two-story facades leered at him as he hid under the shade of the verandas.
A pinch-faced woman dismissively bustled around him. Ridgewater had never been welcoming to others, especially after the article.
He squared his shoulders, yanked his hat snug, and strode past the hotel with expensive cigar smoke clouding his lungs, and the wainwright fitting a smooth leather seat to a Sunday carriage for two, before crossing the street to the squatting steam train depot at the far end of the prim town.
There, in the middle of the milling Sunday-best women and spit-shined men, a waifish boy hawked the newspapers sprawled at his feet. A figure appeared from the trains, a square bundle clasped in his arms. A pocketknife glinted as he cut the twine and the newspapers tilted against the second stack.
Decker’s steps quickened.
Snarled hair drooped low under the man’s battered hat, bought at McKinney’s Mercantile.
Decker dodged a man who choked on his cigar smoke at the flash of movement.
A familiar face twisted harshly under a thick beard as he snapped an order to the child.
Decker broke into a run, his pace agonizingly slowed by the sense to stay hidden.
The man ducked inside the train.
He was here.
The one responsible for theSilver Star.
A friend.
A manhe knew intimately.
A man who was once his neighbor.
Decker bounded onto the platform, and a woman clutched at her hat as he darted by. “Nathan—”
The steam whistle screamed.
Lunging for the last train door, his hand scraped across it as Nathan hauled it shut and the train pulled away from the station.
Swearing, Decker shoved past a woman who squawked like a kicked hen as he leapt.
Fingertips caught the iron railing at the back of the train.
The toes of his boot scuffled and hitched on the tracks.
Necessity tightened his grip and he strained every muscle, hauling himself up and over. Decker straightened his vest and settled his hat against the wind as the train picked up speed.
Where have you hid?
Decker stalked through the faded green of the seats, looking for Nathan Griggs.
