Chapter 8
Engulfed by Incense
The lapse in sun sickness didn’t last long.
Decker’s skin blistered under his shredded shirt as he stumbled to his feet. Shielding his face, he huddled against one of the jagged outcroppings of striped hills waiting for the night in the hot shade.
Day dragged on and dusk fell, and he finally stitched together enough to begin the long, exhausted walk home. The boy on the train platform was gone, as were his newspapers, but it was for the best. No one was out to see a battered man limping over the bridge.
He’d never been so happy to see the swinging doors, light beaming through them as Safine and Willa hunched over a faro game. Cricket sat opposite them, his stolen watch sprawled across the table like its owner in the chair.
Safine stopped mid-pour at the table, the sarsaparilla overflowing out of Willa’s glass. She mopped it up with her bandana and hooked an arm over the back of the chair to look at him.
Cricket’s eyebrows raised. “You look like shit.” He shifted in his seat, his hand propped on the handle of his revolver. “I can take care of ‘em for you.”
The sun didn’t touch me. Then it did. Our old neighbor has a vendetta against us and wrote an article wrecking our town.
And he threw me off the train.
“Just a misunderstanding,” he said.
Safinehmmphed. “Need help?”
“I’ll be right in the morning.” He faltered at the steps. “Mr. Gibson’s cows are doing poorly. He needs your help. Tonight.”
Safine wrinkled her nose. “I’ll go fix his damn cows. How about—” she nudged Willa’s shoulder, flashing her a smile, “—you come with me and I’ll show you the town after I take care of it.”
Willa shrugged and drained the glass before tucking her soiled bandana in her pocket. “I’ve got nothin’ better to do on a day of rest.”
Cricket grinned and slipped his watch back on his wrist.
“We’re finishing this later, Conklin.” Safine narrowed her eyes at him and jabbed a finger in his direction and he carelessly shrugged.
“I’m a man ofhonor, Saf. You tell me, I do it.”
“Come help us with the damn cows and be useful.”
Decker and Safine both knew he’d do nothing but drink himself to sleep again if she left him alone here, so Safine—as she always did—helped him keep his mind busy.
Cricket heaved a dramatic sigh, and the doors banged behind them as they left, lightly bickering amongst themselves in the fallen night.
Decker limped up the steps. Soft footsteps followed him up the stairs. He turned his long-suffering gaze on the meddling preacher.
“I came by earlier to see you, but the saloon was closed—but I saw you come back and thought—” his words faded, taking in the way Decker held to the rail and his hunched back. “You’re not well.”
“Your eyes work wonderfully, Mr. Lane. Do you heal physical wounds as well as spiritual ones, or are you just here to bother me?” He was met with silence as Mr. Lane shifted, the floor creaking under broken-in shoes.
Unfortunately, the owner of the shoes wasn’t quite as affected by life here, and he stood rigid and formal.
Go away, preacher. There’s nothing for me in your pretty words.
The hall comforted Decker when he turned away, each detail sharpened and edged with red in the dark as he counted the doors to the last on the right.
While his room was practical and plain, colorful quilts and rich, catalog-ordered fabrics draped Safine’s room. A dresser of dark wood filled with colored glass bottles of perfumes and tinctures rested against the back wall, and shelves overflowing with bones and dried scraps of flesh in round jars lined the right wall.
Decker slid off his scuffed boots, leaving them next to Safine’s pile at the door, then eased out of his shirt, tossing it over the wrought-iron bed frame in the corner.
He searched for blue glass behind the mouse ear and to the right of rattlesnake skin and in front of a jar of wrinkled, pale, skin-like things. Finally, he caught a glimmer of blue and carefully eased Safine’s salve off the shelf.
