Twisting around, he strained to see what the train tracks had done to his back, and instead locked eyes with Mr. Lane, hovering in the doorway like he wasn’t supposed to be there.
Which he wasn’t. Decker had tried to ignore his footsteps down the hall as long as possible.
“May I?”
Decker eyed him for a long moment. The thought of the preacher’s touch made the pit of his stomach clench. Still, he nodded stiffly. He wouldn’t be able to reach it by himself, and Safine was gone.
He took a step inside, caught sight of the shoes at the door, and struggled out of his own, neatly slotting shined black next to buffed leather. His gaze settled on Decker, a quiet intake of breath cutting the space between them.
Wordlessly, he took the jar and scooped out the thick, smooth salve. Decker stilled under his hand, steady and warm, as it worked the salve into the cut along his shoulder, and the line of scrapes down his back, the beeswax softening and melting into his cold skin under his hands.
Mr. Lane had burned incense this morning. Decker smelled it when he first stepped over the threshold. Now the spiced scent lingered on Decker’s skin where his hand fell away and chased the fog from his head for a brief moment.
Mr. Lane’s thumb smoothed across the small of his back, dipping into the grooves between his spine.
Decker’s nails cut into his palm. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been touched like this. Gently, like he would slip from his grasp and shatter if the preacher drew back.
Laurie. The preacher, Elias’s nephew, the man on trial. No preaching accompanied with thunder and lightning, just,Laurie, with careful hands, who didn’t ask why he hadn’t bled or what he’d done.
The lid clattered onto the glass jar and Laurie hesitantly reached around him, sliding it onto the shelf.
Decker stretched and twisted, shaking off the feel of warm hands trailing down his back before he turned.
A frown darkened Laurie’s face in the dim light from the lamp, and Decker traced the furrowed lines of his face, each light freckle, the honeyed hue of his eyes which studied his face and then caught his gaze.
“Nothing’s broken,” Laurie said. Concern tightened rose-bitten lips. “I’m sure you’ll want to ask your wife’s opinion when she returns.”
Your wife.
The way he said it was like thorns wrapped in linen.
Are you jealous, preacher?
Not of the facade Decker and Safine shared. Jealousy of family, companionship, friendship. A man with a family wouldn’t have left Boston for a strange life and trusted his new neighbors so soon.
Laurie’s heartbeat stuttered, and Decker cocked his head at him, taking in the flush rising past his preacher’s collar into yesterday's five o’clock shadow.
“Why didn’t you go with the others to Mass?” Laurie’s breathless question shattered the tentative silence.
“I was occupied. And I wasn’t going to, even if I could.”
“Why?”
“Don’t like church, don’t like priests—”
“I’m not a priest,” he said, as if he was an entertainer and it was a well-rehearsed line, written to draw people into his show.
Decker wanted no part of it. If his peace insisted on being disturbed, he could draw his own entertainment out of it. “Why not?” he shot back.
Laurie’s heartbeat skittered. “I told you, I couldn’t make it in seminary.”
He shrugged, uncaring. “Why not?”
“You can’t just-”
“Yes, I can.” A flicker of a smile curled up, and Decker raised an eyebrow. “You come intomysaloon, expecting me to answer all your questions—”
“I don’t—” he started.
