“Be safe, brother,” she said out loud.
Hours passed. The church settled into stillness. The candles guttered out one by one until only the one by the window remained, its flame small but stubborn.
Rachel drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming of hoofbeats on dry earth, of laughter, of her mother’s songs.
At one point, she woke to the creak of the door below. Her heart was pounding, but it was only Mrs. Albright checking locks.
“You’re safe,” the woman whispered up the stairwell.
“I know,” Rachel murmured and drifted back to sleep.
Later, she woke again. This time, it wasn’t from sound but from the stillness itself.
The moon had shifted high, painting the floorboards silver. Through the window, she could see a dust storm far out on the plains—a ghostly swirl like smoke.
She sat up, hugging her knees. The loneliness pressed in thick. She reached for the Bible beside her, running her fingers over the worn leather.
When she opened the book, a slip of paper fell out. It was a page from an old sermon, yellowed with time. The words caught her breath.
The meek shall inherit the earth, but the brave carve their names upon it.
“Sounds like something Blaze would like,” she whispered, smiling faintly.
Then she looked out at the desert again.
“I hope you’re carving yours, brother,” she said. “I really do.”
Down below, Mrs. Albright’s voice rose again—a low murmur of prayer, the same tune repeating. It soothed Rachel like the rhythm of a lullaby. The loft felt warmer now. Somehow, it was softer.
Rachel lay down once more, the stars winking through the window above. Her eyes drifted shut as she whispered one last thing into the night.
“Send an angel to watch him,” she said. “Or better yet, make me one.”
Chapter 26
“Think you’ll find me talkin’ cheap?” Kane asked.
He watched the three of Wilder’s hired guns step out of the deeper dark of the alley. They were riders with faces like coins, hard and quick to flash a smile when there was profit to be had.
The lamp over the tavern guttered, throwing a thin pool of light that made the dust look like smoke. Kane kept his hand curled around the stem of his cigar and let them come to him.
“You always talk a big game,” Caleb said.
“You always listen too easy,” Kane answered. He tilted his chin to the street behind him, toward the church roofline that caught a pale slice of moonlight. “Listen close then. I got somethin’ you boys might want.”
“You better not be wasting our time,” Mangrove said. He spat on the ground. “Wilder pays for results, not rumors.”
“Results are what I sell,” Kane said. He exhaled, the smoke drifting up and away like a small betrayal. “But it ain’t Wilder I’m talkin’ to tonight.”
“Then who?” Caleb asked, stepping nearer so his boots scuffed the grit. “If it ain’t Wilder, it ain’t worth much.”
“You wrong,” Kane said. “It’s worth enough that you might like to trade some of your risk for a cut.”
“You talking cash?” Mangrove said. “We got mouths to feed.”
“Cash’s part of it,” Kane said. “But I got somethin’ Wilder wants more than coin.”
“Gold?” Caleb grinned, and the sound was ugly. “You smell iron in your teeth?”
