He was Preacher’s father, she decided. He had the same distinctive jawline, the same proud nose and broad shoulders as his son.As both his sons, she silently amended, glancing sideways at Max. The resemblance was uncanny, despite Preacher and Max’s taller, leaner frames.
“And you are?” A touch to her arm startled Debbie. A spicy, sweet scent filled her nostrils.
Swallowing her surprise, she blinked up at Preacher’s mother. “I, uh… Debbie. My name is Debbie. But, um, Preacher calls me Wheels.”
The woman’s dark brows shot up, and Debbie was entranced by her eyes. Surrounded by fine lines, ringed in thick, dark lashes, they were a deep shade of gray reminiscent of the sky just before it rains.
“Wheels? Any particular reason he chose Wheels?”
Debbie lifted her shoulder. “He says it’s short for Hell on Wheels.”
Chuckling, the woman shook her head and placed a heavily bejewelled hand on her chest. Stacks of gold and silver rings encircled her fingers. “Oh my dear, on behalf of my son, I’m so sorry. Wheels… good grief, these boys and their nicknames.”
She continued on, still shaking her head. “I’m Evangeline. But you can call me Ginny—everyone else does. Or little Ginny, if you can believe that.” She laughed loudly, and Debbie decided that even her laugh—a deep, throaty feminine rumble—was nearly as beautiful as the woman herself.
“Preacher met her on 89,” Max interjected. “She’s headed for the city and hitched a ride with him.”
Ginny’s eyes widened, brightening with curiosity. “You’ll have to tell me more about yourself, Debbie. And you’ll have to forgive me for not calling you Wheels.” She winked at Max. “She’s much too pretty for a name likeWheels,isn’t she Maxwell?”
Grinning impishly, Max’s eyes slanted in Debbie’s direction. “Yeah, Ma. Way too pretty.”
Five minutes in Max’s presence and Debbie was already tired of him. She attempted a smile, managing only a slight baring of teeth—a reminder of just how rusty and untried she was when it came to interacting with other people.
But neither Max nor Ginny seemed to notice. Max continued to grin obnoxiously, leaving Debbie to wonder if it was the teenager’s only expression.
“Come, Debbie darling,” Ginny said, offering Debbie her arm. “And meet everyone.”
• • •
The introductions felt endless, and Debbie’s mind was soon spinning with names and faces. Aside from the three men she’d already met—Max, Tiny, and Doc—Ginny introduced her to Preacher’s other brother, Joe, and his pregnant wife, Sylvia. Joe, who was shorter and stockier like his father, wore a black eyepatch over his left eye and had been aptly nicknamed One-Eyed Joe. Debbie had hardly had time to wonder how he’d lost his eye when she was turned around to meet the others.
Palms clammy, heart pounding an uneven beat inside her chest, Debbie reluctantly allowed Ginny to parade her around the campsite, introducing her to person after person.
She met Doc’s wife June—a slim woman with indistinct features who seemed as quiet and reserved as her husband. And Whiskey Jim, an older man with a head full of white hair, and his much younger wife, Anne. Blonde and beautiful, Anne looked as if she’d stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine.
Best friends with Anne was Louisa. And the two women couldn’t have been more different. Whereas Anne was tall and slim, polished and well-dressed, Louisa was much shorter, curvier, and covered in tattoos. Wearing a ratty band tee and jeans, she was cuddled up to a biker named Crazy-8. Also heavily tattooed, Crazy-8 had a rough and tough appearance, contrasted by an easygoing smile.
She met Smokey and Knuckles next. Smokey, a middle-aged widower who had a look to him that gave Debbie the impression that he’d seen and done it all. And Knuckles, twenty-two years old with an unruly mass of blond curls framing his flirtatious smile, he wore a T-shirt that read in big, bold lettering:FUCK HAIRCUTS.
Faking smiles and shaking hands, Debbie began feeling strange and desperate. Everyone was mostly kind, if not overly so, but made no effort to hide their questions. They stared at her with blatant curiosity, their thoughts clear. Who was she? And what was she doing with Preacher?
Each new face added to her growing anxiety, worse because Preacher seemed to have abandoned her to Ginny.
Eventually Ginny led Debbie to the picnic tables, where Preacher’s father still stood at the head, stone-faced and unmoving. He was an intimidating-looking man, his stiff, unfriendly demeanor making him seem all the more threatening, even more so up close.
And he practically exuded authority, so much so that Debbie didn’t need to read thePRESIDENTpatch on his leather vest to know that, among these people, this man was king.
“Gerald, honey.” Ginny placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “This is Debbie. She arrived with Damon.”
Gerald looked her up and down with a critical eye, as a buyer might look over a car they were considering purchasing. Finished, he glanced over at his wife, his mouth pressed into a thin, grim line, leaving Debbie feeling not quite sure she’d passed his inspection.
“This is what he’s been doing all this time?” Gerald bit out. “Messin’ with girls? He couldn’t have done this shit at home?”
“Gerry,” Ginny admonished quietly. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” Gerald shot back. “He can’t just waltz back in here like nothin’ happened!”
Unsure of what to do, Debbie glanced down at her hands, suddenly very interested in her nails. She was contemplating slinking away when a familiar arm came down around her shoulders.
