One stained glass window remained unbroken above the altar. The red angels depicted a scene of Jesus bent under the cross.
Paper ruffled under Decker’s steps. His hands would blister if he touched the shredded, mice-bitten Bible, so he moved on, careful of the rotten boards.
“The animals have made this their home since my uncle disappeared. Rodents have taken a particular liking to the floor.” Mr. Lane picked up the book and brushed off the mildewed cover with a sigh. “They have as much right to it as we do. I’m hoping we can share this place.”
“I’m sure the fine folk of Ender’s Ridge will enjoy hearing the gospel with a pigeon on their shoulder and a rat beneath their feet.” Decker murmured.
“It’s not that kind of church.”
Decker turned an inquisitive look on him as his voice echoed sharply.
“It’s—it’s notmeantto be only for the fine folk. I mean this chapel to be a place for everyone,” Mr. Lane said more quietly. “A place of peace and rest where we can leave our struggles behind us when we enter these doors.”
It was a nice sentiment. Decker’s more cynical side cut it down. “What could a boy from back East know about the struggles of people here?”
“I don’t.” Sincerity laced the simpleness of the words. “But we all have our own struggles to leave behind.”
“And what’s yours?” Decker’s quiet challenge was met with the slightest raise of his chin.
Tell me, preacher. Lay yourself bare.
“I dropped out of seminary,” Mr. Lane said softly. “When I received the news of my aunt passing and was told I was responsible for a chapel in the Dakota Territory, I booked the first train heading west. And you, Decker? What’s the struggle you leave behind?” he asked, twisting on him as easily as he leaned against the curved edge of the pew.
The question pulled him back twenty years, when the country split and he was swept into his second war on American soil. He could still taste the gunpowder and hear the ringing in his ears. Ender’s Ridge was the last stop of a man named Thomas, who’d come west with him after they fought side by side. He’d made himself a life on a ranch—and married a pretty wife.
“A lover who never was,” Decker said. He was putting it gently. The man who knew him and yet never fully understood, was the end of a series of decisions both fatal and freeing.
Mr. Lane made a sound like he understood the sort of ache that settled in his chest.
Decker’s fingers dragged a design onto the dust of the pew. “What happened at seminary?” He studied him, not expecting an answer but curiosity had won over the calculated dance they’d been performing since his arrival.
The preacher’s heart sped up, rattling in his throat—one, two, three—before he swallowed it down.
“Priests are supposed to listen to confessions, not admit them to men,” he said.
“You’re not a priest.”
“And only I am to blame for that.” His face calmed as he clutched the Bible in his hands, but Decker caught the aching sadness that flickered through him.
Red glass like his eyes glared back at him when Decker looked to the cross-bearing scene. “I hear human nature can’t be tethered for long, Mr. Lane. I find it hard to believe something like that was entirely your fault.”
He gave him a small smile. “You talk as if you aren’t human yourself.”
“In the West, sometimes it feels like we’re very different.”
“It takes a different sort of creature to brave the land and people here,” Mr. Lane said, as if he knew firsthand. “You have my apologies for anything my uncle did while he was here. I know I can’t make it right, but…I would like to try. Offer comfort, or help. Hope.”
Decker smiled thinly. “Our family’s mistakes are not our own. But you’ll forgive if most of us are not as welcoming to you. Ender’s Ridge has done just fine without any religion for years after Elias.”
“Has it?” he asked gently. “People are dying and disappearing, and they’re not at peace even in death. I visited the old cemetery across town, and two graves have been robbed. Two, Decker.”
His back tightened.
“I’m only here to help,” Mr. Lane said.
“Religion’s brought nothing but heartache for this town.” Decker paced to the door, casting one last glance over the rotted interior before he set his gaze on the preacher, so alive in this place of bloated death. Old wounds sprawled open, sharpened his edges. “You and your chapel are nothing different.”
“You’re wrong,” he said softly. “I’ll make you understand.”
