Chapter 7
Chained to the Press
Willa never missed a Sunday service.
“I don’t aim to start now.” Digging beeswax polish from the tin, she worked it into the deep creases of her boots. Safine had been happy to make her a fresh batch infused with powdered toe-bones—likely from Rotham, processed with carrion beetles and ground to a fine powder—to aid her travels and keep her safe.
Doubt she needs any extra protection even if her gun’s two arm lengths away.
Safine sat in one of the chairs, resting her crossed arms on the back. “There’s a fancy church in Silver Creek. You’d be able to make it if you left early.”
“As long as there’s a preacher there who wants to preach, I don’t give a rat’s ass what it looks like.”
Since Mr. Lane insisted he wouldn’t be ready for a sermon tomorrow, Willa moved her sights, and Mr. Lane had disappeared behind his chapel to feverishly polish the large brass bell for the tower. Decker suspected he was trying to take his mind off the justice he’d witnessed.
“Go with Willa.” Decker marked his place in his book to take a sip of whiskey, not letting his nightly ritual be disturbed bythe arrival of his old friend. “Business is always slow on Sundays. Especially now.”
Safine brightened instantly, as if she’d been waiting for a nudge. “I could take my bag and check on the Dillon’s girl.”
“I’m sure her family would be grateful after she got taken.” Willa’s shined boot thumped on the floor and she picked up the second.
A smile touched Decker’s face. If Willa left without her, Safine would have done nothing but mope around all day. It was good for her to have companionship, for however long Willa was in town.
After catching a few hours of sleep, the two set off well before sunrise, leaving Decker in his empty saloon.
Cricket had his fill at the dance hall and was still fast asleep upstairs. No one else was there to play chipped ivory and drown out bits of the sermon Mr. Lane practiced.
Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned. Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.
Fingertips rustled against pages.
As far as the East is from the West, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.
The soft hush of a fountain pen scratched across paper.
Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God—
Decker got to his feet, drowning out the rest of his holy words with flowing whiskey and cold ice.
Verses about forgiveness and piety did little to get under Decker’s skin. No, it washowthe preacher spoke. Like he could peel back the layers of his soul and select exactly what knife in his back was bothering him at this precise moment.
The knife this morning came in the form of his mother. Or rather, a memory like a jolt when a young couple knocked on the door as the sun rose.
He thought of her when he’d looked into hesitant brown eyes.
He thought of her when she’d haltingly asked how to get to Silver Creek from here.
He thought of her when she’d smiled, murmuring a blessing in a language he could almost understand and thanked him, newly married hands with swirls of fading red pigment cradling his own. Hands that looked like his own.
And for the first time in years, Decker wanted to go home.
Home could be anywhere by now.
Near rolling hills of green or snow-laden pine branches. Or maybe home met a worse fate. Trusted the wrong person, let the wrong words slip.
Forbearing one another, and forgiving one another, if any man have a quarrel against any; even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye—
The last chunk of ice in his glass rattled as he set it down.
