He was like a train careening off-course and barreling over a cliff. Decker could do nothing but watch in helpless awe as he dragged Safine off the tracks with him.
She swept her arm across the table, gathering up her things before he could question her work. The bottle of tooth powder teetered on the edge.
The stranger tried to help.
Safine snatched at the bottle before he could reach it.
Lucy hissed.
Safine hissed back.
Crushed teeth and glass scattered across the floor like a glittering mine packed with too much dynamite.
Safine swore.
The stranger blanched, still cradling his hand. “I didn’t want to be any trouble.”
Blood pooled under his bound hand and the sharp smell went to Decker’s head despite his recent feeding. “Safine,” he said politely.
“Give me a goddamn minute,” she snapped, and snatched a clean towel from the next table, tossing it to him before bounding up the steps.
Red streaked across the stranger’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know where else to go.”
“It’s alright.” Decker turned a chair towards him and sat, motioning for his hand.
“I really didn’t mean—”
“Quiet.”
A small, indignant sound left him, but he fell silent and propped his arm on his knee. Decker replaced the soaked shirt with a towel over the wound and pressed to slow the bleeding.
Copper faded and mixed with the faint scent of sandalwood soap like he’d washed up before coming here.
Faint stubble, lighter than his curls, dusted his jaw, and freckles trailed across his cheeks like a tiny church mouse scampered across him while he slept. If he stayed, the sun would coax even more color out of his wan face.
The West will drive him away in a week.
Decker eyed him. “That’s a nasty gash.”
His flush deepened. “The knife I bought from the mercantile came very well-sharpened.”
“Good. It’ll be easier for her to sew up.” His hand was soft under Decker’s, tension unknotting with each word, and he took full advantage. “You’re the one staying at the chapel?”
“I am. I have much work to do, but I’ll have it ready for winter—oh, goodness, my manners.”
Worse than a flighty bird, spit it out.
“Lawrence—” he stumbled over his own name like this was the first time he’d introduced himself to anyone, and tried again. “Laurie. Laurie Lane.”
Lane.
Decker stiffened.
Same as the last preacher. Common name, but here? There could be no coincidence. A burning sensation prickled at the scars curled around his hands.
The stairs screeched in protest as Safine flew down them with a needle and thread between her lips, a small blue bottle in one hand and hard clear liquor in the other. She took his arm, stretching it on the table and letting out a low whistle as she eased the towel away.
“Alright, Mister—”
