The young outlaw stayed until nightfall, trying his hand at the piano and plunking mournful notes better suited to a funeral. Even Lucy Goosey didn’t like it, honking and nipping at his ankles, and she loved music.
“Do you think if I give him another drink he’ll stop?” Safine murmured to Decker as she sifted through the bone faro tokens piled in front of her.
They both tried not to support Cricket’s tendency to drink himself to sleep, but no matter how many concoctions Safine slipped to him, they couldn’t mend a broken heart. Decker couldn’t help but take pity on him; especially iftaking pitymeant saving their ears.
Decker pursed his lips. “If you give him another, he’ll keel over. Dead men don’t play piano.”
The saloon was more dead than Cricket’s piano skills.
We’ll be fine. The slow days will die down after the next newspaper comes out.
Business would be alright. The preacher next door would return to where he belonged. And Decker could continue his uncomfortably comfortable life.
A throat cleared at the door and Decker’s head snapped up from their game.
“Good evening.” The preacher smiled warmly as he pulled out a chair and sat, like he’d done it a thousand times.
Safine cut a glance at Decker. He met her gaze before his attention flicked back to the preacher. After how their last talk had ended, he didn’t particularly expect Mr. Lane to still stick around—much less join them in theGoose.Seemed like all the preachers had a habit of traipsing next door when the Spirit called them.
“Mr. Lane. What a surprise to see you here.” Decker reclined in his chair as Mr. Lane perched on his like a fledgling teetering at the edge of a nest.
Silence stretched between them, humming like telegraph wires, and Decker’s eyebrow arched.
He cleared his throat again. “You were right, Decker. Ender’s Ridge doesn’t need another preacher. I am simply here as a neighbor.”
“And what could a Father want in a saloon?”
The preacher’s smile dropped. “That title is not mine. Just Laurie. Mr. Lane, if you absolutely insist, is the most formal title I can claim.”
Interesting. Struck a nerve.
Decker inclined his head, humoring him. “What can I do for you?”
He propped his elbows on the table, mirroring Safine’s expectant pose. “I’d like a drink.”
Decker’s lips twitched. He supposed he could play his game, pretend he was only a neighbor and ignore his wife’s gaze boring a hole into his skull. “Be a shame to waste liquor.”
“I don’t intend on wasting it.”
Alright, Mr. Lane.
Decker wound through the empty tables and rummaged behind the bar for his best gin. Safine followed.
“What’re you doing?”
“Getting our neighbor a drink.”
“We’re supposed to be getting rid of him, not feeding him liquor,” she snapped under her breath, old wounds turning her thorny and stubborn.
The handle of gin—imported from her hometown of New Orleans—glinted between them after he poured a cut glass full.
“I didn’t expect him to stay after last night.” A grudging form of respect curled in his chest, making his ribs tight.
“Because he stayed, we entertain him?” Her eyes were hard under the copper curls swinging about her face.
Her dislike was based purely on bloodline, but Decker could admit he saw nothing of Elias in his nephew—if he did cause problems, this wasn’t the first time he shared a drink with a man he would drain.
“I haven’t seen you contribute to running him out of town,” he said.