Safine scoffed, arms folding in the picture of familiar stubbornness. “Ididn’t want to be the one to kill him. He’d look at me all doe eyed and I might feel bad.”
The new preacher did have a look about him, like a deer blatantly facing danger without having the claws and teeth to defend itself.
Mr. Lane’s arrival here would be handled as they handled most things; together, until they deemed him less of a nuisance and more of a neighbor. Or until they scared him off.
Returning to their table, Decker set the glass in front of him. “Drink up, preacher.”
Mr. Lane looked as if he was going to dispute that title as well, but then he murmured his thanks before downing the liquor in one go. He sputtered, wheezed.
Decker savored his own glass. “Least I didn’t give you the one cut with gunpowder.”
“No. No you didn’t.” He choked back a cough. “Might I have some water?”
“Nope,” Decker drawled and stretched out his legs under the table.
Eyeing the last drop of gin in his cup, Mr. Lane slid it away before glancing at Cricket. He winced as the outlaw hit a particularly sour note. “Who’s the aspiring pianist?”
“Goes by Cricket. Pain in my ass.”
“Is there anyone in this town who isn’t?”
A softly amused smile curled Decker’s lip. “Safine.” She could also be a pain in the ass more often than not, but he’d grown used to her sharpness.
At the piano, she leaned over Cricket’s shoulder to light her cigarette with the one dangling from his lips.
“How long have you been married?”
“Seven years.”
“Seven?”
“You sound surprised.”
Mr. Lane’s lips pressed together, eyes trailing to Safine again. “I didn’t take you for the married type.”
Decker’s head tilted at the inexplicable tone buried in his words. “What did you take me for, Mr. Lane?”
The preacher studied him like he would an ancient manuscript. Methodical and calculating. Searching for something.
“You’re much like me,” he said.
“Is that right?”
“A man better left alone. It can’t be easy, managing a saloon and a happy wife of seven years. It’s rumored adultery runs rampant in these Western towns,” he said as though he knew something about living in Western towns that Decker didn’t.
“Is it adultery if there’s mutual understanding?” Decker asked softly.
Mr. Lane flushed—though it could have been the full glass he’d choked down. “I’m uncertain.”
Decker’s lips twitched. There was something to be said for Mr. Lane attempting to take his quips in stride.
A small, smug part of him enjoyed seeing the straight-backed buttoned-up preacher squirm at his implied vulgarities. He’d come here with his mind made up about the West, and Decker had no interest in proving him wrong. If anything, he was going to be much worse than Mr. Lane imagined.
The piano wailed in the background as Cricket finished off his last piece before he wove through the tables and draped himself across the chair next to them.
“Mister, Mister, Laurie Lane. Decker couldn’t stop talkin’ about you this morning.”
Lying sack.