Preacher

by Dahlia West

  “I’ve got to run in here,” Erin told him, nodding to the drugstore once they were on the sidewalk.

  Jack eyed the building and then nodded. “I’ll meet you back here, then, when you’re done,” he replied and turned to the hardware store across the street.

  Erin sighed in relief and plunged through the automatic doors, not feeling safe until they swished closed behind her. She grabbed a basket from the stack and started tossing random things into it: shampoo, disposable razors, a bottle of lotion.

  When she felt she had enough items to camouflage her real purchase, she ducked past Mrs. Taylor, her former third-grade teacher, who thankfully was engrossed in a harrowing birthday card decision, and located the aisle for family planning. She snorted at the irony.

  Before her were rows of boxes, the likes of which she’d never had occasion to buy before. One looked like another, and Erin didn’t think there was probably much difference between them.

  Her hand shot out and she grabbed a test off the shelf. For one ridiculous moment, she actually considered stuffing it under her shirt, but she wasn’t in high school. She was a grown-ass woman and no pimply-faced pipsqueak cashier was going to cow her into doing something so dumb.

  She strode past Mrs. Taylor, hiding the box against her thigh, anyway, and pushed the basket quickly onto the counter, trying to block it from view of other customers. Erin didn’t miss the kid’s furtive glance to her bare left hand as he rang her up. She shot daggers at him with her eyes and snatched the bag away from him when he offered it to her.

  She’d gotten what she’d come in for, but it didn’t feel much like a victory.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

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  Jack waited outside by the truck, tempted to crawl inside the cab, but the ancient air-conditioner was already on its last legs and he didn’t want to tax it more than necessary.

  It was just another thing on what Erin had called his “Honey Do” list.

  Jack had immediately informed her what was on her “Honey Do” list, some of which he was certain she’d never even heard of before. It had been fun teasing her. Even better, she hadn’t immediately said no.

  He was lost in daydreams about Erin, dressed only in boots and a straw hat, giving him a reverse cowgirl, when someone called out “Jack!” from a considerable distance away.

  Jack turned his head, searched first one direction down Main Street, then the other. On the corner, he finally spotted Sheriff Powell waving at him while waiting for the crossing light to change.

  Jack groaned inwardly. He was tempted to turn away, to pretend he hadn’t seen the man, but he didn’t want to seem too suspicious. He waited by the hood of the truck as the old man shuffled across the street toward him.

  “Well, hello there!” Powell called as he approached.

  Jack gave him a nod.

  The old man came to a stop on the sidewalk, red-faced, breathing hard. “Whoo!” he cried, tugging at his tie. “It’s a hot one!”

  “It sure is,” Jack agreed.

  Jack saw a shift in the man’s eyes and knew Powell was shifting gears, getting down to business, even if his casual tone was calculated to put Jack at ease.

  “Hank Perkins’ brother visited me again,” Powell declared.

  “That right?” Jack asked disinterestedly.

  “Still no hide nor hair of Hank, he says.”

  “It was a rough winter,” Jack observed. “Maybe he got tired of the weather. Moved to Florida.”

  The sheriff pretended to consider it but ultimately shook his head. “Nah. I don’t buy it.”

  “Wasn’t selling it,” Jack countered. “Just speculating.”

  “I don’t think he’d up and leave his brother like that.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? They real close?”

  The old man frowned and Jack had his answer. Dickheads of Hank’s caliber tended to alienate everyone in their lives, not just vulnerable women who needed a helping hand.

  “Family’s family,” the sheriff tried to argue.

  “Funny thing about family,” Jack replied. “They can turn out to be the people you hate most in the whole world.”

  The sheriff didn’t seem to have much of an argument for that, so he dropped the subject and picked up a worse one. “Where ’bouts are you from, Jack?”

  “Farther south,” Jack answered immediately. “Little pit-stop of a town in Nebraska. You wouldn’t know it.”

  “I might,” the sheriff ventured. “What’s it called?”

  Jack frowned. He’d been through Nebraska a few times, barely long enough to kick the dust off his boots and finish a beer. He seemed to remember a town, though. “George,” he lied smoothly. “Near the state line.”

  The sheriff nodded. He wasn’t exactly writing it down, but Jack knew the man was committing it to memory. “And your last name? Don’t believe I caught it.”

  That was because Jack had never given it. He’d managed to avoid it during the sheriff’s first interview, but looking at the old man now, Jack could see he wasn’t getting out of it. “I—”

  “Sheriff Powell?”

  Both men turned to see Erin looking at them. She clutched her little plastic sack to her chest, knuckles turning nearly as white as the bag. “What’s going on?”

  “Just shooting the breeze,” Powell told her.

  “Yeah, we’re just talking,” Jack declared, echoing the sheriff’s casual tone. “Excuse us, Sheriff. She’s not feeling well.” Jack took Erin by the arm. It was as good an excuse as any to get the hell out of there. Erin looked like shit anyway and that, Jack was sure, helped sell it.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Erin,” Powell offered.

  She smiled at him wanly. Before she could say anything else, Jack gave the sheriff a curt nod. “Thanks for the update,” said Jack. “We’ve got to get.”

  He helped Erin into the truck, jogged around the front, and swung himself up into the cab, quickly slamming the door. Within seconds, Jack had the key in the ignition and cranked it hard, drowning out the older man’s protests.

  Erin ducked into the passenger side and pressed her shopping bag to her lap. “What did he want?” she asked as Jack pulled out of the parking spot.

  “The usual,” Jack told her. “Fishing.”

  Her brow furrowed at him. “Fishing?” Then after a beat, she said, “Oh.”

  Jack glanced at her when they reached the stoplight and frowned. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said quickly, staring down at her lap. She cleared her throat and adjusted her hands. “I’m just tired.”

  She looked it. Dark circles ringed her eyes.

  “No sleep at all?” Jack asked as he nudged the accelerator.

  Erin sighed and leaned her head against the window. “Just a rough night.”

  Jack didn’t say anything. He’d certainly had more than his fair share of those.

  When they got home, Erin disappeared into the upstairs bathroom and Jack headed outside to throw a ball around with Duke. He didn’t much like the sheriff sniffing around again. Though Jack wasn’t wanted in South Dakota (or anywhere else) it still didn’t bode well. He didn’t trust cops. Not even small-town ones with shiny Sheriff badges.

  Jack had had far too many of RCPD’s finest on his payroll to ever let his guard down around a cop.

  When Duke was sprawled in the yard, panting too hard to pick up the ball even one last time, Jack went into the barn to see about the horses.

  “They’re coming for you in just a little bit,” he told King. He had a brief flash in his mind’s eye of Powell rounding up a posse and coming for him. They couldn’t hold him long. He hadn’t done anything that they could prove. But Powell would hold him for as long as he could, pounding Jack with questions.

  Who was he? Where was he really from? When was the last time he saw Hank? They’d eventually figure out who Jack really was. Rapid City wasn’t that far away. Word would get around that Erin had hired an outlaw as a foreman. Thunder Ridge would
suffer for its association with him.

  If he was here when Powell came.

  King snorted and shook out his mane.

  “You’ll live the life, you know, when you go,” said Jack. “That’s what I hear, anyway. Green pastures all day. Lazy living. They’ll bring in females—dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.”

  King kicked the stall door in irritation and Jack finally relented. He slid open the bolt and King crossed the walkway to Bee’s enclosure. Both horses nuzzled each other over the gate.

  “No,” Jack said with a sigh. “None of them will be her.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

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  Erin’s mind raced even as they made it safely back to Thunder Ridge. He hadn’t seemed rattled while being questioned by Powell nor did he appear that way now. Hank’s ghost, it seemed, had finally come back to haunt her. Worse than that, she might end up in prison. Her fingers tightened on the shopping bag (and its secret contents). How could she have a baby in prison? What would happen to it? Would Social Services take it away? And give it to whom? Buck, of all people? Her mother?

  Erin wondered if she did get arrested, would she get a say in where her baby was placed?

  “We’re fine,” she told herself in a near whisper as she climbed the stairs. “He doesn’t know shit. He’s not going to find shit. We. Are. Fine.” She headed straight for the bathroom, dropping the plastic sack into the sink and fishing out the box, dropping it onto the floor.

  “Damn it,” she whispered and snatched it up.

  She nearly tore the top off, fingers shaking, and read the directions on the back while opening the packaging.

  Morning was the best time, so said the instructions, but Erin hadn’t gone wee since the wee hours anyway and she figured it would be fine. There was an extra, though, just in case she ran into trouble.

  She unbuckled her belt, did her business with a grimace, and set the stick down on the counter, eyeing it warily.

  Nothing to do now but wait.

  She set the alarm on her phone, mostly because it gave her something to do. Then she straightened towels, the bathmat, her shirt. Anything to keep busy.

  In the rodeo, she was always racing the clock. It was exhilarating, charging toward the finish line, breathless, almost weightless.

  This didn’t feel exhilarating. This…was excruciating.

  Seconds ticked by, slowly, maddeningly.

  Erin paced the tile floor, the heels of her boots clicking sharply. Her phone buzzed in her hand and she jumped, nearly dropping it. She regained her composure (what little she had of it) and carefully picked up the plastic stick off the counter.

  She hadn’t bothered with the little pink lines or the booklets that accompanied them so you could translate the symbols like hieroglyphics. She’d shelled out for the Cadillac of home pregnancy tests.

  In the small plastic window was the verdict, clear as day, clear as the name on the box had said it would be: Pregnant.

  Erin blinked at it.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  Then she fisted it and stuffed it into the trash, burying it way down at the bottom next to the box it had come in.

  She washed her hands, dried them, and rubbed the towel on her face for good measure, to catch any tears that were threatening to fall.

  She’d barely made it down the stairs before she spotted Tucker DelRay’s enormous truck pulling his trailer into her driveway. Kicking herself into high gear, she flew out the door, gave Tucker a wave, and called out, “I’ll bring him right out!”

  “You sure you can handle him?” the older man called back, but there was a lilt to his voice and she knew he was only playing.

  She gave another wave and hustled across the drive. Before she could get there, the sliding door opened and Jack led King out on a rope.

  Erin dashed past him and shut the door quickly behind him.

  It was hard watching them load King. He’d been at Thunder Ridge for a full year, and Erin had become almost as attached to him as Bee had. Her heart ached for the little palomino in her stall, heavily pregnant with King’s foal, and thus kept out of sight of DelRay and his ranch hand.

  Bee would be devastated.

  Erin sneaked a look at Jack as he locked DelRay’s trailer gate, and fought down a wave of panic that threatened to rise up inside her.

  Jack liked it here, liked her, like the way things were. A baby would change everything, though. What if he left, after she told him? What if he decided it was all too much, wanted his old life back—whatever that was—and walked out one night the same way he’d walked into her life?

  She might end up as alone as poor Bee. She whimpered just a tiny bit at the thought.

  Jack wrapped one arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close to his side. “It’s going to be okay,” he told her. “There’ll be others.”

  Erin’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t want another. She wanted Jack. And the little life growing inside her. She fought off a fresh wave of tears as she realized she might not get to have both.

  DelRay swung his large truck in a circle and pointed it down the driveway, toward the highway. He gave a honk and a wave, and Erin raised her arm in return, just going through the motions.

  Jack drew her close for one last hug and then stepped away. “I’ll feed Bee,” he offered and turned toward the barn.

  Duke chased after him happily.

  Erin was about to call out to him, but wasn’t sure she was ready. She watched him enter the barn, then headed back to the house. It might be all right, just like he’d said. She had to believe that. She’d start with I love you. That seemed like a good opening.

  After all, it had made him stay once before.

  In the kitchen, she went over every word, every phrase, a dozen times, maybe more, until she heard the creak of the screen door behind her.

  “Wash up,” she said over her shoulder, trying to sound casual. “Dinner’s almost ready.” As she stirred the milk into the mashed potatoes, she didn’t hear boots on the floor. She scowled that even now, right at the beginning of the most difficult episode they’d ever have—may ever have—it already was going off the rails.

  Jack was supposed to wash up, sit down, and listen to Erin’s carefully prepared speech about what she wanted from him…and what she was willing to settle for.

  She sighed, dropped the whisk into the bowl, and wiped her hands on the towel hanging off the stove. She turned, ready to have it over with, she supposed. Just get it done, rip it off like a Band-Aid, get it out in the open.

  “I—” she began, but the next words died on her lips.

  Standing just inside the kitchen doorway wasn’t Jack but a man she’d never seen before, in a black leather jacket with eyes—impossibly—even darker than that.

  Erin backed up so fast that she slammed into the counter behind her. The man loomed in the doorway like a dark specter, sunlight streaming in behind him. She struggled to catch her breath and find her voice. “Who are you?” she whispered.

  He said nothing. Merely grinned.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

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  Jack shook out some hay into Bee’s rack, gave her a pat and a scratch behind the ear before stepping out of the stall and fastening the gate securely.

  Bee’s ears pricked forward and she paused on her way to her dinner.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jack murmured to himself as he watched the palomino.

  It was impossible to stay sharp in a place like Thunder Ridge, where the biggest threat was the weather or maybe getting stepped on by an unruly horse.

  Jack had spent a year and a half working with animals…and becoming less of one.

  If he survived the next five minutes, he was going to have to do something about that.

  “Turn around,” came the voice from behind him. The one he’d been waiting for.

  Jack pretended to be surprised, caught off guard by the sudden disruption. When he turned, he saw there w
ere two of them, one young and blond, one older and darker-haired. Jack thought he recognized the kid, but couldn’t come up with a name. The dark-haired man raised a gun and leveled it straight at Jack’s chest. “It’s been a while,” he said.

  Jack shrugged, keeping his features schooled and his heartbeat under control. “Can’t say I know your face,” he replied calmly.

  “I know yours,” the older man countered. “Wasn’t sure it’d really be you, but now that I’m here, now that I’m this close—yeah, you’re Preacher all right.”

  Jack moved slowly, not toward the man, because he didn’t know him and couldn’t guess what he’d do. But he got out from in front of Bee, so that if the motherfucker missed, she, at least, wouldn’t be a casualty.

  “Let’s go,” the man ordered, nosing the gun toward the door. Clearly, he wasn’t interested in small talk or introductions.

  Before Jack could even take a step, a black flash appeared at the entrance, flying through the air.

  The sounds of Duke’s snarls filled the barn as he opened his large jaw and caught the wrist holding the gun, taking the man down.

  “Fuck!” the gunman shouted and the kid lunged for the dog.

  Jack sprang forward, hand already closing into a fist. He let Duke handle the older man and instead drove his knuckles straight into the kid’s face.

  The blond staggered backward but Jack pursued, striking him again, right in the nose, making blood mist in the hot summer air.

  Then, a loud boom reverberated in the small space.

  Duke howled and Jack couldn’t help but turn his face toward the dog. Within seconds, a sharp pain raked along his side. Snapping his head (and his attention) back to his own fight, he saw that the kid had drawn a blade.

  Jack’s own blood dripped off the glinting silver.

  Some men would have paused, others might have tried to run. Jack did run, but not to safety, not to the open door. Instead he threw himself at the kid, which surprised the smaller opponent, and they both slammed against the barn wall.

  Jack left him there, reeling from the impact, and snatched the pitchfork off the wall. He rushed forward, holding it out like a lance, and skewered the kid, deep in the belly. It wasn’t hard enough to go completely through the body, though. The kid just stared at him, mouth a perfect ‘O,’ before his knees buckled.