Promises Reveal

by Sarah McCarty

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a man in the hall,” she whispered, dropping the lock back into place.

  “This is not so strange a thing in a whorehouse.”

  Evie glanced over her shoulder. Nidia looked very small in the big bed. She definitely wasn’t going to be much help if the stranger turned out to be trouble. “Do you have a gun?”

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  “I used to.” Before Brad took it last night, claiming she needed more lessons before he’d trust her with it again. She backed up a step, then another. “Where is it?”

  The footsteps stopped. The door latch lifted soundlessly, hit the barrier of the lock, and stopped. Evie cast a glance at Nidia. She held her finger to her lips and motioned to the vanity. Eyes glued to the door, Evie made her way quietly backward as Nidia threw the covers back. She caught a glimpse of slim thighs bearing more bruises. What had Bull done to her? The latch rattled harder this time. Evie slid the drawer open as quietly as possible. It was empty. She looked up at Nidia and shook her head.

  “Elijah!” Nidia whispered his name like a curse. “Once I shot at him by accident, and he takes offense.”

  Evie couldn’t blame him, but right now she could really hate him. They needed that gun. The door crashed opened, slammed against the opposite wall. Nidia screamed for help. Evie just screamed and threw the bowl. It missed. Her gaze fell on the vanity stool.

  “What do you want, Casey?” Nidia demanded.

  Casey stepped into the room, his green eyes locked unnervingly on Evie. There was something familiar in his coloring and features.

  She swung the stool. He grabbed her arm, spinning her around, yanking her back against his chest. The odors of sweat and horse filled her lungs in a sharp inhalation. The man’s arm locked around her throat like a vise, trapping her within. Something cold, hard, and circular jabbed under her chin. A gun. A cold sweat sprang up along her skin. If she could’ve taken another breath she would’ve screamed again as he said as calmly as if he were ordering dinner, “Her.”

  Twenty-one

  HOMER BURST INTO the church. The front door crashed against the opposite wall.

  “Reverend!”

  Brad stopped on his way out the back door, sighed, and headed for the front. Homer had a flair for the dramatic. Someone’s horse throwing a shoe was as much a call to panic as a man being gunned down in the street.

  “Back here, Homer.”

  The man ran down the aisle, bumping the pews, spinning around, stumbling, getting back up, and running straight at him, his slicked-back hair falling in lank chunks about his face. Brad got the first chill down his spine.

  “Reverend, they’ve got your wife!”

  The second chill fanned outward, spreading along his nerves, freezing out emotion. Brad glanced out the window. The streets were inordinately quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. Homer skidded to a stop in front of him, breathing hard, sweat dripping from beneath his hat into his scraggly beard.

  God could do what he wanted with him, but Evie was off-limits.

  I won’t forgive this.

  He let the promise linger before asking Homer, “Who has my wife?”

  “I’m supposed to give you this.” Homer shoved a wrinkled-up piece of paper at him.

  Brad took the missive, the sense of inevitability that had been haunting him for the last few months settling in with a strange calm.

  “Doc sent for Cougar and Clint.”

  Cougar, Clint, and Asa were miles away, hunting a lead on Casey. They wouldn’t get back in time for anything but arranging the funeral.

  Homer watched avidly as Brad unfolded the note. No doubt, if he could read, he would be blurting out the contents. There was only one sentence.

  My family for yours.

  That was a lie. Casey believed in the ten times rule: whatever offense that was committed against him, he believed in repaying ten times over. Casey believed Brad had stolen his wife and child. That would be a blood debt. There was no way he intended Brad, Evie, or about eighteen townspeople to survive.

  “What’s it say?”

  Brad refolded the note. “He wants a trade.”

  “For what?”

  “Something he’s not going to get.”

  “You seem awfully calm.”

  “I’m a minister.”

  Homer frowned. “That mean you believe God will provide?”

  God or devil, it didn’t make any never mind to Brad. The bastard had his Evie. “Something like that.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Homer was all foolish heart but no skill. “I want you to warn everyone to stay inside and then I want you to get inside.”

  Where it was safe.

  “That’s it?”

  Brad clapped him on the shoulder and forced a smile. “Someone’s got to be around to tell the tale when this is done.”

  Knocking his hand aside, Homer drew himself up to his full height. “I ain’t no coward to be hiding out when some crazy son of a bitch comes to town picking on a God-fearing preacher man.”

  Except Casey wasn’t crazy, and he hadn’t come alone. On that Brad would bet money. “Never said you were, but this is old business.”

  “So?”

  So I’ll handle it.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll come up with something.”

  Homer narrowed his eyes and stepped back. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “That’s not part of my plan.”

  Forgetting where he was, Homer spat. Spittle splattered on the polished floor. Homer, who normally worried excessively about such offenses, didn’t even glance at it. “A lot of people don’t plan to end up dead.”

  “True, and as I don’t want any of them being my congregation, I need you to get to warning them.”

  “It ain’t right—”

  Brad let a little of his facade slip, let the anger and determination out. “Now, Homer.”

  Homer opened his mouth, closed it, and on a curse that made no allowances for where he was, stormed back down the aisle, muttering “It ain’t right” the whole way.

  Brad waited until the door shut, throwing the room into cool shadows. He turned and headed for the altar. The box would be where he’d left it. No one stole from the church. Outlaws tended to be a superstitious lot. They might kill in a church, but steal from God? Even the hardest bandit considered that a plague of bad luck not worth inviting in.

  The plain wooden box was heavy, and settled on the altar table with a soft thud. Inside, metal jostled against metal. Brad fished the key from his pocket then hesitated, his finger on the lid. Once he opened the box there was no going back. Evie’s face flashed in his mind, the imp in her grin, the fire of her anger, and now . . . He shook his head, pulled up cold. Hell, he didn’t know what her face looked like in fear, and she had to be so afraid, but he couldn’t picture it. Because until he’d come into her life, there’d been no reason for her to fear.

  This was unnecessary.

  He opened the box. The scent of gun oil and leather welcomed him back. His red-and-gold-embroidered leather vest lay on top. He picked it up, memories of his old life pouring over him—disjointed and violent, racing through his mind in an incoherent rush—almost as if he was recalling somebody else’s life, borrowing their experiences. He set it aside. The gun gleamed a dull charcoal color. He curled his fingers around the butt. The grip was warm and familiar.

  “So what are you going to do, Shadow?”

  So Jackson knew who he was. He’d suspected as much. Brad didn’t turn around, just lifted the gun belt clear and wrapped it around his hips. It didn’t matter that the others knew who he was. Not anymore. “I’m going to get my wife back.”

  “Casey didn’t come alone.”

  Brad turned. Jackson leaned against the wall with his familiar hip-shot nonchalance. His long blond hair flowed about the ammo strapped across his chest. In his arms he cradled a shotgun. Brad buckled the belt. “I di
dn’t figure he would.”

  “He’s got eight men up on the roofs, three tucked in the alley around the saloon, and four in with Evie.”

  Brad checked the revolver’s action. The cylinders spun as smoothly as ever. The hammer tripped at the slightest touch of the trigger. “Thanks.”

  “He seems pretty serious about killing you.”

  He glanced up. “That’ll work out well, then, since I aim to kill him.”

  “Ask me to help.”

  Brad snapped the loaded chamber closed. “No.”

  He wasn’t having any more deaths on his conscience.

  This is between you and me. Keep them out of it.

  Jackson swore. “Taking them on by yourself is suicide.”

  “Someone’s got to be around to make sure they spell my name right on the tombstone.”

  “Assuming there’s going to be enough left to bury.”

  “There’ll be enough.” Elijah’s deep baritone filled the church.

  “Turn around and head back where you came from, Elijah,” Brad ordered as Elijah approached the pulpit. “You’re not part of this anymore.”

  Elijah just planted his feet shoulder width and angled the barrels of the rifles he held in each hand back over his shoulders. “Not going to happen, Rev.”

  Rev . . . when he used to be Shadow. The shift between past and present gaped and then narrowed.

  “They’ve got Nidia, too.”

  Brad slid the revolver out of the right holster. “Where?”

  “The saloon.”

  Opening the chamber, he loaded the bullets. “What the hell was Evie doing at the saloon?”

  “Paying a social call on Nidia.”

  Shit. He snapped the chamber closed, returning the Colt to the holster before repeating the procedure with the other. “Why?”

  “According to Evie, because it was her debt,” Jackson interjected, coming forward.

  “How do you know?”

  “Overheard it while walking down the hall.”

  “You were eavesdropping at Nidia’s door?” Elijah asked, a growl in his drawl.

  Jackson raised an eyebrow. “That would be underhanded.”

  “And we all know you wouldn’t do anything underhanded,” Brad murmured, his eyes drawn to the vest again.

  “Unless it was the quickest way to get to his goal,” Elijah countered.

  “I’m hurt.”

  Jackson didn’t look hurt; he looked relaxed, if one discounted the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the rifle stock.

  “More likely upset at being found out,” Elijah scoffed, before calmly asking, “So what’s the plan, Rev?”

  “Haven’t gotten much past killing Casey and getting Evie back.”

  “Straightforward and to the point.” Jackson nodded. “I like it.”

  “Would that be sarcasm?”

  Jackson shrugged. “Yes. You need a better plan.”

  “I’ll work on it on the way.” Brad picked up the leather vest. The last time he’d worn this he’d been a desperate man, no home, no family, a posse on his tail, and his only future a hangman’s noose. He’d “died” at the hands of the McKinnelys and been reborn—risen from the grave to create the illusion of belonging, adding to it until it was the illusion that had substance and his old life that wavered with dreamlike inconsistency.

  God’s little joke.

  He glanced at the cross on the back wall. Don’t know how you’ve kept that mean streak so secret for so long.

  Brad looked around the small church with its polished pews, smooth floors, and the one stained-glass pane in the arched window above the front door. The pane that had been presented to him last Christmas from the parishioners. An outrageous expense for this small town. Given to him because they thought the simple things he did mattered. Because they were grateful. Because they thought, with him, they could build something. His fingers clenched on the wooden lid, wanting to throw the box and shatter the mockery he’d made of their belief. Evie’s belief. Son of a bitch, Evie’s belief.

  You were born nothing, and you’ll die nothing.

  His father’s voice. His father’s curse. Every Sunday, week after week, from his earliest memory he’d stood before the pulpit and, week after week, he’d been made to apologize for his existence before his father’s congregation. Made to atone for the circumstances of his birth with his blood and his humiliation until the thought of church and God put puke in his throat. Yet this pulpit had been his the last eighteen months. This town his home. These people his family. And Evie . . . he closed his eyes and took a breath. With all her outrageous ways, she was this town’s smile. And though he’d never seen it coming, she had also become his.

  Can you deliver?

  His lips tugged in wry remembrance at the challenge. Yeah. He could. He picked up the vest. He might not be good for much, but there was one thing at which he was damn near expert. He could steal anything. He could steal back his smile.

  “No.” Elijah took the distinctive garment out of his hands and put it back in the box. His forest green gaze didn’t flinch from the challenge in Brad’s. “Shadow is dead.”

  Jackson came up on his other side and handed him his black preacher’s coat, his gaze just as calm, just as resolved. It was easy to see why the McKinnelys depended on him in a fight. “But the Reverend’s got some ass to kick.”

  BRAD WASN’T CRAWLING. If Casey’d hoped to break Brad with threats, he was doomed to disappointment. Evie stood with her face shoved against the window overlooking the street and felt a leap of hope, a trill of dread. Brad was a far cry from crawling. He walked down the street like he owned it, each long stride the flowing, measured approach of a predator intent on the kill. She wished she could see his face, find the man she’d married amidst this horror, but she couldn’t. His black hat was angled over his face, hiding his expression from view, his black coat blowing back from the black cotton of his pants. The late morning sun reflected off the belt strapped low on his lean hips. Off the guns tied low on his powerful thighs. Off the guns he wore so naturally.

  I wasn’t always a preacher.

  Oh damn. She could believe that now. It all made sense. The predatory grace in his walk. His skill with cards. His ease with guns. His scars. He’d just failed to mention what he had been before. Whatever it had been, it had been violent. And, from the level of tension escalating in the room, he’d been good at it.

  The gun under her chin pushed her face up as the man holding her called over his shoulder. “Shadow’s coming.”

  Shadow, not Brad. There was only one Shadow. Evie blinked the tears from her eyes. He was dead.

  Brad stopped just short of the saloon. As if he felt her presence, he looked up. To a stranger, his expression might have been impassive, but to anyone who knew him, the set of his shoulders signaled anger. Evie knew him. So did the man holding her.

  “And he looks pissed, Bart.”

  Casey came over, his chest pressing against her shoulder.

  “More than pissed, Bart. I’d even say he was downright desperate.”

  They didn’t know Brad at all. Evie smiled, the twist of muscles feeling grotesquely awkward as it occurred against the window. Brad didn’t get desperate. He planned, he arranged, and he made things happen. The way he wanted. A bit more hope seeped past her panic. Reverend or Shadow, she knew the man behind the names. And he was one to believe in. Wedging her bound hands up between her body and the glass, she pressed one flat, first finger and thumb drawn into a circle, just wanting Brad to know she was all right.

  At first there was no response, but then he smiled that beautiful smile that always made her heart skip a beat. “You’re not where I left you, Evie darling.”

  The words were muffled and distorted through the glass and she had to read his lips to fill in the gaps left by distance, but she understood. And, no she wasn’t, but she wished she were.

  “What the hell did he say?” Bart growled.

  “Open the window and find ou
t,” Casey ordered, yanking her out of Bart’s hold and against him as he stepped back.

  The window stuck. Bart pounded it open. Evie winced with every blow. Brad waited in the street, watching. From where she sat on the bed, Nidia watched with the same tense anticipation.

  “Nice of you to stop by, Reverend,” Casey called.

  “It’s a nice day for a walk. It was no never mind to stop by and pay a visit.”

  “I was expecting you to bring company.”

  “Your would-be guests weren’t feeling sociable.”

  “The point was for you to make them want to be.”

  Brad pulled his coat back from his gun and rested his right hand on his hip. He looked so incredibly masculine right then, so dangerous, so deadly, and so absolutely exposed, standing to the side of the street.

  “My positive wasn’t able to overcome your negative.” He pulled his coat back from his other gun, resting that hand on his hip as well, in a blatant challenge. “Truth is, Casey, you’re a damn unlikable sort.”

  “Isn’t that a bit of the pot calling the kettle black?”

  “Why don’t you come down and we’ll discuss it?”

  “Just the two of us?”

  “Man to man.”

  From behind someone muttered, “Hot damn. We’re finally going to find out who’s faster, Casey or Shadow.”

  Casey pushed Evie forward until her face once again was pressed up against the window. Shielding him from any possible shot from below, while Brad just stood there exposed. Evie wanted to swat him and order him to get under cover.

  “It’s a date,” Casey hollered down.

  Brad tipped his hat back; his eyes caught the sun and reflected bright blue. “You hold on, Evie darling, and I’ll be right with you.”