Page 17 of Deacon

A week later, I decide not to go into town after morning chores. It’s Sunday, and the ranch is quiet. I wake up feeling frustrated. I’ve got plenty going on with the land to the north-west of Ryder Ranch. I’ve seen a few friends about it this week, one of them being my lawyer.

Truthfully, I got a glimpse of something good. Now, I’m bored with everything else. I’m dying for a glimpse of Freya.

I think, for the first time in my life, I’ll go to church. I won’t go inside—that’s a step too far—but I’ll watch her walk in. When I realize that, it starts to sink in that this is real, and I’m ready to do some desperate things.

CHAPTER FOUR

DEACON

I go to church here and there. Sometimes, I just sit in my truck and watch her from the parking lot. At first, she gets dropped off by her brother. I’ve seen him around town—Andy pointed both brothers out to me one day. One is taller, dark-haired, and the other is blond with vacant eyes. He’s the one who drives her to work and church.

After a while, Tracy starts going with her. Not every time, but once or twice a month. There’s something special about this girl. Tracy sure as shit isn’t religious, but here she is, taking time out of her Sunday for Freya.

I’m distracted, the closer we get to spring. It’s a hard season at Ryder Ranch, and I’m up working from dawn to dusk. Pretty soon, I don’t have time to go into town as often as I’d like, but I still make sure that when I do, I drive by the café and see her through the window.

It’s a month and a half after I first saw her when something puts the brakes on my slow plan to approach her in a normal manner. I’m up half the night with one of my mares, trying to birth a foal.

Andy takes over around three, and I get a few hours of sleep in, waking to find the mare and foal are alright and the worst is over.Andy goes back to his house, and I get in my truck to pick up supplies in South Platte, the town a few hours east.

It’s cold, but I feel a hint of spring. It takes me a while to get through the store, and I’m feeling restless.

I’ve been restless since the day I saw Freya. It’s making me feel my oats a lot more than usual, like I’ve got a whole lot of something with nowhere for it to go. So, I decide it can’t hurt to drive down to West Lancaster. I need to get out of my head, and I’ve got friends in the area.

The Brass Terrier sits on a street corner, a neon sign signaling it’s open. I park around the back and enter through the side door. It comes out beneath the stairs, the L-shaped bar to my left and an open area of round tables to my right. I sink down at the bar, adjusting the seat so I can fit my legs in.

The door above my head opens. Boots clatter down the stairs. A tall, slender figure appears on the other side of the bar. He wears a dark button-up, black hair brushed back over his head. His moss green eyes are always distracted, like he’s a million miles away.

“Bit early for you, Ryder,” he says.

He’s got a low unnerving voice, but everything about Jack Russell is unnerving, just a little too smooth. He leans his elbows on the counter, exposing the necklace hanging under his shirt collar—a silver terrier.

“Just roaming,” I say. “Got any bourbon?”

“It’s a bar, Ryder,” he says. “I’ve got everything.”

“Hit me with it.”

He obliges, shoving the glass toward me. “You’ve got a girl.”

I frown, leaning back. “Why would you think that?”

He crosses his arms. “It’s my job to know things,” he says. “You’re tripping after that Hatfield girl.”

My stomach sinks. “Who told you that?”

“You’re not hiding it,” he says. “Word of advice—keep your enemies close, preferably in your bed, because the Hatfields are going to fuck you over before the winter is out.”

I take a beat, making sure my next words are careful. Jack knows everything about everyone. He’s tight-lipped most of the time, reluctant to spill secrets he can use as currency, so it means something that he’s volunteering information.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

His eyes narrow. “I want your white horse,” he says. “And when the time comes, I’ll repay the favor.”

That gives me pause. A favor from Jack Russell is worth thousands, maybe millions.

“Are you talking about the stallion I bought from Texas last year?” I ask.

“Apocalypse In Exile,” he says. “Yes, I want him.”

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