Page 7 of Turn That River Red

Reverend Gunner makes a hoarse noise in the back of his throat, and I immediately regret saying anything. But PastorEcheverría only smiles gently and says, “Then this must be exceptionally difficult for you. Would you like to pray about it?”

I wipe the last of my tears away and fold up the handkerchief, aware of Reverend Gunner watching us. “Pastor Echeverría, I appreciate?—”

“Call me Ambrose.”

I immediately look over at Reverend Gunner again, heart pounding. I know he won’t approve of such a thing, but there’s something about the way Pastor Echeverría—Ambrose—is staring at me, eyes dark and burning, that makes me want to disobey Reverend Gunner’s wishes.

Ambrose notices my hesitation and glances back at Reverend Gunner. “I know it’s informal,” he says. “But I prefer to eschew formality in my ministry. Only the Lord Jesus Christ requires a title.”

Reverend Gunner quirks his mouth into a smile. “I appreciate that,” he says. “One outsider to another.”

Ambrose turns back to me, smiling again. There’s something sharkish about his smile, like his mouth is almost too big for his face. Like he might devour me whole. “What do you say, Mercy? Allow me to pray with you?”

“I think you’d benefit,” Reverend Gunner says. “This is a holy man, Mercy. I can see God’s fire in him.”

I swallow, my throat dry. Ambrose waits, his face impossible to read. But I don’t think he looks at me the way a pastor is meant to look at their flock.

It’s not exactly how Reverend Gunner looks at me in our marriage bed, but it’s close.

“Of course, it’s your choice,” Ambrose says. “But it seems you are in need of a little prayer?—“

“I am.” I flick my gaze over to Reverend Gunner one last time, who gives me another encouraging nod. If he approves of this man, this traveling preacher, there must be something holyabout him. Some strength that can help defeat the evil trying to creep its way into our congregation.

Then I focus on Ambrose again. His face is sharp and angular, his nose slightly hooked, his lips full. There’s something wild about him.

Fire and brimstone.

“Then it would be my honor.” His eyes glitter. “Even if I can’t help the entire congregation, at least I know I helped you, Mercy Gunner.”

Hearing my full name in the dark rasp of his voice makes the hairs on my skin stand up.

“Thank you.” It barely comes out a whisper.

He nods toward a nearby chair.

“Sit,” he says, a touch of a command to it. My skin prickles again.

I sit, and he walks over to me.

“Bow your head.”

I do. Ambrose spreads his palms against the top of my hair, his touch warm. I breathe in shakily, trying to fix my gaze away from where it wants to go—which is his groin. It’s nearly eye level, and my thoughts curdle at what might be tucked behind those dark pants.

“Lord Father,” Ambrose intones, his fingers sinking into my hair. “Please help ease this woman’s suffering in this time of darkness. Help guide her journey on the path through her grief, and help her find solace in your vast and holy light.”

I flutter my eyes closed, giving myself over to the prayer. When Reverend Gunner prays with me, he doesn’t touch me. Touching is for something else.

“Heavenly Father,” Ambrose continues, his voice intensifying. “Lord of All. Show this woman that death is only the beginning. That there is nothing to fear from the end, for all those who reject the devil will resurrect in the coming End of Days.”

Ambrose’s hands seem to tighten against my head, and something shifts as he slips into the Aaronic blessing:

“‘The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make his face to shine upon thee and be gracious to thee; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee and give thee peace.’”

Warmth washes through me, starting in my core and spreading out through my limbs. Slowly, Ambrose draws his hands away, and I lift my head to meet his gaze.

It’s so black, so intense, I nearly have to turn away.

“Amen,” I say shakily.

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