Chapter Eight
Gabriel
“Preacher Gabriel?”
I turn, and instantly, I freeze. It’s Paul Somerset, Delilah’s brother, and my first thought is that he’s here to, I don’t know, shoot me or some shit after what happened last night.
I glance around, my jaw clenching. I’ve just given another sermon under my tent, and there are still plenty of people milling around. Witnesses, I think. Hopefully enough to dissuade brother Somerset from revenge blowing my goddamn head off.
“Paul,” I smile, my eyes darting over him and trying to spot the concealed weapon under his clothes. “What can I do for you?”
But he just smiles back. “I just wanted to say, that was a real powerful sermon, Mr. Marsden.”
I let the breath that I’ve been holding out slowly and smile back. “Well, thanks, Paul. I appreciate it.” Today was a real payday of a sermon that I’ve worked hard on. This one involves an almost entirely bullshit story about Jesus repainting God’s temple with paint he purchased through the generosity of his followers.
…I know, I know, I’m a horrible person. Thankfully, the powers that be created whiskey to soothe an aching soul.
Problem is, they also created Delilah Somerset, who tastes sweeter and hits strong, and lasts a whole hell of a lot longer than any whiskey I’ve ever had. Sweet, tempting, insidiously corrupting in a way she doesn’t even understand Delilah Somerset. Delilah who had my heart racing faster than it’s ever raced, and my very soul aching for her in a way no woman has ever done to me. Not by a long, long country fucking mile.
I know I went too far last night. I’d had a little to drink, and I was trying to tease her, or see how far she’d last with me being, well, me before she ran screaming. And yet, she stayed. And the heat built, and the temptation overtook me—overtook took us both, I think.
Screwing around with her was a mistake. Kissing her was dangerous. And I know better.
“Well, Mr. Marsden, I do confess, that’s not the only reason I wanted to speak with you today.”
Shit. My eyes dart over his clothes again, looking for a telltale gun bulge or like a fucking sword or something. But again, Paul just smiles and spreads his hands wide.
“As you know, sir, I’ve been called much like yourself by a higher power to spread His word amongst the flock. I know you’re here now, and we’re all so thankful for that. But, yours is traveling ministry, and soon enough—”
“Sunday,” I interject. A week, that’s how long you stay in one place—the Gospel of Jasper, verse two. After that, suspicions arise, and the mystery of a traveling preacher turns into the pestilence of an outsider camping out on the edge of town taking people’s money.
“Right, well, after Sunday, Canaan will once again be left without a shepherd,” Paul continues. “Now I personally would like to change that. I believe I’ve been put on this earth for the same reasons you’ve been, sir.”
Let’s hope not, for your sake, pal.
Paul takes a heavy breath. “Mr. Marsden?”
“Yes, Paul?” I smile flatly.
“I’d like to build a church, right here in Canaan.”
“Well, Paul, I think that’s a lovely idea,” I say flatly. My stomach is grumbling, and I’m exhausted after staying up all night with my every thought circling around Delilah.
“Thank you, preacher, that means a lot.”
“Well,” I smile. “Best of luck to you, Pau—”
“I’ve been raising funds, actually.”
Ahhh, there it is. I sigh, but I keep smiling at him, even though it’s clear where this is going.
“The good people of Canaan have contributed mightily to the fund, but I was hoping I might implore you and your Godly charity—”
“You know what, Paul?” I smile. “Let me pray on it, okay?”
That’s my nice way of saying “fuck no and fuck off.” But my charming smile seems to give Paul the opposite idea.
“Oh, Lordy, preacher, that would… well, gee,” he gushes. “That would be a miracle!”