Well, he thought — the headgate behind him, the river before him — I'm holding.
Come Sunday.
Father Anselmo prayed long that night — longer than usual, the beads moving slow through his fingers.
The church — adobe, cool, the candles fluttering — held him like hands. Sixty years old. Forty of them here. He'd baptized — married — buried — generations. He knew every soul in Paloma the way he knew his own sins: thoroughly, and with love.
For Reed, he prayed — the soldier, the limp, the good man carrying too much.
For Ned — the boy, orphan, brave beyond his years.
For Tomas — stubborn, old, the acequia's keeper.
For Harriet — ah, Harriet. The widow. The ledger. He knew — not all, but enough. Confession had taught him much. Silence had taught him more.
And — the beads pausing — for Thorne.
Even Thorne, Lord. Especially Thorne. For the man is drowning, and drowning men clutch at anything.
Forgive us, he prayed — the candles, the dark — our anger. Our fear. Give us —
The door creaked. Miss Delgado — twenty-four, the schoolteacher — slipped in. Knelt. Prayed beside him — silent, fierce.
Later — the candles low — she whispered: "Father? Will it be — all right?"
He — looking at her, the young, the brave — chose honesty.
"I don't know, child." A beat. "But — " He gestured — the crucifix, the shadows. "We are not alone. Remember that."
"Even against thirty men?"
"Even against thirty men." He smiled — tired, certain. "God counts differently, my dear. One Harriet — " He paused. "One Harriet is worth a regiment."
She laughed — wet, startled — and they prayed on. Together. While outside, the fires burned on the bluff, and the Rio Seco sang past the church, indifferent and holy.
Amen, Father Anselmo thought — the beads still, the night deep.
Amen.
He'd baptized Reed's Mara — twenty-five years back, the water cold, the baby screaming. He'd married them — Reed and Mara, '60, the church full. He'd buried — Eben, then Mara. Both. The earth hard. His hands older each time.
The church itself — adobe, the bell from Mexico, older than the territory — had stood through droughts, raids, everything. Anselmo — looking at the crucifix, the shadows long — thought it would stand through this.
Men, he thought — not unkindly. Men pass. Stone — and water — remain.
His own doubts — rare, night-time things — visited. Was prayer enough? Should he stand at the river Sunday, cassock and all?
Yes, he decided — the beads still. He would stand. Not with a gun. With God. Someone should represent — mercy.
For Thorne, too. Especially Thorne. The man was lost — Anselmo could smell it, the way you smell rain. Lost men do terrible things. Found men — sometimes — do beautiful ones.
Lord, he prayed — the candles guttering — find him. Before it's too late.
Outside — the bluff fires, the river's song — the night held its breath.
And Father Anselmo — sixty, tired, certain — kept his watch. As priests do. As shepherds do.
Till morning.
The bell — cast in Mexico, older than everyone — had called generations. Anselmo — young priest, new then, thirty years back — had been deafened his first Sunday. Joyfully.
He'd come — replacing old Padre Miguel — nervous, earnest. The village — testing him, gently — had found him worthy. Slowly. Kindly.
Now — sixty, the bell rope worn — he was the institution. Children he'd baptized had grandchildren. Dust to dust — he'd spoken it hundreds of times. It never got easier. Thank God.
He thought about Thorne — the mill town, the men. Did Copper Flats have a priest? Anselmo doubted. Thorne didn't strike him as a church man. Pity. Every man needs — someone — to hear him.
Lord, he prayed — rising, stiff — give me words for Sunday. Give them courage. Give him — Thorne — a way back.
The candles — out, one by one. The dark — holy, complete.
Anselmo — locking the church, the key heavy — walked home slow. Tomorrow — whatever it brought.
God was already there.
Chapter 6 — Ned
Ned's parents had died of the fever in '76 — three days apart, the house quarantined, the boy fourteen and alone.
Reed had found him — sitting on the porch, waiting for people who weren't coming back.
"Come on, son," Reed had said — rough, the war in his voice. "Supper's getting cold."
That was three years ago. Now Ned was seventeen, and the ranch was his home, and Reed was — well.
Everything.
Friday night — the fires on the bluff, the fear in the village — Ned couldn't sleep. He crept to the porch — and found Reed there, the rifle across his knees, watching the dark.
"Mr. Dawson?"
"Can't sleep either, huh?" Reed shifted — made room. "Sit."
They sat — the night, the river murmuring, the fires winking.
"Mr. Dawson?" Ned's voice was small. "If — if something happens — "
"Nothing's going to happen."
"But if — "
Reed — sighing, the soldier yielding to the father — said: "Then you go to Harriet. She'll — " He paused. "She'll look after you."
"I don't want Harriet." Ned's voice broke. "I want — "
"I know, son." Reed's arm went around the boy — awkward, fierce. "I know."
They sat in silence — the night, the weight.
"Mr. Dawson?" Ned whispered. "Are you scared?"
Reed — forty-six, Antietam, the limp — was quiet for a long moment.
"Yes," he said finally — honest. "I'm scared, Ned."
"Really?"