Abe turns away, but not before I catch the sharp edge of darkness descend across his weathered features. He wanders to my workstation, bending at the waist to look across my tools and pieces of hide ready for various projects.

“My daddy … he wasn’t a pious man, you could say. He was gone much of the time. Gambled away most of the livestock and horses, all the good machinery. Even that saddle,” Abe says with a nod toward it. He pivots to face me, the WUTA edge beveler gripped loosely in his hand. He tips the shining silver toward the saddle before testing the sharpness against the pad of his thumb. “It took me some time to track it down. And a bit of effort to get it back.”

He flashes me a brief smile, one I return as a faint echo of what I see.

“A sentimental piece, then,” I reply, blinking away the images of my own father that flick through my mind. My focus shifts back to the leather as I lift the flaps to examine the tears and scuffs to the billet straps. “The repairs will take a little time. You said on the phone that you wanted a refresh on the design, but is there anything new you want added to it?”

Abe takes a step closer. He taps a finger to his chin, as though my question sparked an idea. “Yes, actually. I do.”

Something about him sets off the alarm in my mind. Maybe it’s his wolfish smile. He seems like a man who has secrets that want to claw their way free. Or maybe it’s the way his grip tenses a fraction around the edger, like he’s ready to make a tool into a weapon. It could be that easy if he’s anything like me. He could lunge forward in a blink of movement, drive it into my chest, maybe spear me in the neck. Is that what he’s thinking?

But a heartbeat later he sets down the tool with a pleasant smile, and I’m right back to wondering if my vigilance is becoming paranoia.

I clear my throat and push my stool away from the saddle. The caster wheels squeak in protest as I roll toward the nearest worktop where a pad of paper rests. “Great,” I say, clearing my throat as though that will cleanse my thoughts. “Let me just grab a pen so I can take down exactly what you want.”

I turn my back on Abe, and two things happen in the same instant.

His boot scuffs against the floor as he takes a step closer to me.

And the brass bell rings over the door.

“Hey, Budget Batman. If you’re not ready to go, I’ll drive you to Portsmouth and throw you in the batch oven myself,” Lark chimes as I stand, pivoting so I can see both the door and Abe. But he’s not where I thought he would be. I swore I heard him closer, but he’s on the other side of the saddle, where he watches Lark enter the work area. She stops abruptly when she spots him. “Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were with a client.”

Before I can reassure her, Abe strides forward, removing his hat as he extends a hand in greeting. “Afternoon, ma’am. It’s no interruption. I was due in tomorrow, but I was close by and thought I might stop in. The name’s Abe.”

Lark beams a smile as she accepts his handshake. “I’m Lark,” she says. I catch myself hoping she’ll expand on how we know each other, but she doesn’t. Instead, she lets Abe’s hand go and nods toward the saddle next to me. “You’re a rider?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Me too. A little, anyway. It’s more my sister’s thing. Not Western though—I did a bit of hunter/jumper until I picked up a guitar, and that was that.”

Lark flashes Abe a warm grin, and though he returns it, the smile doesn’t meet his eyes quite right. The light seems off, as though it reflects at the wrong angle.

I tap my pen on the table and clear my throat. “So Abe, you said you wanted an addition to the design …?” I ask as I settle back onto my stool and flip to a fresh page in my notebook.

“I do, yes.” His faint smile fades as he casts his eyes across the cantle of the saddle. “Here. I’d like some scrollwork script. ‘Nearer, my God, to thee.’”

I’m writing it down as Lark’s singing voice cuts me short:

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,

darkness be over me, my rest a stone

My pen stops partway through writing God. I turn and look at Lark, her expression peaceful as the melody tumbles from her lips:

yet in my dreams I’d be

nearer, my God, to thee;

nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee …

Lark’s voice fades away. The instrumental music in the background is the only sound left, but it feels cold and lifeless.

“Sorry,” Lark says. It’s the first shy smile I’ve ever seen play across her lips, and I want to capture it and keep it somewhere safe. “The music just comes out sometimes.”

“No,” Abe says. He takes a step closer to Lark as my back stiffens. “It was lovely. One of my favorites.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re a believer?”

The luster dulls in Lark’s smile when she drops her gaze to the saddle. Her fingers coast across the embossed roses, the faded design lost to time. “My dad was. We all were, I guess. But I’m not anymore.”

I pull my attention away from Lark and finish writing the lyric Abe requested.

“The one who believes in me will live,” Abe says. “John 11:25. We are meant to hold on to our faith in the absence of proof. The Lord rewards our perseverance.”

I’m turning on the stool, about to interject, with what, I don’t know. But as I pivot, I catch sight of Lark staring unwaveringly at Abe.

“I believe that proof can be found in perseverance,” Lark says, her voice firm but not unkind. “Just not the proof you’re hoping for.”

Abe is about to say something further when I rise. “I think I’ve got what I need, thank you, Abe. If you think of anything else you’d like added or changed, please let me know. Now you’ll have to excuse us.” I grab my jacket from where it rests on the back of a nearby chair and shrug it on. I offer a hand to Lark, and I’m surprised when she takes it. “We have an appointment to get to, but I’ll be happy to keep our time tomorrow if you want to chat through other ideas.”

Abe nods once. “No need. I think you have the details.”

I turn off the music, and Abe tips the brim of his hat to us both before he turns away. He whistles Lark’s song as he strides through the shop.

A moment later, the bell rings over the door, and Abe is gone.

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ASCEND

Lark

I lead the way out the door of Lachlan’s shop just as a FedEx truck rolls to a halt along the curb. The driver waves at us. Lachlan salutes him, then turns to me.

“He’s really leaving it to the last minute,” Lachlan says as he checks his watch, frowning when he realizes it’s already after eight p.m. He passes me the keys to the Charger. “I’ve got a couple of boxes to put inside. Go ahead and warm it up, yeah? I’ll be there in a minute.”

I head to the car and slip into the driver’s seat. I have to stretch my legs to depress the clutch before I key the engine. It roars to life. The faded lights on the old dash glow a ghostly blue. The new stereo comes on.

But it’s not music that fills the car.

“I’m not done with you yet,” a male voice coos through the speakers.

“What the fuck?”

I look toward Lachlan as the narration plays on, but he’s busy picking up boxes and setting them down just inside the door.

“Do you want me to stop, love?”

“Holy shit.” A sense of glee washes through my veins as I sit up straighter and turn the dial on the volume.

“If you want me to fill your ass, you have to say it.”

I whip out my phone and open my last conversation with Sloane.

I get it now.

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