Providence (The Midnight Gang #2)

Chapter 1

“Ten paces. I’ll count it out.”

I nod once, my fingers fumbling to place my gun in my right hand as the gruff voice at my back propels me forward. “One.”

I feel him take a corresponding step, his impossibly large presence still covering me in his shadow. The evening sun casting it out in front of me as if to help guide my path. “Two.”

The dry grass prickles my bare feet, a reminder that though the day had been warm, the plush green of summer is fading away. As are the endless, carefree days it offers. “Three.”

I should have been back earlier. I was supposed to be, but I had been having too much fun—too distracted by all the things I wanted to do rather than what I ought to be doing. “Four.”

On the next step, the last of the shadow from the man behind me slips away, my own breaking free. So much smaller than his, yet the darkness emanating from me is all I can see as I keep my eyes on the ground. “Five.”

My heart is racing, my mouth too dry and my palms too sweaty as I try to adjust my grip on the pistol that feels too big for my palm. “Six.”

I can’t remember precisely what I’m supposed to do. He’s so far away already. “Seven.”

What if I get it wrong? “Eight.”

Do I get to try again? “Nine.”

Before he can give the final word, I turn, pivoting on my heel. My gun is already raised, my finger on the trigger before I’ve even completed the motion. “Bang.”

The man pitches forward, back still to me as he clutches his chest in indication that, somehow, my aim was true. When I see that his gun still hangs useless at his side, I grin broadly. “Gotcha!”

My opponent’s expression shifts once he turns to me, his pained grimace immediately giving way to a smile that my mama always says is identical to my own. “That so?” His eyes narrow. “Come here, you little cheat.”

My father sprints toward me, and I let out a holler in surprise, my carved wooden pistol falling to the dirt eighteen paces away from where he drops his as I make a run for it. My rapid footfalls are barely audible over the sound of his laughter.

“Run, Aiden!” A raised voice that still manages to sound soft calls out from the safety of the farmhouse front porch, her arms outstretched to welcome me as she watches us with a smile. “Don’t look back! Run!”

I try to go faster, beelining straight for my mama, but I’m laughing too, so hard that I can hardly breathe through that suspended weightless moment. That one where you are still able to experience the frantic hope of evading an unavoidable fate.

I’m mere inches from sanctuary when I trip over nothing but myself. My long legs—still unfamiliar to me after my most recent growth spurt—go out from beneath me, sending me hurtling toward the ground before a strong arm around my middle pitches me sideways into a solid chest.

My father lets out a deep oof as he connects with the ground and absorbs the worst of our short fall, but he recovers quickly, already laughing again by the time I’m struggling back up. “Thought you wanted to be a cowboy,” he teases as I untangle myself. “Seem more like a newborn calf to me.”

I huff, brushing off the white chaps and the vest my mama made me and glaring up at him as he also gets to his feet. “I’ll be a cowboy. There’ll be stories about me. Just you wait.”

My father arches an eyebrow at me, bending and picking up his displaced hat before knocking it against his pant leg to clear off the dust. Without it in its usual place on his head, it’s easier to see how tan he is from spending long days working in the sun, his auburn hair shaggy and his gray-streaked beard scruffy with the demands of harvest season.

The fields take up all his free time for trivial things, such as a haircut or a shave.

Guilt swirls in my gut as I think about how tired he looks, now that some of the excitement from our game has faded.

Another reminder that I should have been here.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “For not coming back when I was supposed to.”

“What about for cheatin’?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he considers me. “You sorry for that, too?”

“I didn’t mean to,” I protest, my frown deepening as I avoid his gaze. “I was just—I couldn’t remember if it was on ten or after. And I…I didn’t want you to win.”

He sighs, and I look up in time to see him give the ends of his hair a tug before he crouches, his blue eyes meeting my brown.

The only thing about me that is unmistakably my mother instead of him.

“If you have to cheat me to beat me, then I’ve already won,” he says.

“You want to be one of them cowboys in the paper? You gotta act like one. You gotta work hard. And you gotta be honorable. Right?”

“S’pose so,” I reply, not wanting to admit the main appeal I see in the wild tales that make their way here from out west is not that they are honorable, it’s that they are free.

No places to be. No chores. No rules.

“Aiden.” My father’s voice turns sharp as if he can hear my wandering thoughts. “Son, there are a lot of things you can be in this life, but the most important is a good man. You understand?”

I nod quickly. “Yes, sir.”

His mouth presses into a firm line but then he lays his hand on my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “All right, then.”

He heads for the porch where my mama is waiting, taking the same path I’d been on, but his steady strides somehow seem to be getting him there just as fast as my sprint.

“That’s it?” I call after him. “Ain’t I in trouble?”

He looks back at me, eyes dancing with amusement. “You want to be?”

“No, sir.”

“You planning to shirk your responsibilities again?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I’ll take you at your word, cowboy.” He meets my eyes, man to man. A good man to a boy trying to learn to be one. “Don’t let me down.”

I straighten, lifting my chin and feeling every bit of the weight that he undoubtedly intended with that statement settling on my shoulders.

Still, I’m smiling again as I watch him reach my mama, wrap his arms around her, and give her a spin before placing her feet back on the solid porch boards.

When he also places his hat on her head and bends to put his mouth on hers, she beams.

“Can’t you do that in private?” I mutter, rolling my eyes as I drag my feet up the stairs.

My protests only grow louder when my mama grabs for me once I get to the top, tucking me into her side so that I’m enveloped by the soft fabric of her dress, the gentle waves of her long black hair, the sweet smell of whatever she’s been baking. Apples? Cinnamon? Pie.

My stomach growls and she chuckles, dropping a kiss on the crown of my head. Easier for her than it’s been in the past since now I’m up to her shoulder, and I wonder how many summers it’ll be before I’m as tall as her. Taller, even.

“Go on inside and get washed up,” she says, nudging me toward the door, and I’m so absorbed by the aroma that’s drifting from the kitchen that I almost don’t notice the way my father has gone still beside us.

“Pa?” I look up at his face, the hard lines that are rarely ever there making an appearance as he stares at a figure approaching in the distance.

“You expecting anyone?” he asks, directing the question at my mother and me. We both shake our heads, and he takes a step toward the stairs, keeping his eyes on the visitor.

“Go on inside,” he says, repeating my mother’s words, but they sound completely different when my father is reaching for the pistol at his belt, the real one this time, instead of the wooden toy lying discarded in the yard. “Lock the door.”

Later, I would remember having that sensation again. That suspended weightless moment where you are still able to experience the frantic hope of evading an unavoidable fate.

I would remember the way I tried to stay in that moment. To hide there. Even as my mother held my face and whispered, “Run, Aiden. Don’t look back.”