Chapter 26 Saint
Saint
The scar on my hip itches like it knows something’s wrong.
It’s been healing well enough, pink and tender instead of angry red, but I still catch myself absently scratching at the edges of the brand through my pants. A permanent reminder etched into my skin. Lately, it’s starting to feel more like a bull’s-eye than a brand.
The house is quiet this morning. Calder’s been gone since sunrise, handling ranch business with his brothers that he was vague about.
He’s been elusive about a lot of things lately, disappearing for hours, holding hushed conversations on the porch when he thinks I can’t hear.
Something’s brewing, and he doesn’t want me involved. I’ve been up since he left.
I move to the kitchen window, looking out at the mountains.
The sky hangs heavy with clouds, threatening rain, matching my mood.
The ceremony is coming. The one Elena warned me about.
The “consummation” that makes my stomach twist into knots.
The one that hopefully spells the end of Roman’s tyranny.
A dark part of my soul revels in that thought, and I shake my head, then fold my hands.
No. I won’t let the darkness in this family swallow me whole. I’ll be the light.
The sound of tires on gravel cuts through the silence and my prayer.
I tense, moving away from the window. Calder has been texting before he comes home.
And that engine doesn’t sound like his truck—rougher, louder.
It hits me in a flash . . . home. I am starting to think of this place as my home.
I don’t know if that makes my stomach turn or not.
I peer carefully around the edge of the curtain.
A truck I don’t recognize pulls to a stop, dust settling around it.
The driver’s door swings open, and a man climbs out.
I try to think if I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place him.
He’s broader than Calder but shorter, with a sheepskin coat despite the mild weather.
My pulse picks up. It seems like every time someone comes over, bad things happen.
And judging by the unsteady way he walks toward the house, he’s been drinking.
I step back, mind racing. I could hide, but would he believe a non-answer and go away?
A heavy knock on the door makes the decision for me.
“Anyone home?” The man’s voice is gruff, slurred around the edges. “Bishop? Need to talk to you.”
I take a deep breath. I know that voice. From the night at my house. The night everything changed.
Shit. Does that mean he works with Calder? Adrenaline spikes through me, but I’m a Bishop now too, whether I like it or not. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my time here, it’s that showing fear only makes things worse.
I open the door just enough to see through, keeping my body behind it as a shield. Hoping . . . maybe stupidly, that the Bishop name can be used in a beneficial way for me.
“Sir.” I keep my voice steady, cooler than I feel. “Calder’s not here.”
His eyes narrow, something shifting in his expression that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.
“Well, if it isn’t the preacher’s daughter herself.” He leans against the doorframe, too close, the smell of whiskey wafting from him. “All decked out as a Bishop now. I’m Wayne, by the way.”
I ignore the introduction. “Calder will be back soon. You can wait for him in your truck.”
He laughs, a harsh sound with no humor. “That’s cute. You think you get to tell me what to do? I’ve been here far longer than you, little lady.” He turns his head enough to spit out a black stream right onto the wood of the porch. Gross.
“I’m telling you Calder’s not here.”
“Yeah, I got that part.” He pushes against the door, testing if I’ll give. I hold firm.
“Why are you here?”
His smile is all teeth, predatory. “Got some business with your husband. Roman’s been giving him special treatment, and I’m getting tired of it.” He spits tobacco onto my porch again. “Made me look like a fool at that fancy rodeo, parading you around while I’m still cleaning up after his messes.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. I helped him dispose of a body. Martin Everett. Remember him? And now Calder’s getting all the glory, all Roman’s trust, while I’m still taking out the trash. Not to mention he’s gotten real interested in my routes all of a sudden.”
The memory of Martin’s blood on my porch flashes through my mind.
“That’s between you and Calder.”
“No, it ain’t.” Wayne shakes his head. “Roman’s watching me like a hawk since your husband started whispering in his ear. And I know what happens to people Roman doesn’t trust.”
“You should leave. Now.”
His expression darkens. “Not until I get what I came for.”
“And what’s that?”
“Leverage.” He pushes harder, making me step back just enough that he can wedge his boot in the door. “And maybe a little taste of what Calder’s been keeping all to himself.”
Fear spikes through me, followed by a cold, hard anger. I’m not the same girl who was taken from her home that night.
“Move your foot,” I say, voice low, “or I’ll make you move it.”
He laughs. “You’re gonna make me? That’s rich. What, you gonna—”
I slam the door against his foot with all my strength. He howls, pulling back just enough that I can slam it shut and throw the deadbolt.
His fist pounds the wood. “You bitch! Open this door!”
I back away, heart hammering. The pounding continues. The door won’t hold forever. I need a weapon.
My eyes find the shotgun above the fireplace.
Calder didn’t say a thing about it, but I’m hoping he keeps it loaded and ready.
I learned how to fire something similar when I was thirteen, so this shouldn’t be so different.
I grab a chair and climb up. The shotgun is heavy in my hands, but the weight is reassuring.
I check if it’s loaded. Of course it is. Calder is always prepared.
The pounding stops, and for a second, I think maybe Wayne has given up. Then the glass shattering in the kitchen makes my heart stop in my throat—he’s breaking in.
I position myself in the hallway where I can see the kitchen entrance but still have cover. The shotgun feels awkward in my hands, but I remember my father’s instructions from way back then: stock against shoulder, finger along the trigger guard, aim for center mass.
Wayne’s boots crunch on broken glass, and I try to pinpoint his trajectory by the sound.
“Come on out, preacher’s daughter,” he calls. “I just want to talk. Maybe have a little fun.”
I stay silent, heart pounding. The shotgun grows heavier in my trembling hands.
“Your husband’s been real slick lately,” Wayne continues, closer now. “Playing both sides. But I’m smarter than he thinks. Found out some interesting things about his comings and goings. And you, little Mrs. Bishop, might be just the leverage I need.”
He rounds the corner and freezes when he sees me, the shotgun aimed at his chest. His eyes widen, then narrow.
“Now, now.” He raises his hands, a mocking gesture. “What are you gonna do with that, little girl? You ever even fired a gun before?”
I don’t answer, just tighten my grip, and cock the slide. It echoes loud between us. More of a threat than anything I can say.
He steps forward. “Put it down before you hurt yourself.”
“Stay back.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He ignores me, taking another step. “You won’t shoot me. You’re the preacher’s daughter. Good little Saintlyn who helps at the community center. Not a killer.”
“I’m not that girl anymore.” The words come out raw, honest. “Your family made sure of that.”
“My family?” He laughs. “I ain’t no Bishop, sweetheart. Just work for them. Same as you now, I guess. Though your position seems a lot more . . . horizontal.”
He lunges suddenly, grabbing for the barrel. I stumble back, finger slipping to the trigger, but I don’t pull it, not yet. We struggle, his hands trying to pry the weapon from mine. He’s stronger, and I feel the shotgun slipping from my grasp.
“Just—give it—here,” he grunts.
In the struggle, my back hits the wall, making my hip connect with a low table, and pain lances through my brand. I gasp, my grip loosening. Wayne seizes the advantage, wrenching the shotgun toward himself.
The front door crashes open, and a blur of motion slams into Wayne, driving him away from me. Calder. His fist connects with Wayne’s jaw with a sickening crack.
“Calder!” I cry out, clutching the shotgun again now that he’s not trying to wrench it away.
He doesn’t look at me, his focus entirely on Wayne. Something is terrifying in Calder’s eyes, a cold fury I’ve never seen before.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Calder says, voice deadly quiet.
Wayne spits blood. “Figured it was time we had a chat about your games. About how you’ve been making me look like a thief when we both know it’s you they should be keeping a closer eye on.”
“And you thought breaking into my house and threatening my wife was the way to have that conversation?” Calder’s voice is measured, but I can see the rage vibrating through him.
“Wasn’t threatening. Just talking.” Wayne’s eyes flick to me. “Until she tried to blow my head off.”
“She should have.” Calder steps forward. “Would’ve saved me the trouble.”
Wayne lunges with a wild punch that Calder dodges. Calder moves like water, ducking Wayne’s swings, landing precise blows. Wayne is strong, and a lucky punch catches Calder in the ribs. Ribs that are still healing, thanks to Roman’s lesson.
They crash into the coffee table, shattering it. Wayne gets his hands around Calder’s throat, forcing him back against the wall. Calder’s face is reddening, his hands clawing at Wayne’s grip. Suddenly, I’m not frozen anymore.
I raise the shotgun, aiming at Wayne’s back. “Let him go.”
Wayne doesn’t acknowledge me, just tightens his grip. I can hear Calder gasping for air.
“I said, let him go!”