Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (68)
“Worth a shot.”
Lark laughs and I make a few digs at Keanu, which of course get her fired up. But then we get back to the story. I tell her about Father Hennessy and the holy water and the possession that he can’t exorcise. I introduce Constantine, John Constantine, in my best Keanu impression, which she says reminds her too much of my “whisper growl” from the night we met. “Less whispering, more growling, but make it sound morose like you’re so over this bullshit—so basically be you on a normal day but with demons,” she declares, and soon enough I get her stamp of approval. And eventually, Lark goes quiet, staying that way even after I taper off into silence. When I take the time to wait and listen, I hear it. The muffled, steady cadence of her breath as she sleeps.
With a faint smile, I set my phone on mute and place it off to the side as I continue my work.
Just in case she wakes up.
HYMNS
Lachlan
The end of the day is my favorite time in the shop. It’s serene. The studio feels comforting in the dim light as the sun slips behind the city buildings. Music drifts through my wall-mounted speakers. I resist the urge to change playlists so I can hear Lark’s voice as I start my last project for the day. She’ll be here soon and I don’t want her to catch me with her music playing when she arrives. She’ll think I’m lovesick and pining, though I’ve come to accept that’s probably true. It’s been a week since Lark was at the sleep clinic, and every day since she came home has been better and better, yet, in some ways, each day is more painful than the one before. I think about her every waking moment. I worry about her constantly. I’m particularly anxious about what we’ll find when we check out Club Pacifico tonight, but I’m also counting down the hours until I see Lark. So I try to distract myself, but I still struggle to focus on the rhythm of my tools as I cut and shape and carve through hide.
I’m glancing at my watch when the brass bell rings over the door.
When I look up, an unfamiliar man steps over the threshold. There’s a faint smile on his face as he looks around the shop. I lower the music and slide my glasses off, setting them aside on the worktop.
“Welcome to Kane Atelier,” I say, walking toward him. “What can I help you with?”
The man shifts the weight of a heavy Western saddle onto his hip as he extends a hand for me to shake. He’s a few inches shorter than me and a decade older at least, but his forearm is thick with the type of muscle that comes from hard, consistent labor. The bottom of a tattoo peeks from his sleeve, a simple cross with three waves beneath it like pages of an open Bible. “The name’s Abe,” he says in a faint Texan drawl as he tips the brim of his worn Carhartt ball cap in greeting. “Abe Midus. We have an appointment for tomorrow, but I was in the area, so thought I might drop in to see if you’re free.”
“Right. Abe, of course. Come on in, let’s take a look and have a chat about what you’d like done.” I lift the saddle from him and lead the way toward the work area. “Good timing, actually. I don’t have any more appointments today, aside from drinks with my wife.”
“Any recommendations for good places to eat? I’m kind of new to the area.”
“Well, my brother is a chef at 3 in Coach and Butcher & Blackbird, so those would get my vote,” I say with a chuckle. “You just move here?”
“I guess you could say so.”
I expect Abe to elaborate, but he doesn’t. His eyes pan across the shelves of materials, tools, and works in progress. I wait until he meets my lingering gaze then nod toward a chair but he declines to sit.
When I’m seated on my favorite rolling stool, I set the saddle on a stand and pull the fabric cover off to reveal the old leather. It’s cracked and scuffed in some places, worn down from use in others. The elaborate scrollwork and flower tooling is faded, an echo of what was once a vibrant design. “Quite a piece, Abe. Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“It was my granddaddy’s,” he says, and I look up to find him standing close, his expression wistful as he passes his hand over the pommel. “He was a rancher, bought it from a man who made custom rigs in Galveston. Paid a small fortune for it at the time, but he used it nearly every day on the ranch before he took sick. Eventually he stopped riding. Passed it down to my father.”
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?”