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?”
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.
