They both knew the Rev was a creature of habit, and a solitary one at that. Any man the Rev’s age, both silent and unsocial, was not going to be an ideal companion for a little boy—though the Reverend Emilio Sheehan was far from a typical elderly cleric, if such a person existed.

“That’s what we’re here for,” Chuy said. “To help.”

“And to fix antiques and fingernails,” Joe said, laughing. “I wish I didn’t love old furniture, and you didn’t love decorating women. I wish we were both accountants or bounty hunters. Something less predictable.”

“As long as we’re happy. And we take care of each other,” Chuy said, much more seriously.

“I try to take care of you,” Joe said, turning to take Chuy in his arms. “How’m I doing?”

“Pretty good,” Chuy said, and it was the last time he said anything sensible for a while.

The next morning, as they lay together in the old bed they’d restored, both of them reluctant to start the day, Joe said, “Lemuel went in the hotel a couple of nights ago.”

“Lemuel,” Chuy murmured, a note of exasperation—distaste?—in his voice. “What did he say?”

“He said it was almost finished. He couldn’t believe they’d accomplished it on schedule. He believes they’ve poured money into what should surely be a minor project for a big company like that.”

“That worries me.” Chuy snuggled closer. “And I was so relaxed.”

“Sorry, honey,” Joe said. “But I wanted to tell you . . . he thought people would be in the hotel by next week.”

“That soon. Damn.”

“Yeah, I know. Could be good, could be bad.”

“Why can’t things just stay the same?” Chuy asked plaintively.

“Good question. Boot that one upstairs.”

Chuy punched Joe in the shoulder and soon fell back to sleep.

But Joe forced himself to rise and pull on his running clothes. When he’d become conscious that the waist of his pants was getting a little tighter than he liked, he’d promised himself to resume running. This was his fourth morning in a row, and he was feeling really good about it.

He trotted down the outside stairs in the early-morning sun. The sky was clear as far as Joe could see, and a breeze was blowing steadily, for which he was grateful. Since the sidewalk (except around the hotel) was cracked and uneven, Joe ran on the road. This was normally quite safe, since vehicles on Witch Light Road were few and far between; the Davy highway was much busier. He went west out of town, waving at the only oncoming truck, driven by a local rancher named Mark Kolb. Mark lifted an index finger from the steering wheel in response.