Smirking, Preacher turned back to Frank. “It’s the leather, brother. Gets ‘em every time.”
Staring down at his disfigured friend, his humor quickly faded. Preacher hated hospitals. The dead and dying aside, he hated the smell of them—a god-awful mixture of urine and cleaning solution. He hated the feel of them, too—so suffocating, and restricting. It wasn’t all that long ago that he’d finished up his second stint in prison, and tiny rooms such as this one never failed to make him feel like he was right back inside.
But he wouldn’t leave, at least not until Tiny returned. He’d promised Frankie Jr. as much—the poor kid had already lost his mother to cancer a few years back. And if something should happen to Frank during the night, Preacher didn’t want Frank to be alone. He’d made that crystal clear when the hospital staff had demanded he leave and return during visiting hours. Fuck their rules. He had a duty to his road chief, as his president and as his friend, to stand by his side.
Sighing, Preacher shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and began meandering around the room, stopping every few minutes to glance out the window at the illuminated city below. Always awake, that was New York. Wide awake and ever changing.
The city reminded him of Eva—astoundingly adaptable, and with a solid foundation regardless of the fast-moving, always-changing world around her. Despite her young age, his baby girl had handled his time in prison like a champ and his homecoming just as well. She was well suited to this life, he thought proudly, even as the very same thought caused a sinking sensation in his gut.
Shaking his head to clear it, Preacher turned away from the window and his gaze snagged on a large plastic bag—a patient belongings bag shoved into a corner.
Picking up the bag, he pulled it open, grimacing as the acrid scent of blood and body odor filled his nostrils. What remained of the clothes Frank had been wearing during the accident had been stuffed inside—two mangled boots and what was left of his leather cut.
Preacher set the destroyed leather aside. He would have someone salvage the patches and sew them onto a new vest.
Pulling the boots from the bag, he found Frank’s wallet tucked inside one, while something shiny glinted from inside the other. Preacher’s hand disappeared inside the boot, closing around something hard.
“What the fuck,” he muttered, pulling free a heavy metal key ring.
Squinting in the dimly lit room, he held up the throng of, not just keys, but jewelry. Mostly rings, but also charms and the occasional earring or bracelet. He turned the key ring in his hand, his eyes roaming the odd mix when he suddenly stopped.
The boot in his other hand fell to the floor with a hard ‘thwap’.
He moved quickly across the room and flipped on the light—the overhead fluorescents flickered on, brightening the room.
His heart pounding in his chest, Preacher stared down at the ring squeezed between his thumb and forefinger—a World War II United States Marine Corps ring, its ruby center glinting brilliantly. Slowly he rolled the ring between his fingers, exposing the inscription inside: THE JUDGE.
Preacher’s heart hammered wildly inside his chest. He’d forgotten about this ring until this very moment, forgotten that his father had almost never taken it off. It had been a permanent fixture on his right ring finger.
How had Frank—
Why did Frank—
Releasing the ring, Preacher began searching frantically through the rest of the jewelry, pausing briefly to study each piece. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, only that he was thinking of his mother.
Piece by piece, he stared down at the unfamiliar scraps of metal. For all he knew, any number of them could have belonged to Ginny.
It had to be a fluke. There had to be an explanation. For whatever reason, Frank had The Judge’s ring, and Frank would have a reason. A damn good reason for having this—this key ring full of things that so clearly didn’t belong to him. And Frank’s reason would make perfect sense, and Preacher’s world would stop spinning and—
Preacher froze.
He stopped moving, stopped breathing.
Everything stopped.
His heart, his breath, the whole fucking world went skidding off the road, headed straight for the unforgiving wall of what was to become his new reality and shattering everything he thought he’d known.
“No…” he whispered hoarsely. “No, no, no, no, no.”
Staggering backward, his back found the wall.
He shook his head, refusing to believe his own eyes. Maybe it wasn’t hers. Maybe it was just a coincidence.
With a shaking finger, he touched the tiny silver butterfly—spotted and tarnished.
A strangled noise slipped past his lips. “Wheels,” he rasped.
Preacher hopped out of bed and dropped down on one knee. Then he gestured for Debbie’s hand. Looking adorably bewildered, she gave it. Twisting her butterfly ring off her index finger, he pushed it onto her ring finger.
“I promise I’ll get you somethin’ better,” he told her. “A big, fat rock or somethin’. Whatever the fuck you want.”
She only continued to stare down at him, wide-eyed and gaping. Several seconds passed, long enough that Preacher was starting to wonder if he’d made a mistake by springing this on her. Hell, he hadn’t even known he was going to ask her. It had been a spur of the moment decision brought about solely by the way she made him feel—like she was it for him. Like there couldn’t possibly be another her out there, and so he needed to get his fucking shit together and do right by her.
His brow rose. “Wheels, you gonna say somethin’ or you gonna leave me hangin’ ‘round down here like a goddamn fool?”
Debbie slid quickly off the bed, dropping onto his lap. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him. “Yes,” she whispered against his mouth.
“What’s that?” he asked. He pulled back to look at her—into the eyes that never failed to bring him peace. And at those sexy-as-hell lips that he couldn’t get enough of.
Laughing happily, she shoved at his chest. “Yes, I’ll marry you! Yes, yes, yes!”
Feeling wetness on his cheek, Preacher blinked. Then he blinked again, and more tears fell.
Unsteady and trembling, he turned to look at Frank. The sight of his friend—disfigured and lying broken in a bed—didn’t have quite the same effect on him as it had before.
He looked at Frank as if he’d never seen him before.
Why? The one-word question pounded through him, as unrelenting and demanding as Preacher’s thrashing heartbeat.
Why—
How—
He didn’t—
He couldn’t—
Breath purged from Preacher’s lungs. His eyes squeezed shut and tears rained down his cheeks. He didn’t know where to begin. How to process. What to think. How to feel. He knew nothing—absolutely fucking nothing.