Jeremy nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Make sure you leave it somewhere he can find it, but not where you’ll be seen,” Jeb continued. “If you fuck this up, I’ll cut you loose, boy. Is that clear? I’m not going to let you drag me down because you’re incompetent.”
Jeremy’s voice cracked with a little healthy fear as he replied, “Yes, sir.”
Jeb gave him a terse nod. “Say the words with me now.”
“‘Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle,’” the boy said in unison with Jeb, as instructed.
“Go on, then.” Jeb gestured to the doorway. “Don’t disappointment me.”
*
Gabe winced as he genuflected and crossed himself before entering the empty pew. It wasn’t his usual way to spend a Saturday morning, but he’d been avoiding today’s visit for a while now and couldn’t really put it off any longer.
He pulled down the padded kneeler attached to the pew in front of him and gritted his teeth as he slid down onto his knees. It’d been three weeks since he’d been shot, but it’d most likely be a few more before he could really get around as he wanted to.
After he’d finally settled onto the kneeler, he slipped his Saint Michael medal from beneath his shirt and pressed a kiss to the silver before letting it rest against his chest. Before she’d died, his mother had given him and his brothers identical necklaces bearing the patron saint of police officers. He’d worn his every day since.
There’d never been any question Theresa Dawson’s boys would go into law enforcement—the Dawson family history pretty much guaranteed it. Gabe’s father and grandfather had had reputations that’d gained them the kind of notoriety that got their names in newspapers and history books—and on shit lists. And Theresa wanted to make sure her boys were protected after she was gone.
Gabe had never been particularly devout and hadn’t been to Mass in years—in fact, the last time he’d gone had probably been Kyle’s confirmation. But after the close call on the courthouse steps, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his mother had been watching over him—just as she’d promised she would. And it was time he’d kept his promise to her to get his ass to church now and then.
As he knelt there, offering up a prayer of thanks that was long overdue, he tried not to remember the day she’d made her promise, tried to keep her voice from invading his head and bringing back all the pain he’d tried to suppress for years. Too bad it didn’t work.
It was almost as if she were there beside him, smoothing his hair, the lilac-scented perfume she’d worn wrapping around him, a sensory hug that was a poor substitute for the real thing but was comforting nonetheless. He felt someone join him on the bench and the scent grew stronger. Startled, half expecting to see the ghost of his mother there beside him, his head snapped up.
But it wasn’t Theresa Dawson kneeling beside him.
“Dad?” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”
His father sent a glance his way but then returned his gaze to the crucifix at the front of the church. “Promised your mother I would come to pray for you boys every week,” he murmured. “And I have.”
It was then that Gabe noticed that his father gently grasped one of his mother’s old handkerchiefs in his fingers instead of a rosary. The delicate cloth still held the scent of her perfume.
“I didn’t know,” Gabe said softly.
His father took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well, it was between her and me. Didn’t see the need to talk to you boys about it.”
That Gabe could believe. The Old Man didn’t talk much about anything, let alone the wife he’d buried years before. Maybe if Mac had been a little more open about what he’d gone through in the years since, the relationship between him and Kyle might not have been pretty much nonexistent until Kyle had returned to town and they’d been forced to deal with shit. They still had a way to go toward repairing things, but Gabe was relieved as hell to finally see the Old Man making an effort.
“What?” Mac grumbled.
Realizing he was staring, Gabe looked away. “Nothing. Sorry, sir.”