Rolling his shoulders under the coarse material of his habit, Father Merry went to the tiny stove crammed into the far corner of the room and busied himself with swilling out coffee grounds before setting a fresh pot on the flame. He caught a sharp intake of breath from Nati behind him and he turned. She stood looking through the single hatch beside the main door. He went to her and settled his hand on her slim shoulder. “What is it?”
“Riders,” she said, the single word sending a chill through the priest. He bent forward and followed the direction of her gaze.
Without a word, Nati swept up the Spencer carbine and checked it for the umpteenth time.
“Two,” said Merry, calculating the odds. “Not what I was expecting.”
“Perhaps more have skirted round back. I may not have heard them.”
“Yo
