Page 7 of Preacher Man
He glanced down, clearly trying to hide a smile.
I nodded toward the door.“Guess I’ll let you settle in.”
I turned and stepped outside, down the dented metal steps.The screen door banged shut behind me like it always did.
And I could feel it—his eyes following me the entire way as I strolled back up the gravel path toward the church.Watching me like he was still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.
Truth was, I wasn’t so sure myself.
But as I reached the ladder and looked back at that shabby little trailer with the holy man inside, I couldn’t shake one question from my head.
Had Ethan felt that spark too, or was I just fooling myself?
ChapterThree
Ethan
It had been three weeks since I rolled into Meadowgrove with all my worldly possessions crammed into the trunk of my car and a stomach full of cautious optimism.Three weeks of awkward hellos, bland casseroles, and smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes.
People were polite, but polite in the way a small town could be when they didn’t quite trust you yet.Or maybe didn’t want to.Like a dog sniffing at a new collar, unsure if it wanted to bite it or allow it to be placed around its neck.
No one really saw me.No one except Jake.
Jake who kept showing up under the pretense of checking on a loose floorboard or a leaky faucet.Jake with his dusty tool belt, sun-browned skin, and maddeningly kind smile.He never stayed long.Just long enough to fix something, make a comment that left me flustered, and vanish again.I told myself he was just being neighborly.But neighborly wasn’t supposed to feel like temptation.
Today, I’d found him in the last place I expected.
The back pew of First Light Fellowship of Meadowgrove.
I spotted him the moment I stepped into the sanctuary.There he was, lounging in the farthest pew like he was daring someone to ask why he was there.One arm slung over the back of the bench, legs stretched out, sunglasses pushed up on his head like he’d forgotten to take them off before stepping inside.His eyes met mine.
And I forgot what I’d planned to say.
Brother Fred was at the pulpit by then, reading in his usual slow, gravelly drawl.
“The Lord is a jealous God, and vengeance shall be His...”
Fire.Brimstone.Blood.
Same thing every week.
Brother Fred had a face like a crumpled road map and the voice of a man who’d chain-smoked through two apocalypses.His bible lesson wasn’t even his own today—just a reading.A greatest-hits compilation of judgment, wrath, and endless damnation, delivered with all the flair of a doomsday prophet on speed.
The congregation nodded along like sheep at slaughter.
I sat there in the front row, fingers clenched together, jaw tight.This wasn’t what I believed.Not anymore.Maybe not ever.
My Christ wasn’t a sword-wielding punisher.My Christ was the one who sat with lepers, broke bread with traitors, and forgave murderers.
Fred’s prayer was long.Too long.I think he was trying to beat a personal record.People shifted in their seats, muttering amen every few lines to stay awake.I stared at the pulpit, but I could feel Jake’s eyes on me like a heat source behind my shoulder.
Finally, Fred stepped down, and I climbed up to the pulpit.
The wood beneath my shoes creaked, and I set my folded notes on the lectern.I looked out over the congregation: families in ironed shirts, a row of elderly women in pastel, a scattering of teenagers trying to look inconspicuous, and Jake, still slouched in the back like a beautiful contradiction.
I cleared my throat.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
