"Junior!" Callan's voice thundered through the quiet, hollow belly of the church, echoing off the vaulted ceilings like a storm rolling in. He stood stiff at the entrance, his frame casting a long shadow between the rows of weather-worn pews. His eyes followed the darting figure of his son—barefoot, wild-haired, and laughing like a creek in springtime—as he zigzagged between the benches.

"You best get home and make sure that damn stray ain't tearin' up my farmhouse," he barked, voice like gravel and smoke. His eyes narrowed as the laughter drained from Junior's face like water slipping through cracks.

"Go on now. Check the house before I bust your little behind with my belt. Then wash up for supper." He jerked his chin toward the door, never blinking, watching the boy's shoulders shrink beneath the weight of his words.

"Yes, Daddy. I'll make you proud—just like Mama wanted." The words came quiet, like a prayer whispered into wind.

Callan said nothing, just nodded and reached out to ruffle the boy's mop of hair with a rare, fleeting tenderness. "I know, boy. That's exactly what the Lord wants." He stood in silence, jaw clenched, watching Junior's small frame disappear into the dusky evening light beyond the church doors.

For a beat, the air hung thick around him. Then, with a heavy exhale, he turned, polished shoes thudding against the wooden floor as he crossed to the podium. He picked up the well-worn Bible like it was the weight of the world, pulling it close to his chest before turning on his heel.

He was halfway to his office—ready to count the day's donations and let the silence cradle him—when the doors creaked open again. Without looking, he growled over his shoulder, "Junior, what'd I just—" But the rest of the sentence died in his throat.

It wasn't his boy.

Standing just inside the doorway was a woman. A stranger. And pretty in a way that turned the still air electric. She didn't look like she belonged to this town, not in that outfit, not with that fire behind her eyes.

"My apologies, miss. Thought you were my little man." He dipped his head with a tight-lipped smile, stepping down from the altar and stopping a few feet away. "Can I help you? You here for confession?" His eyebrows lifted with a hint of charm, but the edges of his smile were sharp.

Then she spoke.

A sentence. A question. And everything about Callan changed.

"I'm sorry, miss, but..." He blinked, once, twice. A laugh, dry and humorless, hitched in his throat. "You askin' me if I need another preacher?" He repeated the words like they were foreign on his tongue.

He scanned the space around her, as if a man might appear to claim the question, to make sense of it. "Ain't no man with you... so I'm guessin' you're askin' if you wanna preach here. In my church?" His voice dropped low, cold, the charm gone like a snapped string.

He held up the small Bible like it was a badge, or a weapon. "Darlin', women don't preach. Not here. Not ever. It ain't just my belief—it's the Lord's word." His jaw tightened, the edge of a smile ghosting across his face—tight, bitter.

"The folks in this town wouldn't take kindly to a woman speakin' from this pulpit. But I hear the diner's hirin'. Might need extra hands in the kitchen." He shrugged, casual on the surface, though his knuckles whitened where they gripped the book.

He smiled again, this time with all the warmth of a winter wind.