Chapter 2
Juniper
Pastor Hilbert steps up to the pulpit like a man ascending a throne.
He opens his worn leather Bible, flipping pages with a deliberate slowness meant to remind everyone who holds the authority in the room.
His eyes scan the congregation, but they rest on me just a second too long. Just long enough to make my skin crawl.
Then, in that syrupy voice I remember all too well, he begins.
“Sometimes,” he says, “a sheep strays so far from the flock that by the time it returns, it's no longer recognizable. Filthy. Unruly. Unrepentant.”
A few people shift in their pews. Someone clears their throat.
“Now, I’m not one to judge,” Chester continues, even as he drips judgment from every word. “But the Lord does not forget. He sees the choices we make. The sins we wear like perfume. And He knows the difference between redemption and performance.”
His gaze slices back to me. A smirk barely curls at the corner of his lips before he dips his head in a fake prayer.
My stomach churns and my nails dig into my thigh, but I force myself to sit still.
To breathe. Why is he doing this? He won.
There’s no reason to be so cruel. Part of me wants to get up and walk away, but I can’t do that because I’m scared of what my father will do.
So I sit there and bow my head with the others.
But then the church doors creak open. Every head turns, necks craning. The tension twists and a wave of murmurs rolls through the sanctuary like a wind before a storm.
Rhett Slade steps inside.
And suddenly, Chester Hilbert isn’t the center of attention anymore.
My god. How is it possible that Rhett has gotten more attractive over time?
He’s dressed in a jet-black button-down tucked into dark jeans that cling to his strong frame, black boots that hit the worn wood floor with deliberate, bone-deep weight.
A black Stetson shadows part of his face, but nothing hides the raw intensity in his eyes.
He’s older, but time’s done nothing to soften him.
If anything, it’s made him more dangerous.
The hard, cut muscles of his chest stretch beneath the fabric.
His thick, tanned arms flex as he pushes the doors fully open.
His beard is silver now—rough and close-trimmed, bracketing full lips that haven’t smiled in years, at least not for me.
A leather cord hangs loose around his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt.
His belt buckle gleams like a challenge.
He’s every inch the cowboy. But not the romantic kind.
No, Rhett Slade is the kind you survive and dream about.
His gaze sweeps across the congregation, and when those storm-gray eyes lock on me I forget how to breathe. There’s something dark in his expression. Possessive. Knowing. He walks forward like he owns the place. And for a second, it feels like he does.
Pastor Hilbert stiffens behind the pulpit, his sermon completely forgotten, tongue tripping over his next verse as Rhett moves down the aisle in an unapologetic pace. He doesn’t sit in the back. He heads straight for the front pew.
Straight for me.
For a heartbeat, the air between us tightens. I can smell leather and cedar and something darker—something unmistakably him. My heart punches against my ribs and my hands curl in my lap to keep from trembling. What is he doing?
He slides in beside me like he’s done it a thousand times. Like this is his seat and like I’ve always belonged here, next to him. I feel the heat of his thigh against mine through the thin fabric of my dress. It’s nothing and it’s everything.
The congregation is dead silent, and Pastor Hilbert clears his throat, trying to regain control. But Rhett leans back lazily, one arm draping along the back of the pew behind me as if he’s daring anyone to speak up.
And then, in a voice rough like gravel and whiskey, loud enough to carry, “Go on, Chester. Get on with your shit.”
Gasps ripple through the room. Someone drops a hymnal. My mother goes rigid beside my father, lips pursed so tight they vanish.
Pastor Hilbert freezes.
“I—I was just about to continue with the reading—”
Rhett cuts him off with a slow tilt of his head, eyes narrowed.
“No,” he says, voice like thunder barely restrained. “You were about to make the girl beside me your next sermon illustration. That stops now.”
Hilbert stammers something inaudible, eyes darting nervously across the room, but he knows better than to push. Because Rhett Slade doesn’t bluff. He never has. And Chester is smart enough not to go against the man who quite literally owns this town.
I stare straight ahead, breath shallow, cheeks burning with a mix of humiliation and something else. Something hotter. Something I hate myself for feeling. I glance at Rhett. How can I still feel this way about him? How?!
Rhett sits beside me like a man who just put the devil on notice in his own house. For the first time in years, I don’t feel small. I feel seen. And that terrifies me more than anything Pastor Hilbert could’ve ever said. Because being noticed always leads to trouble in this town.
The sermon limps forward. Pastor Hilbert stutters through the scripture, his voice tight and shaken.
Every word sounds forced now and every line is stripped of its false authority under the weight of Rhett’s presence.
No one’s listening. They’re all pretending to as they stare straight ahead, lips pressed thin, ears straining for whatever might happen next.
I mean, if there’s something this town loves it’s gossip.
My knee bounces but I can’t stop it. My nerves have teeth, and they’re sinking in deep. Then his hand lands on my leg, fingers wrapping around my thigh just above the knee, firm enough to still me. It’s not obvious. But it’s there and undeniably intimate.
My breath catches.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice barely a whisper, just a rough scrape of heat against the shell of my ear.
“Because everyone’s staring,” I whisper back, eyes still fixed on the pulpit.
“Let ’em.”
My lips part, but nothing comes out. What could I possibly say? That this is the first time I’ve felt protected in years? That his touch is a thousand memories and a fresh wound all at once? That I want to move away but can’t?
His thumb strokes the inside of my knee once as if to calm me.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I whisper, though my voice betrays the truth. I’m glad he did.
“I told you,” he says softly. “You ever come back to this town, I come with fire.”
My heart stumbles in my chest because I know what he means. How could I forget?
But I say, “You didn’t even know I was back.”
His hand tightens slightly.
“I always know when you’re close.”
I dare to glance sideways. His jaw is clenched, lips a hard line, but his eyes—God, his eyes are thunderclouds. And they’re fixed on Pastor Hilbert like he’s imagining a dozen ways to take him down and make it look like mercy.
“You shouldn’t have to sit through this,” he says, voice lower now. “He doesn’t get to preach over you.”
I blink fast. “My parents wouldn’t let me stay home.”
“Then next Sunday don’t come with them.”
I stare at him.
“And where would I go?”
His hand slides just slightly higher, and my breath hitches in my lungs.
“You’ll come with me.”
Those four words settle over me like thunder in my bones. I can’t look away from him and I sure as heck can’t breathe right with his hand still resting firm and warm on my leg, like he owns the right to touch me and worse, like part of me wants him to.
Before I can say anything, the pulpit creaks and the voice that’s haunted my memories tries to claw its way back into the room.
“Brother Slade,” Pastor Hilbert says, louder now, the fake sweetness in his voice wrapped tight around the grit of irritation.
“If you’d like to offer a testimony or share a word with the congregation, perhaps you’d be more comfortable doing so from the pulpit instead of distracting others from the message. ”
Every head in the sanctuary turns. Again.
Rhett doesn’t even flinch. His thumb strokes once across my thigh before he pulls his hand away with maddening slowness.
Then he leans back in the pew, arms stretched out along the backrest, legs spread wide like he’s got all the time in the world and not a damn thing to prove.
“Far as I can tell, the message you’re preaching ain’t worth the air it takes to speak it.”
A collective gasp rises from the room.
Someone mutters, “Lord, have mercy.”
Hilbert’s jaw tightens. “This is a house of God, Mr. Slade. There’s a certain expectation of decorum—”
Rhett cuts him off. “You really wanna talk decorum, Chester?”
The entire sanctuary stills. Hilbert blanches, lips parting like he might deny it, might talk his way around it but nothing comes out. My pulse is deafening and my face burns. Rhett doesn’t stop. He leans forward just enough to draw every eye back to him.
“You can either shut up and get through your sermon like a good little puppet, or I’ll start naming names. And I promise you, everyone in this room will start remembering what they tried to forget.”
Hilbert pales further. His mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. Then, rattled, he lowers his gaze to the Bible and begins reading from Psalms with shaking hands, voice stripped of its venom, of its control. The room is silent except for the sound of pages turning and shame settling into the pews.
Rhett leans back again, satisfied.
His arm brushes mine, and without looking at me, he murmurs, “Told you. Fire.”
But it’s easy for him to say that with confidence. He’s never been the outcast of this town. Never been looked at like a piece of trash all for telling the truth.
My eyes well with tears as I sit through the rest of the sermon.
As soon as the final amen is uttered and the congregation rises to their feet, I stand.
I don’t wait for the closing hymn. Don’t look at my parents.
Don’t give Rhett a second glance. I just move.
Quiet but quick, steps carrying me down the aisle, past the stares and whispers and tight-lipped judgment from people who used to praise me from these same pews.
The heavy doors swing open with a creak, spilling morning sunlight across the church steps.
It’s blinding at first, but I keep walking, out onto the gravel, the still air pressing hot and thick around me like a punishment.
My heels sink slightly into the dirt. I rip them off and carry them in my hand.
I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to move.
To breathe. To feel something other than shame and heat and the ghost of Rhett Slade’s voice in my ear.
But I don’t get far.
“Juniper.”
Mom’s voice cracks across the silence like a whip. I stop. Should’ve known she wouldn’t let me go without getting her piece in. I turn slowly. My mother stands on the steps of the church like a statue carved from pride and contempt. Her lips are tight, her eyes sharper than glass.
“You embarrassed us,” she says, voice low and clipped, like she’s afraid someone might hear but wants the words to sting all the same.
She descends the steps like she’s gliding. Every inch of her polished and poised, even though she’s fuming underneath. That’s always been her talent. Delivering cruelty with a smile and a hand on your shoulder.
“What were you thinking, letting that man sit beside you?”
“I didn’t let him do anything,” I say quietly, but she talks right over me.
“Rhett Slade has always been nothing but trouble. And now everyone in that church is going to be talking about us again. About you.” Her voice drops lower, more venomous.
“You’ve been home less than a day and you’ve already managed to remind this town exactly why they were glad you left. Why we were glad!”
The words slice through me, each one like a blade sharpened by memory.
“I didn’t come here to make a scene,” I say, though even I can hear the shake in my voice.
“No, you came here to drag us down with you.”
She stands so tall in her disappointment, in her need to keep everything perfect, polished, quiet.
“I came because I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“That’s not our fault,” she snaps. “You made your choices.”
And there it is. The truth, as far as she’s concerned. One thing’s clear. If I stay under their roof, it’ll kill me more than this town already has.