Chapter 6
Juniper
The next few days go by without any incident.
I work in the barn to stay away from my parents, and it works for the most part.
I only see them at dinner and it’s heaven.
But my luck runs out on Wednesday when my father’s silhouette fills the doorway, tall and rigid, backlit by the glare of the afternoon sun.
He looks angry, and that’s never a good thing.
The pitchfork slips from my hand, clattering against the barn floor. Dust swirls around my boots, but I can’t move.
“Why aren’t you dressed for church?” His voice is as sharp as barbed wire.
“It’s Wednesday.”
“You know we have bible study.” His eyes rake over me, disapproving. “You’ll change. Now.”
A protest rises in my throat, but I choke it down. I know better. Saying no is a death sentence under his roof.
“I’ve been working all morning,” I say carefully, keeping my tone low and submissive. “I thought I’d—”
“You thought wrong.”
The words cut like a lash. My cheeks heat, shame stinging even though it’s just the two of us here. He steps inside, boots grinding on the barn floor, until he’s too close, the scent of whiskey lingering on his clothes. His gaze sharpens, daring me to argue.
“You’ll change into something decent,” he says. “And you’ll be in the car in fifteen minutes.”
I force myself to nod, though every bone in my body wants to snap or scream. But I can’t.
“Fine.” The word tastes like poison on my tongue.
Dad lingers a beat longer, his jaw tight, as if he’s measuring whether I’ll break. Finally, he turns on his heel and stalks out, sunlight spilling in after him. My knees almost give out the second he’s gone. I press my hand to Honey’s flank, grounding myself in her steady warmth.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, throat thick. “Not again.”
The barn feels too small. But somehow I move.
One step in front of the other. I get dressed in what feels like a trance.
That’s the only way to describe it. There’s a dress hanging in my closet that wasn’t there before, and I know my mother hung it.
It’s not a gift. It’s a warning. A reminder that yet again they’re bailing me out, so I don’t embarrass them.
The fabric is stiff when I pull it over my head, smelling faintly of cedar from the closet.
It slides down my body without shape. It’s dark green with a high collar and sleeves that swallow my arms. Modest to the point of mockery.
When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I don’t see me.
I see what they want. A doll made small and forgettable.
Something covered and contained, stripped of anything that might draw attention.
I smooth the fabric down, bile rising in my throat. It hangs like a potato sack, heavy and graceless, pressing me down into the version of myself I swore I’d never be again. But still, I wear it. Because that’s the deal, isn’t it? Swallow the shame. Keep the peace. Pretend.
My father’s voice bellows from the hall. “Car’s running.”
For one wild moment, I imagine ripping the dress straight down the middle, letting the seams tear and fall, walking out in my work clothes covered in hay and sweat. I imagine facing Pastor Hilbert like that, raw and unrepentant.
But that fantasy lasts only seconds before reality snaps back.
I grab my Bible that I haven’t opened in years and step out of the room, the hem of the dress brushing against my calves like shackles.
The hallway feels longer than usual, each step heavier.
My mother watches from the kitchen doorway, lips pressed tight in approval, as if I’ve finally remembered my place.
She follows me to the car, sliding into the front seat.
I get in the back, like a child. As my father drives, my mind drifts.
Will Rhett be there tonight? Part of me doubts it.
He never went to bible study before. But there’s another side of me that knows he’ll be there.
He’s going to see me in this dress and know what it means.
And I’m dreading his reaction more than sitting through the pastor’s sermon.
We arrive to the church. The lot is full, every space crammed with trucks and sedans, as if half the town couldn’t wait to gather here under the guise of worship.
In truth, Bible study is less about the Book and more about who’s fallen from grace this week.
My stomach twists. I know what their eyes will say when they land on me.
My gaze skirts over the gravel lot, searching even as I tell myself not to.
I don’t see Rhett’s truck. Relief flickers, sharp and fleeting.
But it doesn’t last. Because the other part of me—the part that knows him better than I should—reminds me he doesn’t need a truck parked out front to make his presence felt.
My palms dampen as I follow my parents up the steps.
The dark green dress scratches at my skin, suffocating, heavy.
Every step feels like sinking deeper into quicksand.
Inside, the sanctuary hums with chatter.
The air is thick with perfume and cologne and the faint musk of old hymnals.
Heads turn as we walk in, gazes flicking over me with poorly hidden curiosity.
Whispers ripple through the pews, sharp as gnats buzzing at my ears.
I keep my chin down, my jaw locked tight.
And then I feel it.
A prickle along the back of my neck. A weight. I glance up, pulse skipping and nearly stumble. There, in the far corner of the sanctuary, leaning against the wall like he doesn’t give a damn about pretending, is Rhett. His eyes are fixed on me like I’m the only reason he came.
Heat floods my face, crawling all the way down my neck.
My mother steers me toward a pew near the front, blissfully unaware, but I can’t shake his gaze.
And I know, without a shadow of doubt, that the dress hasn’t hidden a damn thing from him.
If anything, it’s only poured gasoline on the fire in his eyes.
I sit stiff as a board, my Bible open but unread, pulse racing louder than the pastor’s droning voice. Because I can’t stop thinking about what Rhett will say when the service ends.
The sanctuary quiets as Pastor Hilbert steps up to the pulpit, Bible in hand, smile stretched tight as a noose. His voice booms, filling every corner.
“Tonight we speak of sin and redemption. Of straying sheep who wander from the flock, only to find themselves lost in darkness.”
My stomach turns. I know what’s coming before the words even fall. He paces, smooth as oil.
“There are those who think they can return after years of rebellion, expecting grace without humility. But the Lord sees the truth. The Lord sees the heart.”
Eyes shift. I feel them land on me. Heat floods my cheeks, shame and rage tangling in my chest.
Hilbert’s smile widens. “A woman who falls is like a cracked vessel. She can be mended, yes, but the cracks remain. It serves as a reminder. A warning.”
The whispers stir again, louder this time, a hive of buzzing judgment. My throat burns. My nails dig into my palms until I taste blood at the back of my tongue.
“And still, the Lord calls her back,” he says, his gaze sweeping the room before it lands on me. “But only if she remembers her place.”
Something inside me snaps. The pew creaks as I push to my feet.
My Bible slips from my lap, thudding against the floor.
I can’t breathe. I can’t sit here another second while he carves me open with his sanctified lies.
The whispers swell, shock rippling through the room as I shove past knees and hymnals, hot tears streaking my face before I even hit the aisle.
“Juniper Quinn,” Hilbert calls after me, voice dripping false concern. “The Lord sees you.”
The words chase me like claws. I burst through the church doors into the night air, choking on sobs, the sound of whispers and judgment still ringing in my ears. My chest heaves, salt stinging my lips, the world spinning under my feet.
But I realize I’m not alone and the crunch of boots on gravel tells me exactly who followed.
“Juniper.”
Rhett’s voice cuts through the dark, deep and steady, not a question but a summons. I freeze. My whole body trembles, rage and humiliation clashing inside me until I can barely stand.
“Don’t—” My voice cracks. “Don’t you dare say my name right now.”
But he’s already moving, boots crunching closer until his shadow swallows mine. A rough hand closes around my wrist, stopping me cold, spinning me toward him.
“Let me go,” I choke, shoving at his chest.
He doesn’t budge. He never does. His grip is firm but not bruising, his storm-gray eyes burning down into mine.
“You walk out of that place like they broke you in half, and you think I’m gonna let you run off alone?”
A sob rips from me, wild and ugly. “You don’t understand, Rhett. You don’t know what it’s like—”
“I know exactly what it’s like,” he cuts me off, voice sharp as a whip. “I know what that bastard did behind closed doors. I know why you left this town half-dead. You think I didn’t see it? You think I don’t know?”
“You don’t know anything.”
“I know enough. And I know if I told this town, if I laid out every filthy truth, they’d chew you up worse than they did before.
They’d call you a liar again. A whore. They’d bury you alive.
” His thumb strokes over my wrist, a twisted mockery of comfort.
“You’d drown under their judgment, and you know it. ”
Tears sting hotter, my pulse hammering against his hand. “Why are you saying this?”
He actually smiles down at me. “And that’s not all I hold over you.”
My stomach flips. “Rhett—”
“Caleb.” One word, dropped like a match in dry brush between us. “You want me to tell him? Tell my stepson that while he was kissing you on the porch, you were looking at me like you wanted the devil instead? You want him to know how close you came to letting me ruin you even back then?”