Chapter 18 Saint
Saint
When I wake up the following morning, the knot in my stomach is still there. I force myself to go through the motions. I’m desperate to find my way back to some type of normal, even if I know it will never be my kind of normal.
I take my coffee and sit out on the front porch, watching as the sun rises.
It’s beautiful, and sometimes you need something to remind you of the beauty in life.
The moment is ruined when Calder pulls up in his truck.
He woke me earlier, while it was still dark, to let me know he needed to go out and move some cattle.
That was three hours ago. Shutting the truck off, he steps out of the truck, closes the door, and slowly walks up the front steps. I watch him, trying not to stare, but he is technically my husband, so I can do that.
He’s dressed in blue jeans and a red flannel shirt, with the sleeves rolled up.
It’s less noticeable, the pain in his ribs, but I can tell he’s favoring one side over the other.
I shouldn’t feel sorry for him, but I do.
It’s stupid. I’m stupid. This attraction I have toward him is all stupid, and it only keeps growing despite how bad I tell myself he is for me.
I force myself to look away because I shouldn’t be thinking about his hands and how good they feel on my skin, or the heat of his lips when they press against mine.
I shouldn’t see him as anything other than a monster, yet somehow, that’s the last thing I picture when I look at him. At least right now.
“Good morning,” he greets, climbing the steps with a small smile on his lips.
“Morning,” I murmur and take a sip of coffee. “Did you collect all the cattle?”
“Sure did. There’s never a day off for ranchers. Not even on Sundays.”
The reminder that it’s Sunday and I should be at church, spending time with my father and helping him hits me hard.
“Oh yeah. Didn’t even realize it was Sunday.”
“That’s okay. I’m glad we got the cattle in because I wanted to take you somewhere.”
I perk up a little but am wary about exactly where we would be going. “Like where?”
“Well, it’s Sunday, as we just discussed, and I know when you were living with your father, you would go to church on Sundays. You haven’t been able to do that since everything happened. I was thinking maybe we could go.”
“Together?” I nearly choke on the word.
“Yes. You’re my wife. Wherever you go, I go.”
“Are you being serious? You’ll go?”
He nods and smiles at me, and I can’t stop myself from smiling back at him. In the back of my mind, all I can think is that there’s some hidden agenda, but even if there was, I would accept it to be able to return to the church. To see my father.
I push off the porch swing and stand on the porch. “Let me put the mug on the counter, and we can go.”
When I walk inside, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window and stop in my tracks. I can’t go to church looking like this. What will they say? Does it really matter if they say anything? I hear the door behind me open, and Calder walks inside.
“Everything okay?”
“No.” I shake my head. “What do I say about the bruise on my face if someone asks me?” My heart sinks into my chest, taking with it the prospect of any joy I had.
Calder shrugs. “I know I didn’t give it to you, and that’s going to be the first assumption out of everyone’s mouth. I don’t care what people think about me. It is what it is.”
“Do I tell them the truth? I want everyone to know that Roman is a monster.”
Frowning, he reaches for me and gently strokes my cheek. “I wouldn’t. Telling them my father did it wouldn’t really be a surprise. It would, however, put another X on our backs, and I need to heal up a little bit more if I’m going to take another beating for this pretty little mouth.”
I decide that I won’t let the bruise on my cheek or the impending doom stop me from enjoying the day and finding a little bit of peace in the chaos.
“Let’s go,” I tell Calder with a smile.
The church parking lot is fuller than usual, making me wonder whether I made the right decision.
It’s not really a surprise since Sunday services occasionally draw a crowd, especially as we get closer to the holidays, but today, it seems like half of Black Hollow Creek has shown up. Or maybe it just feels that way.
My hands twist in my lap as Calder parks his truck. The bruise on my face throbs with every heartbeat, a physical reminder of Roman’s rage. Maybe I should have covered it up. It means people will stare even more.
“Are you sure you still want to do this?” Calder asks, killing the engine.
“No.” The honesty surprises even me. “I’m afraid of walking in there and letting everyone see the bruise on my cheek. To know what they’re going to think when they see the ring on my finger. How can I pretend everything is okay when it isn’t?”
“You don’t have to pretend everything is okay.” His voice is quiet. “Hell, you don’t have to explain or talk to a single person if you don’t want to. All I ask is that we ensure our image remains intact and that we look the part. That’s it.”
The distinction feels important to him. Like there’s a difference between fine and chosen, between acceptance and willing participation.
Maybe there is. I’m too tired to figure it out.
“Okay, let’s do this.” Calder comes around to open my door, offering his hand. I take it because that’s what a wife would do, and a small part of me yearns for closeness. His fingers lace through mine, warm and possessive, and we walk toward the church entrance together.
The whispers start before we even reach the doors.
I can feel eyes on us from every direction. Mrs. Henderson from the community center. Tom Garrison from the feed store. The Miller family, who always sit in the back pew. All of them staring, whispering, judging.
“Ignore them,” Calder murmurs, but his jaw is tight.
He hates this. I can tell from the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his free hand flexes like he’s resisting the urge to reach for a weapon.
Calder Bishop and I have never been to church together. He’s come every so often but never regularly. I suppose the Bishop family doesn’t need God, not when they think they are the gods in this valley.
By bringing me here, Calder has made the decision to endure the silent judgment of others, and that causes a strange ache in my chest.
We reach the entrance, and I pull the door open before he can.
Inside, the church smells like it always has, old wood and furniture polish. The sanctuary is filling up, families settling into their usual spots. My spot is up front. Third pew on the right, where I’ve sat almost every Sunday since Mom died.
Where Dad can see me during his sermon. Where the whole congregation can see the preacher’s daughter being good and faithful and everything she’s supposed to be.
“Where do you want to sit?” Calder asks.
“Up front. In my usual spot.”
Apprehension flickers in his eyes. “You sure? We could—”
“I’m sure.” I start walking down the center aisle before I can lose my nerve.
The whispers follow us like a wave. I catch fragments as we pass—”Bishop boy”—”that bruise”—”married”—”can you believe”—Each word is a small cut, death by a thousand judgments.
I don’t stop. I keep walking. Keep my head up.
Keep my hand in Calder’s. We reach the third pew, and I slide in, Calder following.
He sits stiffly beside me, clearly uncomfortable.
His frame is too big for the narrow pew, and his knees are almost touching the bench in front of us.
He looks like a predator trapped in a cage.
“You hate this,” I observe quietly.
“Not hate.” He laughs. “But it’s not how I would spend my Sunday morning.”
The organ starts playing. Everyone rises for the opening hymn. Calder stands but doesn’t sing, just stands there like a statue while I go through the familiar motions. Hold the hymnal. Mouth the words. Pretend my world hasn’t imploded.
Then I catch sight of my father.
He stands at the pulpit, dressed in his Sunday robes, looking older than he did a week ago.
His eyes find mine immediately, and the pain in them nearly breaks me.
His gaze shifts to Calder, and the pain I see twists into something darker, colder.
It’s something I’ve never seen in my father’s eyes before.
Hatred.
I wasn’t even sure he could hate someone. He preaches forgiveness, turns the other cheek, loves thy enemy. Except for when it comes to Calder Bishop.
The hymn ends. Everyone sits. Dad opens his Bible with shaking hands.
“Today’s sermon,” he begins, voice carrying through the sanctuary, “is about wolves in sheep’s clothing. About recognizing evil even when it wears a pleasant face. About protecting the innocent from those who would devour them.”
Oh no.
Beside me, Calder goes very still.
“Matthew chapter seven, verse fifteen,” Dad continues, and I can hear the anger beneath his pastoral tone. “‘Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves.’“
He’s not even trying to be subtle. Every word is aimed directly at Calder, at the Bishops, at the corruption infecting this town like a rot.
“The wolf doesn’t announce itself,” Dad says, gripping the pulpit. “It doesn’t show its teeth right away. It’s patient. Cunning. It waits until the sheep is vulnerable, separated from the flock. Then it strikes.”
I want to sink through the floor and disappear forever. There’s no way it isn’t obvious who my father is talking about. I guess there’s a chance I could be wrong, but it certainly feels like it. Calder’s hand finds mine, and he squeezes it once.
I can’t tell if it’s a reminder to continue playing the part, since I’m sure everyone is staring at us, or if he’s offering me support because like he said, he doesn’t care what everyone thinks of him.
I don’t ask and instead sit with the wolf my father is preaching about, trying not to cry.
The sermon continues for another twenty minutes.