Chapter 21
Cash
Isat in the very last row of the church by myself. There were a few rows ahead of me that were empty too, but I didn’t really want to mingle. I was just there to support Mike during his first sermon, though I was too afraid to admit why.
I glanced around the small sanctuary, taking in the faces of the people I’d grown up with.
Some I recognized immediately. Mrs. Henderson from the grocery store, though she was much older than I remembered.
There were the Pattersons who lived two ranches over, looking about the same as I remembered.
And then, of course, there was Dolly with her towering blonde hair practically taking up half a pew.
Others had changed enough in the ten years since I’d left that I wasn’t sure who they were anymore.
The church was fuller than I’d expected. Word had gotten around about the new pastor, and it seemed like half of Sagebrush had turned out to get their first look at him. I couldn’t blame them. Mike was... well, he was something to look at. Even I had to admit that.
I shifted in the uncomfortable wooden pew, my stiff shirt collar feeling too tight around my neck.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn anything this formal, let alone set foot in a church.
The whole place smelled like old wood and candle wax, bringing back memories I’d spent years trying to bury.
Sunday mornings with my mother, her hand warm in mine as we sang hymns I’d forgotten the words to.
The way she’d smooth down my cowlick before we walked through those same doors.
All that had stopped after she died. My father never went to church again.
The old electric organ wheezed to life at the front of the church, and conversations died down as people settled into their seats. I found myself scanning the sanctuary for Mike, my pulse picking up slightly when I spotted him near the altar, speaking quietly with an older woman I didn’t recognize.
He looked... professional. Confident. Like he belonged up there in a way I’d never belonged anywhere in this town.
His suit fit him perfectly, emphasizing the lean lines of his body that I knew intimately now.
When he turned slightly, I caught his profile.
I loved the angle of his strong jaw, and the way his hair caught the light filtering through the stained glass windows.
He was beautiful. And I caught myself thinking about how good he’d look bent over that altar.
Fuck.
Mike’s eyes swept over the congregation, and for just a moment, they found mine in the back row. His face lit up with a smile so bright it could have powered the whole building, and I felt something warm unfurl in my chest despite my best efforts to squash it down.
He gave me the smallest nod, barely perceptible to anyone else, before turning his attention back to his preparations.
But that brief moment of connection had settled something in me.
I was here for him, and somehow that made the discomfort of being back in this place bearable, if only for a moment.
The service began with a hymn I vaguely remembered, the congregation’s voices rising around me in a familiar melody. I didn’t sing along. Couldn’t, really. But I listened and allowed the sound to wash over me. There was something comforting about it, even if I didn’t want to admit it.
When it came time for the sermon, Mike stepped up to the pulpit with the kind of easy grace that made it look effortless.
But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the edges of the wooden lectern just a little too tightly.
He was nervous, even if no one else could tell.
“Good morning,” he began, his voice carrying clearly through the sanctuary. “For those of you I haven’t met yet, I’m Pastor Mike Johnson. I’m honored to be here with you today, and I’m grateful for the warm welcome this community has given me even while things have been… less than peaceful.”
A few laughs filled the church. Mike’s eyes found mine again, just for a second, and I saw some of that tension ease from his posture.
“I want to talk to you today about healing, especially after going through the recent tornado that struck our town,” he continued, his voice growing stronger with each word.
“And I want to talk about second chances, and about how sometimes the thing we think we don’t want turns out to be exactly what we need. ”
I leaned forward slightly, caught by something in his tone. This wasn’t just a generic sermon. There was something personal in the way he spoke, something that made me think he wasn’t just talking to the congregation. I realized, with no small amount of surprise, that he was talking to me.
“About how sometimes we run from the very things that could save us because we’re afraid of being hurt again. About how we build walls so high that we forget there might be something beautiful waiting on the other side.”
My chest tightened as his words hit home. He wasn’t looking at me now, but I could feel the weight of his meaning settling over me like a blanket I wasn’t sure I wanted.
“After the tornado hit Sagebrush,” Mike continued, “I watched this community come together in ways that amazed me. Neighbors helping neighbors. Strangers opening their homes. People who had every reason to despair instead choosing hope.” His voice carried across the sanctuary with growing conviction.
“But I also saw something else. I saw people who had been carrying old wounds, old hurts, suddenly faced with the choice to either remain isolated in their pain or to reach out and accept help.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my pew, which caused it to creak loudly.
Several heads had turned to look back at me during his words, and I felt heat creep up my neck.
Did they all know? Had word gotten around about me staying at the parsonage, about whatever was happening between Mike and me?
Or was the creaking wood really that loud?
“The thing about healing,” Mike said, his eyes scanning the congregation, “is that it requires vulnerability. It requires us to admit that we can’t do everything alone. And sometimes it requires us to forgive. Not just others, but ourselves as well.”
My hands clenched into fists on my thighs. I knew exactly what he was doing now, and part of me wanted to get up and walk out. This felt too exposed, too raw. But something kept me glued to that uncomfortable wooden pew, hanging on every word he spoke.
“In the book of Joel, we read about restoration,” Mike continued. “About how God promises to restore the crops that the locusts have eaten. But restoration isn’t just about getting back what we’ve lost. Sometimes it’s about discovering something new, something we never knew we needed.”
He paused, letting his words sink in, and in that silence I could hear the soft rustling of the congregation, the distant sound of wind through the trees outside. My heart was beating so hard I was sure the people three rows in front of me could hear it.
“I want to challenge each of you today,” Mike said, his voice softer now but somehow more powerful, “to look at the broken places in your life not as scars to be hidden, but as cracks where the light gets in. To consider that maybe, just maybe, the thing you’re running from is exactly where you need to be. ”
His eyes found mine again across the sanctuary, and this time he held my gaze for a long moment. I felt completely exposed under that look, like he could see straight through all my defenses to the scared, hurting man underneath.
“Because sometimes,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying clearly through the hushed church, “home isn’t a place we’ve never left. Sometimes it’s a place we have to find the courage to return to, even when the sight of it terrifies us.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I gripped the edge of the pew so hard my knuckles went white, fighting the urge to bolt for the door. But I stayed, transfixed by the man at the pulpit who somehow managed to speak directly to my soul while addressing an entire congregation.
When Mike finished his sermon and the final hymn began, I didn’t wait around for the socializing that would inevitably follow. I slipped out the back door while everyone else was still singing, needing air, needing space to process what had just happened.
The morning sun was bright after the dimness of the church, and I stood on the front steps taking deep breaths of the crisp air. My shirt was damp with sweat despite the cool temperature, and my hands were shaking slightly.
“Cash?”
I turned to find Brooks approaching, Rowan beside him. They both looked concerned, and I realized I probably looked as shaken as I felt. I hadn’t even noticed them in the church.
“You okay?” Brooks asked, his voice gentle.
“Fine,” I said automatically, then shook my head. “No. Not fine. But I will be.”
Rowan stepped closer, his green eyes studying my face. “That was quite a sermon.”
I let out a harsh laugh. “Yeah. About as subtle as a brick to the head.”
“Sometimes that’s what it takes,” Brooks said quietly. “To get through a stubborn man’s head.”
I looked at him sharply, but there was no judgment in his expression. Just understanding, and maybe a little sympathy.
“I told you he cares about you,” Rowan said simply. “Anyone with eyes can see that.”
“It’s not that simple,” I muttered, looking away.
“It could be,” Brooks said. “If you let it.”
Before I could respond, the church doors opened behind us and people began streaming out. Mike appeared in the doorway, surrounded by congregation members wanting to shake his hand and compliment his sermon. But even as he smiled and chatted with them, his eyes were searching the crowd.
When he spotted me standing with Brooks and Rowan, relief flooded his features. He excused himself from the group and made his way over to us.