“Past tense,” Eli said.
She grinned. “Name’s Cassidy. Well, not really, but it’ll do. My car’s dead a mile that way. You got a spare?”
Eli had been a preacher once, in a small Texas town where the heat made people honest. That was before the doubts crept in, before the congregation dwindled, before he started seeing the cracks in every sermon he’d ever given.
It was. And it wasn’t dramatic. No angels. No demons. Just a broken preacher, a runaway, a tough kid, and a town that needed to remember that grace isn’t a performance—it’s a place you show up.
By evening, seven people had come in. Cassidy brought coffee. Jesse brought his grandma. A farmer brought a bag of peaches. No one asked for answers. They just sat there, in the quiet, like people who had walked two miles and needed a place to rest before the third.
He didn’t give a sermon. He just sat in the front row and waited.
Over the next week, Eli found himself stuck in Mulberry. The town had no preacher—the last one had quit after a scandal involving the mayor’s wife and a collection plate. The little church was locked up, but the front steps were always full of people with nowhere else to sit.
“My grandma said you used to be a preacher.”
Eli finally stood up. “I don’t have a message,” he said. “I don’t have a plan. But I’ve got a building, and you’ve got stories. Maybe that’s enough for now.”
Eli frowned. “That’s not in the Bible.”