Reverend Pritchard cleared his throat as if he could cough up mercy. “We are gathered here today…”
His words fell flat. The congregation didn’t smile. They didn’t coo. They didn’t soften the way people did at weddings where love had been invited.
This wasn’t a blessing. It was a collection.
In the front pew, Clara’s brother Mark sat with his arms crossed, satisfied as a man watching a debt finally come due. Beside him, Judith held a lace fan to her lips and let out a little giggle that made Clara’s stomach knot.
Then the church door opened.
The sound was small, but it cut through the room like a knife.
Silence snapped into place.
A man stepped inside, and the temperature seemed to drop with him.
He moved down the aisle with the deliberate pace of someone who had learned long ago that rushing never saved anyone. His coat was dark wool, worn at the cuffs. His boots struck the floorboards with a steady, unhurried echo. His shoulders were broad, the kind that made doorways look narrower by comparison. Hair the color of iron and ash was tied back with a strip of leather, and a scar ran from his eyebrow to his cheekbone like a pale lightning bolt.
His eyes were storm-gray, the color of weather rolling over the Rockies.
