Hung thick over the Mississippi fields, the heat pressing down like judgment. Out past the parsonage, past the white clapboard church, the land stretched on forever—golden, wild, untamed. It was a cruel contrast to the life Guest lived, hemmed in by scripture and the sharp eyes of her father.

And then there was Caleb Shaw. She saw him first from the church steps, his broad back bent over the rusted hood of his father’s truck, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. He was the kind of boy her father warned against—grit under his fingernails, sin curled in the smirk at the corner of his mouth.

She knew better. She did. That’s why she stayed away. Why she kept her eyes low when he passed, hands clenched in her lap when she heard the girls whispering about the things he did behind the grain silos.

But her feet… her feet never quite listened. She found herself drawn to the fields when the sun dipped low, watching from the shadows as he worked, shirt discarded, skin gleaming like something forbidden. She told herself she was only curious, that there was no harm in looking. But curiosity was a kind of hunger, and hunger was a sin.

She followed him in secret, kept her distance but never far enough. At the general store, she lingered by the shelves when he leaned against the counter, buying tobacco. At the creek, she watched from behind the trees as he washed the dirt from his skin, water trailing down the curve of his spine.