Page 61 of Hunt for You

“Both,” he said a moment later, then his eyes cut up from the cup to me, like he was watching to see how I’d react.

“You went to prison?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

He frowned. “I was in for almost four years. I was supposed to have six, but they let me out early for good behavior. But it was enough. I didn’t want to go back—at least, not on that side of the bars. By then I’d already met Jesus and was starting to help the other inmates. So they took a chance on me, I guess.”

“The prison? Or the church?”

He huffed. “Both, again,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I had to find a job when I got out, and it’s funny how working is supposed to be part of demonstrating your rehabilitation, even though most businesses won’t hire a convicted felon. I was in touch with the pastor at the prison and told him how I was struggling, and he said the guys missed me and… yeah, it kind of went from there. Now I’ve been out and serving… four… almost five years?”

My brows rose. “You’re the Priest at the prison?” Then I looked down at his forearms and tipped my head. “I suppose that makes more sense, though.”

“I’m not a Priest.”

I gave him a skeptical look. “You were praying with old ladies. You wear a cross. And in the middle of the day on a Tuesday, you’re in church.” I pointed at him. “Priest.”

He arched one brow in aheavenly—no pun intended—boyish charm expression. Then he shook his head and counted his points off his fingers. “I don’t have to be celibate, just married for sex. I don’t wear collars, or swing incense. And no funny hats,” he said pointing towards his own head. “No one has to call me Father. I just talk to people. I’m a shepherd. A mentor. A coach… a spiritual advisor. The church calls me a Pastor.”

“Pastor, priest. What’s the difference?” I asked with a snort.

“You’d be surprised. A lot of being a priest is ritual—how you look, what you say, what you do. Most of my job is about the heart. How you feel, why you make the choices you do, why God cares… that kind of thing.”

I let him see on my face that it was a dubious distinction, but I wasn’t going to argue with a man of the cloth. “Well, you don’t look like a Priest, so maybe you’re right.”

“Oh? How should a Priest look? Like Richard?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. But trust me, that’s not a compliment. I think if more Priests looked like you, there’d be a lot more people ready to go say prayers on a Sunday,” I snorted.

He chuckled. “Well, then, I guess… bring your friends?”

I actually laughed at that. This dude was wild. And I needed something to distract me from everything else right now. “So, seriously though, you work out at the State Penitentiary? And they called youhere?”

Sam gave a grim smile. “Yes—andyes.I guess they were in the middle of looking for a replacement for Richard to work here, and there’s not a lot of pastors with part-time schedules out this way. So they asked if I’d spend a few weeks here until they could appoint a new pastor.”

“Tell them to keep you on,” I said seriously.

His eyes went wide and he physically leaned away, waving his free hand in protest.“No.This isn’t the place for me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, these people love Jesus and I’m happy to serve. But… just no. I’m not the right shepherd here. I’m just helping out. And trust me, no one was more surprised than me when they asked me to do it. I’m more used to gang bangers than quilters. Some of the old ladies were a little intimidated this morning,” he said with a self-deprecating twist on his lips. “I don’t want to be the reason someonedoesn’tcome to God.”

It was weird, seeing that expression on his lips and hearing that tone. Iknewthat feeling. And for me it had nothing to do with God. It was just straight judgment.

People took a look, or learned something, thought they knew what they were seeing, and acted accordingly.

And it sucked.

The ghosts of my past wanted to float up then, my brain conjuring images of the things that happened to and around me, and all the ways it made people afraid of me. I shivered and shook my head.

“Well, I don’t know about the God part, but I get that whole judgment thing. And I’m glad that’s not how you… work.”

“I’m hardly in a position to judge others—convicted felon, remember?”

I nodded and took another sip of coffee, staring at him over the rim of my mug.

He gave a flat little smile. “Just ask. I’m not scared to talk about it.”

“What were you convicted of?” I blurted.