The morning rose like a hymn. Sunlight filtered through the slats of the old barn, slicing the air into ribbons of gold that danced in the hay dust. Lanterns swung gently on their hooks, casting a warm glow over rows of rough-hewn benches, where neighbors and kinfolk sat shoulder to shoulder. The praise band struck up—fiddle, guitar, a mandolin strumming clean—and the voices swelled, rising against the timber beams until the whole place seemed alive with sound.
Ryder sat near the front, his Stetson laid brim-down on the bench beside him, his broad shoulders taut with nerves. The smell of hay, woodsmoke, and Sunday perfume mingled in the air, and he let the music roll through him like a tide. Excitement and fear tangled in his chest, the way it used to before the chute gate banged open at
