thinking—her, a city girl, relocating to Mysteria, a tiny hamlet in the Rockies, assuming she’d make churchgoers out of the locals here, who, um, weren’t like any people she’d ever met anyplace else. There were supernatural happenings in the town, you couldn’t miss them, really, and she had her suspicions that more than a few of the townsfolk had supernatural abilities. But God loved all creatures: great or small, good or bad, moral or immoral. Mortal or . . . ?
Harmony stopped that train of thought before it jumped the track. She was here because after two tours as an air force chaplain, she’d been looking for a new challenge.
Six months ago, the church had been a tumbledown farmhouse with a barn on five overgrown acres. With the help of her father and brothers, she’d renovated the house, which now did double duty as a public place of worship and her personal living quarters, a cozy little home located in the back. She’d even stitched the white eyelet curtains herself in a spurt of delirious domesticity. Then her family had returned to Oakland, leaving her to grow her flock. Except that, aside from a few curious townspeople, no one had showed up.
Time . . . she had plenty of that lately.
Well, she’d simply have to drum up a little of the faith in herself that she’d always seemed to be able to drum up in everyone else. After all, she was Harmony Faithfull, the daughter of Jacob Jethro Faithfull IV, Oakland’s most famous, and often infamous, but always ebullient, pastor of South Avenue Church. Daddy was a man who could fill football stadiums and concert halls with worshippers, who often traveled hundreds of miles to hear him speak. Charisma and the good word, it was a potent combination.
Harmony thumped her fist on the podium, and the puppy jumped. “It’s in my genes,” she said out loud. “I can’t forget that. God sent me here because I have a job to do.”
Bubba seemed to agree, a long pink puppy tongue draped over one side of his open mouth.
Harmony crumpled one of the sheets of lined paper she’d used for her sermon, crushed it in her fist, and aimed the ball of paper at the wastebasket across from the pulpit. It clipped the rim and spun inside. “Two points!”
She tapped a finger against her chin. “Maybe we can start an after-school basketball team. What do you think of that, Bubba-licious?” The puppy wagged his long black tail.
The idea of an after-school basketball team had worked for her father and some inner-city kids when he was fresh out of divinity school. The hoops had brought the children, and then the mothers, who’d dragged the fathers and the boyfriends, and within the year there was an entire community with Sunday potlucks and a fifty-two- member choir. Not that she could picture any of the O’Cleary great-grandkids shooting hoops, but it’d be a start. It was all about getting people through the door.
MYSTERIA COMMUNITY CHURCH. ALL FAITHS WELCOME. That last part she’d painted onto the sign as an afterthought when weeks had gone by and nary a lost soul tromped through the door. Well, save Jeanie Tortellini, the town sheriff, and sometimes Candice, the high school English teacher. They’d drop by to see how she was settling in, staying for chitchat and coffee but not the good word. But then, Harmony firmly believed everyone was welcome here, for whatever reasons they chose to come. If they preferred their so-called magic, fine, but Harmony’s calling was to let them know God watched over them as well. As a child, her parents had taught her that a true heart excluded no one, and that the church was the heart of the village.
Except in Mysteria, where that honor was held by Knight Caps, the local bar.
Harmony sighed. How could she convince the townspeople to congregate here instead? At least on Sundays. What did she have that they couldn’t find anywhere else? Well, besides the obvious, she thought with a vertical glance.
“God, I need your help. Show me how to fill up this church, and I’ll do the rest. Please.” Harmony squeezed her eyes shut and prayed. Prayed until her head throbbed and her eyes hurt. Prayed until she was all prayed out. And then she started wishing, plain old wishing, like you would on a four-leaf clover, or a star, because sometimes, even in matters of the spirit, and maybe
The floor rumbled. Was that the old furnace kicking on? No, it was warm today, too warm for the heater.
The earth moved again. Harmony frowned at her drinking glass still sitting on the podium. The water was rippling like San Francisco Bay on a windy day. No, the rumbling definitely wasn’t from the furnace. It was coming from somewhere outside. Strange. Everyone knew a major fault line ran through Missouri. But Colorado?
One good jolt almost threw her to her knees. Then it was quiet.
Bubba started barking. In an instant, he’d transformed from drowsy puppy to barking, fur-covered projectile. Zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds, nails scrabbling for purchase on the hardwood, he flew out the front door.
“Bubba!” Grabbing the gauzy cotton of her skirt, Harmony hurried after the dog to the flower garden she’d planted near an ancient, gnarled apple tree. THE GARDEN OF EDEN, according to the ornamental iron garden sign that her sister Hope had mailed her as a housewarming gift. “Bubba! Bubba, come here!”
Three women jogged past on the road fronting the church. They were feminine confections coated in spandex, bling jingling, ponytails bouncing. One woman carried a broomstick gripped in her hand. Hmm, that was a little different, but maybe it was good for the arms. They waved, and Harmony, smiled, waving back. Now she remembered them—the Tawdry sisters. They had the most brilliant hazel eyes that almost seemed to glow. There was something else unusual about them, too, but Harmony couldn’t place her finger on exactly what. But they, like the rest of the women in town, were always nice, if a little racy.
Black lace bra types, Harmony had dubbed them in private. Not meaning any disrespect. Her own sisters were black lace bra types. Not that Harmony had anything against a woman knowing her own charms or being confident about sex. God had never dissed procreation. In fact, He encouraged it—within the context of a committed, monogamous relationship, of course.
“Ain’t that the truth?” Harmony followed the puppy across the lawn. Birds chirped; bees buzzed. The sky was a pure, clear blue. And the sunshine, the scent of pine, she could almost taste it. Face lifted to the sun, she inhaled deeply and became so carried away by her appreciation of the outdoors that she swept right past the naked man who was the target of Bubba’s frantic barking.
The naked . . .
. . . man?
Harmony froze, the skirt falling out of her hands. There was no naked man.
Heart thumping, Harmony whirled around. Yep, there was a man there, and he was most definitely naked, sprawled on his side among the flowers, one thick, muscled thigh thrown forward, the sunshine bouncing off his butt.
Three
Wow. Eyes wide, Harmony stood there, staring, rooted to the ground, as if her foot were locked in cement. She’d asked God to send her a sign. But she’d never expected anything like this! The best naked man she’d ever seen, she decided with no small amount of half-crazed, hormone-driven, lust-fueled objectivity. And she’d seen her share of naked men.
Hmm. That didn’t sound right. But it was true, naked men in her life had been a buck a dozen. Only she just hadn’t slept with them. Her one affair, in college, was a pleasant but distant memory, and since then she’d spied naked men, fairly frequently, glimpses here and there, in and out of locker rooms, military field hospitals, and in the desert, where there hadn’t been much privacy when she’d served as a pastor in Iraq....
Right. And what in the name of heaven was he doing there? Men didn’t just fall out of the sky.
