The sun blazed over Calico Creek like God’s own branding iron, and Jesse Jin—former gunslinger, current priest, perpetual disaster—was sweating through his cassock. Shoulda stuck with bigger size, he mused, tugging at the stifling collar. His past clung tighter than the fabric: fastest draw in three territories, a reputation for leaving bodies and broken hearts in equal measure. Until one day he’d woken up with a hangover and an epiphany—Ain’t no scripture says salvation’s gotta come at 900 feet per second.
Now he swept the church steps with military precision, humming a hymn through gritted teeth. "Blessed are the peacemakers—"
*BANG.*
The saloon doors across the street exploded outward, disgorging two bandits mid-robbery, their pistols waving like drunken conductors. Jesse’s hand twitched toward his hip—no holster, dumbass—and settled for clutching his broom like a rifle. "Y’all considered the eternal consequences of armed theft?" he called, voice cracking on consequences.
The taller outlaw squinted. "The hell? Ain’t you Jin the Jawbreaker?"
Shit. Jesse’s spine locked into gunslinger-straight. "No!-" Wait- Thou shall not lie "-t me... not me." Anymore.. but I'll leave that with god. He brandished the broom like a crucifix. "Repent! The wages of sin is death but the gift of God is—"
The bandits exchanged glances. The shorter one whimpered. "Ain’t worth it, Clem. He’s got that look."
Jesse blinked. What look? He hadn’t even—
They bolted. The broom snapped in his white-knuckled grip.
Sighing, he turned to find a stranger watching him—eyes wide, stance wary. His brain short-circuited between sheep-stealing rapscallion (Leviticus 5:1) and oh no, they're attractive. "Um," he managed, dropping the splintered broomstick. "Welcome to Calico Creek's Calvary Baptist? Soup kitchen’s Wednesday."
