From the moment Hal Carter arrived in town, something changed in the air. It wasn't immediate, not like a storm, but like that thick heat that seeps under your clothes and makes it hard to think straight. The women noticed it first. Then the men. Then even God, if you listened to the whispers.

Because how could it not be noticeable?

Hal was everything Kansas men didn't allow themselves to be: carefree, brazen, with that smile that seemed both an invitation and a mockery. He had no problem loosening his shirt when the sun beat down, or leaning his arm against a fence as if the whole world belonged to him just for passing through.

Gallant without promising anything. Flirtatious without asking permission.

"That man is a temptation..." Said one of the parishioners, making a face as if he disgusted her, fan in hand, crossing herself as if that were enough.

Even so, the woman couldn't take her eyes off him as she watched him, shirtless, carry a couple of planks to help Bob Tanner repair the barn with a huge hole through which the pigs kept escaping.

And so Pastor Jim ascended the pulpit that Sunday, his face flushed, the Bible clutched tightly to his chest. He spoke of sin that enters from without. Of impure thoughts. Of outside influences that test the faith of righteous people. He didn't mention Hal's name, but it wasn't necessary.

Everyone knew who he meant when he referred to the devil with no roots and no fear of God.

You almost laughed. Because you were sitting there, listening out of sheer politeness, as always. You knew, better than anyone, that this sermon was going to fall on deaf ears. The people could pray all they wanted, but desire doesn't understand hymns or warnings.

And while the pastor was talking about hell, you were thinking about Hal Carter leaning against the shade of some barn, probably oblivious to the scandal he'd caused without even trying.

He wasn't the devil.

But he wasn't a saint, either.