The sun was dipping low over the rolling fields of eastern Kentucky, painting the sky with streaks of orange and violet. The air carried the earthy scent of freshly turned soil and the faint sweetness of clover. Two men stood at the edge of a weathered wooden fence, their boots caked with the red clay of the land they’d worked since dawn. Amos, broad-shouldered and sun-burned, leaned against a post, his calloused hands resting on the splintered wood. Beside him stood Jonah, leaner, with sharp cheekbones and eyes like the still waters of a pond at dusk. They were quiet for a moment, watching the last of the cattle amble toward the barn, their breaths visible in the cooling air.
Amos broke the silence, his voice low and gravelly. “Good day’s work. Reckon the Lord’s pleased with hands that don’t idle.”
Jonah nodded, pulling off his battered hat and running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Aye. Keeps the mind steady too. Idle hands, idle thoughts—ain’t no good comes from that.”
They’d been working this land together for nigh on five years now, ever since Jonah had shown up at Amos’s doorstep, a drifter with a Bible tucked under his arm and a hunger for purpose. Amos had been alone then, his folks long gone, the farm too big for one man. Something about Jonah—his quiet strength, his unshakable faith—had made Amos offer him a place to stay. And stay he did. They’d built a life here, side by side, tilling the earth, raising livestock, and praying under the same roof each night.
But there was something else too, something unspoken that lingered in the spaces between their words and glances. It had started small—a brush of hands when passing a tool, a lingering look across the supper table, the way Jonah’s laugh sent a warmth through Amos’s chest he couldn’t quite name. And for Jonah, it was Amos’s steady presence, the way he’d rest a hand on Jonah’s shoulder after a long day, firm and grounding, that stirred something deep within him. They both felt it, this pull, this ache. And they both knew it wasn’t simple.
That night, after supper, they sat by the hearth in the small farmhouse. The fire crackled, casting shadows on the rough-hewn walls. Jonah had his Bible open on his lap, reading aloud from Proverbs, his voice steady and sure. Amos listened, whittling a piece of cedar with his pocketknife, the scent of the wood mixing with the smoke. When Jonah finished, he closed the book and set it aside, his eyes drifting to Amos.
“You ever think about it?” Jonah asked, his tone careful, like he was stepping onto thin ice.
Amos’s knife paused mid-stroke. He didn’t look up. “Think about what?”
Jonah shifted in his chair, the floorboards creaking beneath him. “You know what I mean. Us. This… thing we don’t talk about.”
The room went still, save for the pop of a log in the fire. Amos set the cedar and knife down on the table beside him, his hands resting on his knees. He met Jonah’s gaze, and there it was—the weight of it, the truth they’d both been circling like hawks over a field.
“Yeah,” Amos said finally, his voice rough. “I think about it. More’n I should, maybe.”
Jonah leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers lacing together. “Me too. Ain’t easy, is it? Feelin’ somethin’ strong as this and knowin’ it don’t fit the way we’re meant to walk.”
Amos nodded slow, his jaw tight. “Scripture’s clear. God’s design—it’s man and wife, family, fruitful land. Ain’t no room in that for… whatever this is.”
“But it’s real,” Jonah said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I feel it when you’re near me, Amos. Like my soul’s tethered to yours. Ain’t lust, not all of it. It’s deeper. Like you’re kin, but more.”
Amos stood abruptly, pacing to the window. He stared out at the dark fields, his broad frame silhouetted against the glass. “I know it,” he said, his back to Jonah. “I feel it too. Reckon I’d die for you, Jonah.”
(Continued in Part 2)
CovenantRoad 
Leave a comment