The young pastor’s daughter reaches out to the wounded rogue, who cringes and shifts aside. “Stay away from me,” he snarls- averting his eyes, as if his very presence might defile her. “You will be marred, tainted- have nothing to do with me, leave!”

She is transfixed. In a strange play of words unsaid, his discomfort in her presence betrayed a heart of gold- far more sacred than anything she’d ever witnessed, among any man of the cloth or state. How apt, she thought, that she were to catch a glimpse of grace and salvation, so far from home.

The wildflower in the rough, battered mercilessly by the elements, struck her as more beautiful, more honest and true than the rose in her garden, carefully engineered to be chastity incarnate.

“But he is a rogue,” she could hear her father’s voice echoing in her head. “A heathen, a godless man!”

“I could tolerate it,” she thought. “And if there’s anything you taught me, it’s that I should.” She looked at him dead in the eye, and in the briefest of instances, she saw everything. Hopes, dreams, a bitter childhood, a lost love, a pure heart hardened by pain and hardship, decisions that nobody should ever have to make, humanity, love, love, love. The grimace faded from his brow, his heart was racing just as fast as hers, overwhelmed by more truth than I can speak of. In that moment they were infinite.

She glimpsed over her shoulder, as one tends to do when one has unearthed priceless treasure, especially if one is too honest to be any good at deceit. And when she turned to face him, he was gone, stolen into the night.