Page 4 of Soaring and Steadfast

But then, a voice cut through the jubilation, a woman’s, hesitant and skeptical.

“Wait… He’s a pastor?” She gestured at Louis, her brows furrowed. “He’s completely trashed and drunker than a skunk. Is this even legal?”

Louis exhaled sharply, a flicker of amusement stirring in his chest.

“Pasteur, are you drunk?” Trophy asked, his tone teasing.

Louis tilted his head, the weight of the moment pressing into him again. “I’m drinking—yes. Are you asking if I am inebriated?”

Trophy chuckled, glancing at the woman beside him with a knowing look. “Yeah, I am. The man is a stickler for details. So, Pasteur, we need to know if you are inebriated?”

“Not in the slightest.” Louis straightened, lifting his stein like a knight lifting a chalice. “I’m of French-Canadian descent. We do nothing but drink and smoke in the wintertime because there’s nothing else to do during the heavy snows.”

Laughter rippled around them, the mood shifting once more. Yet Louis still felt that weight pressing into his ribs—the sense that something sacred was unfolding in the midst of the revelry.

The bar moved like the tide, bodies shifting, tables scraping, space being made. And for the briefest second, Louis saw her—his blonde angel. The sight of her stole his breath, something inside him tightening and twisting, but before he could move, she was gone again, slipping into the crowd like mist at dawn.

He swallowed hard, then downed the last of his beer. A deep breath, a straightening of his shoulders, and he turned back to face Trophy and the woman who gazed at him like he hung the moon.

Louis shook his head, exhaling in disbelief. Trophy had done a lot of reckless things, but this? This was something else entirely.

He squared his shoulders, something solemn settling over him. “Do you, Trophy, take the new Mrs. Trophy for yourlawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, for so long as you both shall live?”

His voice carried over the crowd, steady despite the storm within him.

“What’s your name and address, dumplin’?” he asked, turning to the bride.

“Stephanie Michelle Wood,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “What’s that for?”

Louis met her gaze, something deep and reverent flickering in his own. “I take my blessings seriously—and being able to unite two people is a big deal to me. When I get back to my bunk, I’ll fill out the license and mail it to you.”

A breath hitched in her throat, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

“Oh.”

“Yup.” Louis beamed. “I don’t fool around. I think the Lord would be really upset if I didn’t take this seriously.”

The laughter around them softened, reverence settling over the moment like a hush before prayer.

“Trophy, you got anything you want to say in your vows?”

“Nope.” Trophy smirked. “I do this freely, without hesitation, and I’m gonna make sure my wife enjoys this and doesn’t regret it in the morning.”

The bar roared again, laughter and ribbing flying from every direction. Louis rolled his eyes. Yep. These were his boys.

“Do you, Stephanie Michelle Wood, A.K.A Mrs. Trophy, do you take ma’ boy to be your husband? He’s a great guy that can run his mouth with the best of them, but deep down, he’s a winner—even if he’s a loser on the outside.”

“Thanks, Pasteur,” Trophy groaned. “’Preciate the vote of confidence.”

Louis grinned, glancing around once more for his blonde angel, but she was gone. The moment swayed in his chest, something unspoken twisting inside him.

Trophy and Stephanie were murmuring to each other, their foreheads nearly touching, and Louis felt it again—the sharp ache of something slipping just beyond his grasp.

His stomach lurched.

Maybe it was the beer.

Maybe it was somethingelseentirely.

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