T
he woodshop felt like the one place that was truly Cap’s—not the house and certainly not the church. Those places would always be his father’s domains. Cap merely occupied them, and despite his ownership, they’d never really be his.
But the woodshop was different. He had built the structure with his own two hands. Pouring the foundation, framing the building, running the electrical and installing the wood-shingled roof. It was a place to retreat from the responsibilities of the church, away from the house with all its rooms furnished and decorated by his parents, removed from the demands and expectations of the community. It was a place that was his and no one else’s.
He hunched over a workbench along the back wall, sanding the shelves of a small bookshelf. He wasn’t wearing goggles o
