I want to fall into him. To hand him my phone and my fear and let him say we’ll handle it together. To stay. To see this through. To stop running.
But the words on that screen are still burned into my vision.Running again, Faith?
My father’s shadow stretches farther than the walls of this room, all the way back to the city, all the way forward into whatever future he thinks he can still buy for me.
“I’m sorry,” I say instead of answering him. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I shove my feet into my boots, grab my coat, and fumble my way out of his room. The hallway blurs. I catch a glimpse of family photos on the wall, of Lila’s crayon drawing stuck to the fridge as I pass the kitchen, and my chest splinters all over again.
Rusty lifts his head from his dog bed in the corner, ears pricking. He thumps his tail once against the floor as if he’s about to get a walk. I choke back a sound that’s almost a sob.
“Sorry, Rusty,” I whisper. “Not today.”
The cold outside hits my face like a slap when I stumble out the front door, and for one second, it’s almost enough to snap me out of it. The sky is soft and gray, the world muffled with snow. My truck sits in the driveway, waiting.
My hands shake so hard that I drop the keys once I get the door open.
By the time I’m on the road, tears are spilling freely down my cheeks, blurring the world into streaks of white and brown and muted evergreen. My breath comes in short, jagged pulls that fog up the windshield faster than the defroster can handle.
“He found me,” I whisper to the empty cab. “He actually found me.”
Evan’s face flashes in my mind too, all polished charm and clenched teeth. He hates being embarrassed almost as much as my father does. There’s a part of me that’s now almost more afraid of his reaction than my dad’s.
Two men. One I was supposed to marry. One I was supposed to obey. Both of them furious. Both of them with money and connections and an unstoppable need to control the narrative.
And then there’s Dallas.
Dallas, who has done nothing but offer me kindness and space and the possibility of real.
The thought of my father’s anger touching him, touching Lila, touching this ranch that has taken me in, is unbearable.
So I do what I’ve always done.
I cut myself out of the picture before someone else can.
By the time I pull up to Mom’s house, my eyes burn and my head pounds. I don’t even remember half the drive. I barely get the truck into park before the door swings open.
Mom appears on the porch, cardigan wrapped tight over her pajamas, hair half twisted up with a clip. Her face goes from sleepy confusion to concern in about half a second when she gets a good look at me.
“Faith?” she calls over the crunch of my boots as I stumble up the walk. “Honey, what on earth…”
I make it as far as the first step before whatever fragile thread I’ve been holding onto snaps. My vision blurs again, the house doubling and swimming.
“I’m sorry,” I choke. I’m not even sure what I’m apologizing for anymore. Running from the wedding. Running to Buckhorn. Running from Dallas. All of the above. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”
She doesn’t ask another question right away. She just comes down the steps fast and meets me halfway, arms opening like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.
I fall into her, full body, as if I’m five years old again and scraped my knee on the gravel. Except this hurts a thousand times more, and there’s no bandage in the world that’s going to fix it.
She wraps me up, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other rubbing firm circles between my shoulder blades.
“It’s okay,” she says, over and over. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
I sob into her shoulder, clutching her cardigan like it’s a lifeline. All the fear and shame and grief and exhaustion pour out in ugly, gulping waves. My legs feel shaky, so she steers me gently up the remaining steps and inside, lingering only long enough to shut the door against the cold.
The living room is warm, curtains half drawn. The couch looks like it’s waiting, too. Mom guides me to it, sits me down, then disappears, only to come back with a box of tissues and a blanket that smells faintly of fabric softener and wood smoke.
She settles beside me and tucks the blanket carefully around my shoulders, the way she used to when I fell asleep on the couch during storms. Then she turns sideways, one knee up on the cushion, giving me her full attention.
