“Okay,” she says gently. “Start from the beginning. Or the middle. Or the end. Wherever you can.”
It takes me a while. The words get stuck in my throat, tangling with old fear and fresh guilt. I stare down at my hands, still shaking, and realize the phone is still in them, the screen dark, its weight obnoxiously small for the amount of damage it can do.
I force myself to turn it on.
The photo glares up at me as a bruise.
Mom’s lips thin as I thrust it toward her with a whisper. “He knows.”
She takes the phone carefully, like it might bite. Her eyes skim the image, then the text underneath. Her face goes very still, a muscle ticking in her jaw I’ve only seen a few times in my life.
“Did he say it was him?”
“No.” My laugh comes out broken. “He doesn’t have to. You can hear him, can’t you? That’s his voice. His… message. Running again, Faith. Humiliating me again. Making a mess again.”
The image on the phone wobbles and blurs as fresh tears well up.
“I’m so scared,” I whisper. “I don’t know what he’s going to do. I embarrassed him in front of clients, partners, and whoever else he invited. And now I’m here, and he knows, and if he goes after Dallas or the ranch or you or Charlotte…”
My voice breaks entirely.
Mom’s hand lands over mine, grounding and warm. “Hey. Look at me.”
I force my gaze up.
“You have done nothing wrong,” she says, each word crisp. She’s choosing them as carefully as my father chooses his cutting remarks. “You left a man you didn’t love before you signed away the rest of your life. You ran from a situation that was suffocating you. You fell for someone who actually sees you. If that embarrasses him, that’s his problem.”
“He doesn’t see it that way,” I breathe.
“No,” she agrees. “He doesn’t. And that’s why I left him.”
The reminder hits with a quiet thud. She’s been where I am. She knows the landscape.
“But you know what else?” she continues, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “He doesn’t have the power here that he thinks he does. Not in this house. Not in this town. Not over you, unless you hand it to him.”
“I don’t know how not to,” I admit. “I’ve been bending myself around him for so long, I don’t… I don’t remember how to stand straight.”
Her expression crumples, grief and anger and love mixing together. Then she takes a breath, smooths it out, and squeezes my hand.
“That’s okay,” she says quietly. “That’s what healing’s for. We’ll figure it out. One little stand at a time.”
I really hope she’s right…
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Dallas
January 21st
The ranch doesn’t careif your heart just got yanked out of your chest.
Cows still need feeding, pipes still freeze, and fences still fall down in the same damn spot they always fall down. I think they might be doing it on purpose.
The sun comes up. Boots go on. That’s the deal.
So that’s what I do.
I pull on jeans that still smell a little of her shampoo, tug on a flannel, and shove my arms into my coat. I make coffee strong enough to melt a spoon and pretend it’s just another morning.
