“Faith,” I say after the beep, forcing calm into my voice because panic won’t help her hear me. “It’s me. I’m here. I just got to your mom’s. Call me back. Right now.”
I hang up and look around again.
Behind me, her mom steps onto the porch, pulling her coat tighter. I hear the worry in her breathing even before she speaks.
“She wouldn’t just walk off,” she says.
“Maybe,” I say carefully, already not liking the sound of my own voice, “maybe she thought we were meeting somewhere else. The diner, or?—”
“She would’ve told me,” her mom says, shaking her head before I can finish. “She was very clear. She said she’d wait. Besides, her car is here.”
The unease sharpens into something colder, heavier, settling low in my stomach.
“I’ll check town,” I say. “Be right back.”
She hesitates, then nods. “Please call me.”
“I will,” I promise, and head back to the truck faster than I should be walking, my breath fogging hard in the air.
I drive slow, eyes scanning sidewalks, porches, parked cars, every shadow stretching a little too long. Faith isn’t the kind of woman who disappears easily. She stands out without trying. Always has. The idea of her just vanishing into the dark doesn’t sit right.
I turn onto Main Street, the diner lit up as a beacon at the center of it all. Steam fogs the windows, neon humming faintly above the door. If Faith went anywhere, it would be here.
I park crooked and push inside.
Warmth hits me immediately. Coffee, grease, sugar, the familiar smell of Buckhorn’s unofficial meeting place. Jet looks up from behind the counter, a smile already forming until she really looks at my face.
“Evenin’, cowboy. You’re early for?—”
“Have you seen Faith?” I cut in.
Her smile falters. “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
She shakes her head slowly. “No. Not tonight.”
Martha Lou, refilling sugar caddies at the far end, glances up. “Seen her this afternoon,” she calls. “But not since.”
My stomach sinks.
“Thanks,” I say, already backing toward the door. “I’ll find her, I’m sure it’s just…”
What?
A mix-up?
I don’t know anymore.
Outside, the cold bites harder than before. I tell myself not to jump to conclusions, not to borrow trouble that hasn’t earned it yet. Faith is an adult. She knows this town. She could’ve doubled back, could be walking, could’ve decided she needed air, and forgotten to say anything.
People are allowed to change plans.
Still, my hands are tight on the steering wheel as I circle the last few streets. I slow near the park. Check the benches. The library lot. The stretch of road that leads back toward her mom’s place. Nothing. No familiar coat, no flash of blonde hair, no movement that makes my chest ease.
I don’t want to get dramatic. I really don’t. I’ve spent years training myself not to panic, not to assume the worst just because my instincts are loud. Ranch life teaches you that most things have explanations if you give them time.
But the problem is… time keeps moving.
