I squeak, arms flying up around his neck on instinct. For a heartbeat, I’m pressed against his chest, the solid heat of him searing through the thin bodice of my dress. He smells of leather and coffee. Cedar, maybe, and a hint of smoke.
“Just till we hit the driveway,” he says, like this is no big thing, as if he doesn’t have a whole woman plus ten pounds of tulle in his arms.
His breath puffs warm against my temple. “Safer this way.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Faith,” he says, and somehow my name comes out half warning, half… something else. “It’s fine. Let me.”
It’s the “let me” that undoes me. For years, the only people “letting me” do anything have been letting me obey, letting me fit in, letting me be what they want. This is the opposite; this is him asking to take care of me.
My throat tightens. I nod into his shoulder and don’t argue again.
The walk up the drive is a blur of dark and white and the crunch of his boots in the snow. My head rests against his shoulder because I can’t quite hold it up. My fingers curl into the wool of his coat, hanging on because he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s gone weird and slanted.
“You still living at the ranch?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“Yeah.” The word comes out clipped. “Some of us stick.”
Ouch.
The sting is sharp, even through the numbness. My grip tightens reflexively. “Dallas, I?—”
“Faith.” He adjusts his hold on me, not looking down. “Maybe save it for when you’re not shaking like a leaf, okay?”
Right. Fair.
By the time we reach the wide front steps, my teeth are chattering so hard they make my skull ache. The big wreath on the door is new but familiar in style: pinecones, plaid ribbon, a spray of red berries. Maggie McCoy’s handiwork, no doubt.
He shifts me carefully so he can open the door, hip bumping it inward with the ease of someone who’s done this his whole life. Warmth rushes out to meet us, scented with pine and ham and wood smoke and sweetness… cocoa, maybe.
Rusty shoots past us the second the gap’s big enough.
I’m suddenly acutely aware that I am in a stranger version of a familiar place, in a wedding dress, cradled like some damsel on the threshold. If I weren’t already trembling, that’d do it.
“Keep your head down,” Dallas murmurs as he carries me over the threshold. “Everyone’s asleep. No need for a full McCoy welcome committee at midnight.”
“Midnight?” I croak.
Time lost meaning somewhere around the hotel parking lot.
“Almost,” he says. “You got in under the wire. Santa Claus would be impressed.”
He veers left, still wrong-footing me, because my mental map of this house is years out of date, and nudges open a door I know: the living room. He sets me down gently on the big, worn couch that used to be the site of all our movie marathons. It sags familiarly under my weight. I topple sideways, clutching at my skirt to keep it from swallowing the coffee table.
The room spins. I squeeze my eyes shut, drawing in a shaky breath, and open them slowly.
The living room looks both exactly the same and entirely different. Same stone fireplace, same oak mantel lined with family photos and old rodeo buckles. Same crocheted throw over the back of the recliner, probably courtesy of some church lady.
But there are new pictures, too. Boone and Rose, laughing in front of the barn. A little girl with familiar McCoy blue eyes and a gap in her front teeth, holding a bucket bigger than her head. A baby in a cowboy hat too big for his skull.
Stockings hang from the mantel. Two catch my attention, the ones with names plastered across them.Elliein glitter glue, andLilain carefully stitched letters.
“Well,” Dallas says, breaking into my thoughts. He’s standing a couple of feet away now, arms folded across his chest, gaze sweeping over me. “You look like a snow-drenched cupcake.”
A weak laugh escapes me. “Is that your professional opinion?”
“Yup.” He jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s still in the same place. Third door on the left. You think you can walk that far without face planting?”
