Part of me wants to say no. Wants to handle it myself. Wants to kick down doors and drag Faith back into the truck as if I can muscle my way through this the way I muscle through storms and broken fences.
But Mom’s right.
This isn’t ranch trouble.
This is a man with money and influence and a daughter he treats as property.
We need backup.
I nod once. “Boone, call Carson. Nash, get the truck ready. Clay, grab whatever you need. Rose, screenshot everything. If they try to say she’s happy, if they try to twist it, I want proof.”
Rose nods and starts tapping furiously, saving the messages, taking screenshots as if her life depends on it.
My whole body feels wired. I’ve been living underwater, and someone finally yanked me to the surface.
But there’s no relief yet. Not really.
Only urgency.
Rose grabs my sleeve as I move toward the back door.
“Dallas,” she pleads. “Please bring her back.”
My chest tightens. I meet her gaze.
“I will,” I promise.
And I don’t even care if it’s arrogant. I don’t care if it’s unrealistic.
Faith asked for help.
That means she still exists under all that control.
That means she’s still fighting.
And I am not leaving her there.
Nash tears out of the mudroom with keys in hand. “Truck’s ready.”
Clay is already pulling on his coat, eyes dark. “If Evan’s there?—”
“He will be.”
Boone steps in close, a hand on my shoulder.
“Listen to me,” he says quietly. “We do this smart. We don’t give them a reason to paint you as violent or unstable.”
I swallow, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Because I can already picture it.
A headline:Local Cowboy Storms Office, Harasses Bride.
A story:Faith is safe, she’s just confused.
A photo:Evan with his arm around her waist, smiling.
A press release:We ask for privacy in this difficult time.
