The room is dim, lit only by the thin gray light sneaking in around the edges of the curtain. The air holds a faint chill; this back corner of the house is always the coldest. I make a mental note to bring in another heater if she ends up staying more than a night.
Faith lies on her side in the bed, facing the door, one hand tucked under the pillow, the other curled near her chest around the edge of the quilt. Her hair spreads in a messy halo across the pillowcase, curls flattened on one side, wild on the other. Myflannel shirt is buttoned wrong, off by one button near the top, collar skewed.
Her face is softer in sleep. The tension I saw around her eyes last night is gone. Without the makeup, the freckles across her nose stand out stronger, constellations I memorized once upon a time. Her lips are slightly parted, breath slow and even.
On a chair, her wedding dress lies in a heap. White silk and lace and thousands of tiny hand-sewn beads destined for a very different kind of place.
My gut twists.
I spent years trying not to think about Faith in a wedding dress.
When we were sixteen and both pretending we didn’t see how the other one had changed that summer, I’d pictured it once or twice. Her walking down the aisle of Grace Community Church, the sun slanting through the windows, a bouquet of wildflowers in her hands. Me standing at the front of the church in a suit that didn’t quite fit, waiting.
In those half-formed daydreams, her eyes always stayed on me.
Reality turned out different.
I close the door softly before my thoughts can spin too far. Standing in her doorway, staring at her while she sleeps, is crossing a line I’m nowhere near ready to think about crossing.
I grab a bottle of water and some ibuprofen from the bathroom cabinet and leave them on the nightstand later, when I can trust my face not to give away whatever is churning inside. She doesn’t stir.
Back in the kitchen, breakfast is in full swing. Bacon sizzles, cinnamon rolls bake, and kids bicker cheerfully over who gets the plate with the snowman on it.
“Where’d you disappear to?” Mom asks, sliding scrambled eggs onto a platter.
“Checking the pipes,” I say automatically.
She gives me a look that says she’s not buying it, but she lets it go.
We squeeze around the table, making room wherever we can. Wyatt sits in a high chair, smearing mashed banana into his hair. Ellie tells a breathless story about how she hears reindeer hooves on the roof, punctuated by sound effects. Lila listens more than she talks, eyes wide, clutching her horse book on her lap.
It’s good. Noisy. Familiar. The kind of morning I used to wish for as a kid, imagining my own future family.
I should be fully in it.
Instead, part of my brain stays down the hall, in a cold room with a sleeping girl and a crumpled dress.
CHAPTER FIVE
Faith
December 25th
I jolt upright.
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts, my lungs dragging in quick, shallow breaths that don’t seem to do anything. Sweat sticks my shirt to my skin, my hair to my neck. I don’t know where I am, only that I’m trapped under something heavy.
I claw at the covers like I can fight my way out.
The room swims into focus.
Faded quilt. Low dresser. A crooked rodeo poster half peeling off the wall. The window is rimmed with frost, winter light leaking around the curtain. I know this room, even though I’ve never slept in it before.
McCoy Ranch.
The breath I suck in is sharp enough to hurt.
“Oh,” I whisper, and flop back against the pillow. “Right. That.”
