The barn is lit up like it’s trying to single-handedly power the town’s holiday spirit. Strings of lights drip from the rafters, twinkling across bales of hay, long tables covered in gingham, a makeshift dance floor crammed with boots and laughter. Fiddle music spills from the speakers.
Jet loops her arm through mine as we walk in. “Okay. Goal for tonight: one dance, two drinks, zero crying. Think you can manage it?”
“Define crying.”
“No tears bigger than… pea-sized.”
“I can attempt that.”
She grins and pulls me toward the crowd.
Rose spots us first, and her whole face brightens. She rushes over, hugging me with genuine warmth that hits me right in the chest.
“Look at you!” she says. “Oh, Faith, you look stunning.”
“Jet worked her sorcery.”
Jet bows dramatically. “Please, hold your applause.”
Laura Tucker joins us, cheeks flushed, wearing a sweater dripping in sequins. She squeals and throws her arms around me, too.
“You’re back!” she says. “For real! This is so great.”
“I’m just here for a little while.”
Jet elbows me. “Ignore her. She’s adjusting.”
Rose studies me for a beat, all kindness. “You settling in okay? Your mom told me you’ve been getting some rest.”
“Trying to,” I say. “It’s… weird. Being back.”
Laura nods knowingly. “You’ll find your footing again. Buckhorn has a way of cracking your shell open whether you want it to or not.”
Before I can answer, a wave of movement catches my eye. Loud voices. Boots thudding. A familiar brand of madness rolling in like a weather front.
The McCoy men.
All of them.
Boone greets someone while Clay and Nash bicker their way through the entrance. And behind them, taller, quieter, shoulders tense in that way I recognize too well…
Dallas.
My breath stutters.
He’s wearing a navy button-down rolled to the elbows, jeans that fit him indecently well, and that worn leather jacket that should honestly be illegal. His hair is slightly mussed, cheeks pink from the cold.
He hasn’t even seen me yet, and already my pulse is skipping recklessly.
Jet follows my gaze and mutters under her breath, “Ah. Sothat’swhy you’re sweating.”
“I’m not sweating,” I hiss.
“You’re glistening. Dramatically.”
“Jet.”
She grins. “Relax. You look like a dream. And you have every right to be here.”
