7. Faith
CHAPTER SEVEN
Faith
I wake to wind.
Not the gentle kind that whispers at windows. No, the kind that punches the house with open palms, rattling the siding, whistling through old seams in the wood. The kind of wind that means storm.
I roll onto my side and brace for the panic that slammed into me yesterday morning.
It comes. A sharp, bright rush: Evan. Dad. The wedding. The fallout. The fury.
I’m frozen in that feeling, heart throbbing against my ribs. My fingers clutch the quilt like someone might swoop in and pry me out of the bed.
But it doesn’t last as long as it did yesterday.
Hopefully, every day it’ll get a little easier.
I sit up, pressing my palms to my eyes until the worst of the adrenaline drains out of me. When I lower my hands, my breath fogs in the chilly air. The storm must’ve dropped temperatures even lower overnight.
Eventually, I gather up the effort to climb out of bed, tug on the sweats Dallas gave me, and pad to the window. The cold bit of the floorboards shoots fire up my calves, waking me fully.
I pull back the curtain.
My breath catches.
The world is white. Not “winter postcard” white. Not “light dusting” white. The ranch is buried under drifts that swallow the yard fences. Snow still whips sideways in sheets, thick and ferocious.
The barn roof looks half-blurred by wind-driven snow. I can’t even see the road.
“Oh wow,” I whisper.
A figure trudges through the snow toward the barn, shoulders hunched against the gale. Even from here, the gait is unmistakable. Heavy. Determined.
Dallas.
Behind him, another shape, Boone maybe, hauls a bale of hay through the drifts, snow crusted to his beard. Farther out, two more figures, Clay and Nash, probably, are working to clear a path or dig something out.
I stare, transfixed.
This. This right here is what I always loved about this place. The way the McCoys move as a unit when things get rough. The way they shoulder responsibility without question. The way they’ll face down nature itself with nothing but grit and whatever tools they can carry.
My chest squeezes painfully, a hot sting behind my ribs.
I used to stand out there with Dallas sometimes, back when we were kids.
Not helping, not really, I was small and soft and more trouble than assistance, but he’d let me shadow him anyway.
He’d toss hay to younger horses while I perched on fence rails, boots dangling, face split with joy.
I’d always loved the barn, the smell of hay and leather, the rumbling quiet of big animals, the organized mess.
Dad hated it.
He hated Buckhorn in general. Said it was too slow, too simple, too limiting.
“It’ll suck you in if you’re not careful,” he’d tell me sharply. “You’re meant for bigger things, Faith.”
He never meant “you.” He meant himself, and whatever version of me he needed to prop his image up. I know that now. I didn’t at the time.
I pull away from the window before that old bitterness takes over my whole morning. My stomach rumbles painfully loud. So I follow the smell of coffee and sizzling bacon.
The kitchen is already buzzing by the time I get there.
Maggie stands at the stove, flipping something in a cast-iron skillet, her Christmas apron swapped for one with faded blue stripes.
“Morning, sweetheart. You sleep all right?” she asks as she turns to see me.
“Pretty well,” I say, which isn’t entirely true but feels like the right answer.
“Good.” She nods once, then tilts her head. “Do you need to borrow my phone? To call your mama? You’ll catch more service in the kitchen than anywhere else.”
My heart stops.
“Oh.” My voice comes out small. I hadn’t thought about that. It’s a little like time is suspended here. But my mom… I do need to speak to her. I ache to. “Yes. Actually… yes. I really do.”
“Figured.” She’s already reaching for it on the counter. The case is cracked near the corner, worn down by years of use. She presses it into my hand gently. “Go on. Take your time.”
The phone feels heavier than it should. Like a lifeline.
I move toward the back corner of the kitchen, near the window where the snow is plastered in a thick frost against the glass. The voices of the family fade into a low, warm hum behind me.
With a shaky breath, I dial my mom’s number.
It rings. Once.
Twice.
Three…
“Hello?”
Her voice is soft and so familiar it nearly buckles my knees.
“Mom?” I whisper.
A sharp inhale. Then…
“Faith? Oh… oh, thank God.” Her voice cracks. “Honey, I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday morning. And Charlotte has, too. She called me last night in tears because your father kept blowing up her phone demanding to know where you were.”
Guilt and relief collide hard in my chest.
“I’m okay,” I say quickly. “I’m safe. I’m… actually in Buckhorn.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“In Buckhorn,” she repeats softly. “So there wasn’t a wedding after all.” A breath shudders through the speaker. “Your father called Charlotte drunk and furious. She wasn’t sure what happened, only that he said you’d ‘ruined everything.’”
My throat burns. “I didn’t ruin anything,” I say. “I just… I left. I couldn’t do it. I’m at the McCoys’.”
Another long exhale, this one full of relief so palpable I can almost feel it through the phone.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
The kind of “oh” that holds understanding. And heartbreak. And a mother’s too long-held breath finally letting go.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” I whisper. “Everything happened so fast, and then I panicked.”
“I know,” she says softly. “I know you did. I’m just grateful you’re somewhere safe. That explains why your father suddenly started calling me after he got nowhere with Charlotte.”
A cold, sharp fear flashes through me. “Mom, what is he going to do?”
She hesitates, just a moment, but she doesn’t lie.
“He’s embarrassed, I imagine. And when he’s embarrassed, he lashes out. But you don’t have to answer him. Neither do I.”
“I didn’t want that wedding,” I say, the words tumbling out, raw and unpolished. “I didn’t want any of it. But now everything feels like it’s about to collapse.” My voice shakes. “What happens next?”
“I know you didn’t want it,” she says gently. “Of course I know. I raised you.”
A strangled laugh escapes me. “It was all his idea. The job. The engagement. The wedding. My whole life in Dallas… I don’t even know how it happened.”
“I do.” Her tone firms. “Your father likes control. He likes being admired. And he’s used to people bending to him. And you, sweetheart… you wanted so badly to make him proud.”
It hits like truth always does. Quiet and devastating.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Please don’t answer his calls.”
“I won’t,” she promises immediately. “He’ll try to twist this, Faith. He’ll try to make it your fault. But you don’t owe him a single piece of yourself that you don’t want to give.”
My vision blurs. A tear slips free.
“I’m coming to see you soon,” I whisper. “As soon as the roads clear.”
“I would love that,” she murmurs. “Whenever you’re ready. No pressure.”
Just love.
Just warmth.
Just… Mom.
That alone makes my whole chest ache.
We talk a little longer. About Charlotte, still in Austin, buried under assignments. About Buckhorn. Mom asks if the McCoys have treated me kindly, and my throat tightens as I tell her they have. About Dad, neither of us says much more, because there’s nothing else to say.
We both know his patterns.
We both know how dangerous his anger can be when he feels embarrassed.
By the time I hang up, my shoulders feel lighter. My lungs feel fuller.
The storm outside is still raging, but my insides have calmed.
I hand the phone back to Maggie, murmuring a soft, “Thank you.”
She pats my arm. “Of course, sweetheart. Any time.”
As she turns back to the stove, I linger by the counter, staring out the window at the wall of white that has swallowed the ranch.
I should call someone else, I realize.
Maybe one of the girls from work.
Or… someone.
But I try to summon their faces and can’t. Not really. They were all Evan’s friends. Evan’s business connections. Evan’s people.
And none of them ever looked at me like they wanted to know me.
Not really.
I don’t know a single one of their phone numbers by heart. The realization hits harder than it should. I never had a life there. Not one that was mine.
Wow.
A moment later, Rose comes into the kitchen with Wyatt and a small stack of folded clothes in her arms. She smiles when she sees me, the kind of smile that’s an invitation rather than a formality.
“Thought you might like some real clothes,” she says, holding them out. “Before the boys start teasing you about stealing their hand-me-downs.”
In that moment, it hits me how little I have of my own. I’ve left everything behind, in a clean break. Just the wedding dress, the denim jacket, and the bits I had in my bag. Tragic. “Thank you.”
Rose shifts Wyatt, smoothing a tiny curl off his forehead.
“We never really talked much back then, did we?” she says.
I blink, a little startled by the bluntness, but grateful for it too. “No. We didn’t.”
“But it’s good to see you,” she says with a smile. “Even if you came in a little unconventionally.”
“Hmm, a crash in a snowstorm. Typical me.”
We’re both quiet for a beat, but it isn’t uncomfortable.
“You know,” she says at last, “if you need anything—clothes, quiet, someone to talk to—I’m right over at the guest house. Maybe I can help.”
I smile and nod. I might not know her that well, but this is the kindest anyone has been to me in years.
How tragic is that?