10. Dallas
CHAPTER TEN
Dallas
The storm breaks sometime around dawn.
Not fully. Nothing about this winter is willing to give us anything all the way, but enough that the howling lets up and the light leaks through the blurred frost on the window. The kind of muted gray morning that promises hard work and a headache.
I’m already awake.
Didn’t sleep much. Couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the porch light catching on the snow, her breath puffing in soft white clouds, the way her hands trembled on my coat right before she pulled me in because she couldn’t help herself.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the way she kissed me back.
And every damn time, my stupid chest lit up as if it remembered something it should’ve forgotten years ago.
Not helpful.
Not smart.
Not allowed.
I roll out of bed with a groan, scrub a hand over my face, and force myself into jeans and a flannel. Work will clear my head. It usually does.
By the time I step into the kitchen, Boone’s already pouring coffee, Nash is hunched over a bowl of cereal, and Clay is leaning against the counter, eating ham straight from the fridge.
“Morning,” Boone says.
Clay squints at me, trying to solve a puzzle. “You look like garbage.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, reaching for the coffee.
“You sleep?” Nash asks, eyebrows raised.
“Define ‘sleep,’” I say.
Boone smirks. “He didn’t.”
I ignore them, take a long drink of scalding coffee, and immediately burn my tongue. Great. Today’s going to be one of those days.
“We’re going to check her car,” Boone says, slipping into business mode. “Storm eased up, so we’ve got a window.”
“Her car,” Nash echoes innocently, leaning back in his chair. “You mean Faith’s car?”
I choke on my coffee.
Boone kicks him under the table hard enough that it thuds.
“Nash,” he warns.
“What?” Nash rubs his shin. “I’m just confirming who we’re freezing our asses off for.”
“We’d help anyone,” Boone says pointedly.
Clay snorts. “Sure. Anyone my brother stares at with stars in his eyes.”
I freeze.
Nash’s eyebrows shoot up. Boone’s mouth twitches. He’s deciding whether to laugh or tackle Clay to the floor. Clay just grins at me, real proud of himself for dropping that grenade.
“I don’t—” I start.
“You do,” Clay says.
“You absolutely do,” Nash adds.
Boone lifts his coffee, toasting the whole damn mess. “You definitely do.”
I want to walk into traffic.
“Mind your business,” I mutter.
Nash grins. “This is literally everyone’s business.”
“I will knock your teeth out,” I say calmly.
“That’s a confession,” Clay declares.
I nearly throw my mug at him.
Boone claps his hands once. “Let’s go before Dallas kills someone.”
Good idea.
Fantastic idea.
We bundle up and step into the cold. The snow isn’t falling anymore, but it crunches high around our boots, refrozen into that hard, crusty layer that snaps under your weight.
Her car is sitting exactly where she crashed it.
Nose down in the ditch as if it tried to burrow its way to California. Snow’s drifted halfway up the tires, turned to a crusted ridge along the bumper. One headlight’s dead; the other is fogged over with ice.
“Damn,” Nash whistles low, hands on his hips. “She hit that pretty good.”
Boone gives him a look. “It could’ve been worse.”
“Sure,” Nash says. “Could’ve been a cow.”
Clay snorts. “Or your face.”
“Both valuable assets,” Nash replies.
I tune them out and sweep the flashlight beam along the undercarriage, squatting down at the edge of the ditch. The frame looks… okay. No obvious bend. Front bumper’s crumpled on one side, but the wheels are straight. Could’ve been a lot uglier.
I let out a breath.
“Dallas?” Boone asks. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking she’s lucky,” I say. “Couple feet further and she’d have clipped that cottonwood.”
Boone’s jaw tightens as he looks past the truck to the old tree. “Yeah.”
“Can we pull it?” Clay asks. “Or we calling a wrecker?”
“We can pull it,” I say automatically. “I’ll get the one ton. Chains, tow strap, couple blocks. We’ll ease her out.”
Nash brightens. “Operation Rescue the Runaway Bride’s Chariot. I’m in.”
“Stop calling her that,” I mutter, straightening up.
My back pops.
Boone jumps in. “Dallas, you take the truck. Clay, help him with the chains. Nash, dig out in front of the tires so she’s not fighting a snowbank on the way up.”
“Yes, boss,” Nash says, giving a sloppy salute.
He steps down into the ditch with exaggerated care, as if the snow’s lying in wait just for him. Clay tromps after me toward the house, boots crunching, breath puffing white.
“You really didn’t sleep?” he asks.
“Thought we covered that already.”
He shrugs. “Just checking it wasn’t because you were… busy.”
I stop dead and turn to stare at him. “What?”
He grins, wide and unrepentant. “That was a long time on the porch last night. Just saying.”
My jaw clenches. “Nothing happened.”
His eyebrows go up. “You sure? Because the way Faith looked at you Christmas morning—”
“Clay,” I warn.
He holds up both hands. “Fine. We’ll just rescue the truck. No emotionally repressed cowboys will be examined during this exercise.”
“Good,” I say, but my ears burn all the same.
The one-ton, our old dually, paint dull, engine ornery, is parked beside the shop, half buried in drift. She’s ugly, stubborn, and my favorite thing on four wheels.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I murmur as I crank the engine. “Don’t make me look bad.”
She coughs, wheezes, then catches with a roar that rattles the windows. Clay whoops.
“Never doubted her,” he says.
“Liar.”
We let her idle while we haul out the heavy chains and tow strap, metal clanking dully in the cold. My fingers go numb halfway through, even with gloves. Doesn’t matter. It’s the kind of pain I know what to do with.
By the time we rumble back down the drive, Nash has carved a path around the truck with a shovel and a lot of bad language. He’s sweating under his beanie, breath fogging.
“This snow is out of pocket,” he complains as we pull up. “I’m filing a formal grievance with whoever’s in charge.”
“That’d be God,” Clay says. “You wanna take that one?”
Nash squints at the sky. “Sir, with all due respect—”
“Move,” I cut in, because if I let them keep going, we’ll be out here all day.
I ease the dually to a stop on the shoulder, angling us just right. Gravel and ice crunch under the tires. Boone hops out of the passenger side and meets me at the front.
“You thinking we pull her straight up,” he says, nodding toward Faith’s pickup, “or back her along the ditch a bit first?”
“Straight up,” I say. “The longer she’s down there, the more likely we are to slide with her. We’ll get the strap low on the frame, keep it slow, let the tires walk.”
“Copy that.”
We work mostly without talking for a few minutes.
It’s a language we all speak: chain through this point here, check the hooks, double check the strap, tap the ice away from the tow loop with the heel of my hand.
My breath fogs up under the brim of my hat.
Snow works its way down my collar; I ignore it.
“You sure about that angle?” Nash asks from the ditch, hands braced on his knees.
“Yes,” I say.
“How sure?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You want to drive the tow truck?”
He looks at the dually, then at me. “No.”
“Then shut up.”
Clay laughs, teeth flashing.
We get the strap secured to the front of Faith’s truck, looping it snug around the frame instead of trusting the bumper. Clay climbs into her cab, cranking the wheel straight. The engine turns over after a couple of tries, stuttering before it catches.
“There she goes,” he calls over the engine noise. “She wants to live.”
“She better,” I mutter, heading back to the dually.
Boone leans in the open window. “Nice and easy. No hero moves.”
“Have you met me?” I say.
“That’s why I’m saying it.”
He claps the roof twice and steps back.
I drop the truck into four low, feel the transfer case settle. The whole rig hums under me, solid and ready. Fingers light on the wheel, I put a little tension on the strap until it goes taut, can feel the weight of Faith’s truck hanging off the back.
“Clay, you with me?” I call out my window.
“Yeah,” he yells back. “Got her in drive. I’ll give her a little gas when you start moving.”
“All right,” I say, mostly to myself.
I let the clutch out slowly.
We lurch forward an inch, then two. The strap goes tight, then looser as the tires start to climb with us. The dually’s rear wheels spin for half a second, then bite, chains catching in the mix of snow and gravel. The whole chassis shudders.
“Come on, come on,” I murmur, coaxing her along, giving just enough fuel to keep momentum without breaking traction.
There’s a moment where I feel the whole equation balance on a knife’s edge. Weight, friction, angle, and then it tips in our favor. Faith’s truck rises, nose scraping a little as it clears the shallow lip of the ditch. Snow and ice break away from her undercarriage in clumps.
Boone moves alongside, one hand up in an automatic steadying motion. Nash whoops. Rusty barks his head off. He thinks he’s the one doing the pulling.
“Easy,” Boone calls. “Straighten… there. You’re out.”
I don’t let off until we’re fully on flat ground, then ease the dually to a stop. The strap slacks. I kill the engine and hop out, heart still beating harder than it needs to.
Faith’s truck sits on the shoulder, a little crooked, idling now. Snow clings in dirty clumps along the underside. The crumpled bumper is ugly, but it’s cosmetic.
“She’s free,” Nash says, patting the hood affectionately. “Just a little face damage. Very on brand for this family.”
“I’m gonna tell Mom you said that,” Clay says.
“Please don’t,” Nash says instantly.
Boone crouches by the front tire. “We’ll check the axle first. Probably banged something when she hit the ditch. Let’s get to it.”