46. Dallas
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Dallas
“Absolutely not,” Lila declares, slapping her hand down on the coffee table hard enough to rattle the markers. “You cannot play a snow spell and steal my turn. That’s cheating.”
Faith gasps, hand flying to her chest in mock offense. “Excuse you. It’s not cheating if it’s strategic.”
“It is if you’re making up rules,” Lila fires back, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Faith leans closer. “All the best games evolve.”
I stop short just inside the doorway, one boot still half off, cold air trailing in behind me, and watch the two of them.
They’re sprawled on the living room floor, a ridiculous board game between them.
Something involving cards, dice, and an alarming number of handwritten rule amendments taped together.
Lila is cross-legged, hair falling into her face, cheeks flushed with intensity.
Faith mirrors her posture exactly, sleeves rolled up, concentration etched into her brow, because of course, this is the most important thing happening in the world.
Lila points accusingly. “You’re just mad because I’m winning.”
Faith’s eyes widen. “Winning? You don’t even have a fortress yet.”
“I do,” Lila insists. “It’s invisible.”
Faith squints at the board. “Uh huh. Very convenient.”
I bite back a smile.
The house sounds different. Full, animated, warm.
Faith glances up first and catches me watching. Her smile changes instantly. She’s pleased I’m seeing this. She doesn’t stop playing. Just tilts her head slightly in a silent see?
Lila follows her gaze. “Dad! She’s cheating.”
“I am not,” Faith says at the same time.
I step fully inside, shutting the door behind me. “I haven’t even heard the rules yet.”
“That’s because she keeps changing them,” Lila says flatly.
Faith lifts a shoulder. “Innovation.”
I crouch down beside them. “Alright. Explain.”
Lila launches into it with the seriousness of a courtroom argument. Faith counters every accusation with a perfectly straight face, occasionally reaching over to adjust a card or move a token when Lila isn’t looking.
“She did it again!” Lila shouts.
Faith grins. “Too slow.”
Lila tackles her without warning.
They go down in a laughing heap, Faith yelping in surprise, Lila shrieking with victory, and my chest shifts. Deep and quiet and permanent.
This is how it’s meant to feel, I think. This warmth. This ease. The house itself is breathing easier.
When they finally disentangle, both breathless and smiling, Lila scrambles to her feet. “I’m hungry.”
“Of course you are,” I say.
“She uses hunger to escape defeat,” Faith adds solemnly.
“It’s a valid strategy,” Lila says, already halfway to the kitchen.
Faith rises more slowly, brushing her hair from her face. She looks happy. Truly happy.
“You okay?” I ask quietly when she reaches me.
She nods. “Yeah. I really am.”
Lila climbs onto a stool and starts explaining her entire game to Rusty, who did not ask. I start on grilled cheese, and Faith leans against the counter, listening, chiming in, asking questions.
After lunch, Lila disappears to her room with her drawings tucked under her arm, pausing only to inform us that the invisible fortress is expanding.
The house settles again.
Faith rinses her mug at the sink, humming softly, and I watch the way she moves through my kitchen. My home, her home too, in a way.
“Hey,” I say, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “You wanna go into town with me?”
She turns, eyebrow lifting. “Now?”
“Yeah. I’ve got… something.”
Her eyes narrow playfully. “That sounds ominous.”
“Put your coat on,” I say. “Trust me.”
She hesitates just a beat, then nods.
The drive into Buckhorn is quiet, comfortable. Snow lines the roads, the sky bright and clear in that cold Oregon way. Faith watches out the window, relaxed in the passenger seat, still getting used to the fact that she’s allowed to just be.
We park outside the town hall, and that’s when she looks at me properly.
“Dallas,” she says slowly, “why are we here?”
“Trust me,” I say. “Please.”
She hesitates, then nods, slipping her gloves back on.
We’re barely three steps into Mayor Ruth Caldwell’s office before I feel Faith tense beside me. I’m tense too, but mostly because she’s about to find out about my secret meetings. I hope she takes it well.
The room is bright in that small-town civic way. Wide windows, framed photos of Buckhorn through the decades, a hand-stitched quilt folded over the back of a chair. Nothing intimidating. Nothing corporate.
And still, Faith straightens, bracing for impact.
Ruth notices.
She doesn’t comment on it. That alone earns her points.
“Faith Ross,” Ruth says warmly, standing and offering her hand. “I’m glad you came.”
Faith hesitates only a fraction of a second before shaking it. “Yes, Dallas… brought me here.”
“Sit,” Ruth says, already moving back behind her desk. “Both of you.”
Faith perches on the edge of the chair, polite, careful, waiting to be evaluated. I sit back, boots planted, letting her take center stage even though I can feel her trying to shrink.
Ruth folds her hands. “Dallas has been talking about you to me.”
Faith shoots me a look. Half surprise. Half excuse me?
“All good things,” Ruth adds dryly. “Mostly about how you see things. And how you don’t see Buckhorn the way the rest of us do.”
Faith blinks. “I—”
Ruth lifts a hand gently. “Before you start worrying you’re about to be quizzed, let me be clear. This is not a job interview in the traditional sense. I don’t care where you worked before or who you know.”
“A…” She glances at me. “A job interview.”
When she gives me an inquisitive look, I nod and smile.
I feel Faith relax a notch. Just a notch.
Ruth turns her monitor around.
The screen fills with images. Buckhorn at dawn, the mountains dusted with snow, Main Street strung with lights, the rodeo grounds empty and waiting, the diner glowing warm against winter dark.
“This town survives,” Ruth says, tapping the screen, “because people fall in love with it. But we’ve been relying on word of mouth and nostalgia for too long. Tourism has changed. Community outreach has changed. Storytelling has changed.”
Faith leans forward despite herself.
Ruth notices that too.
“I need someone who understands why this place matters,” Ruth continues, “and also understands how to communicate that without turning it into a gimmick.”
She looks directly at Faith now.
“At the winter festival,” Ruth says, “we only post photos after events instead of inviting people into the buildup. Dallas has shown me online the way you promoted events beforehand at your job.”
Faith inhales sharply. “I… you have?”
Ruth smiles, small and knowing. “You didn’t think no one noticed, did you?”
Faith’s cheeks color. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, that instinctive, half-shy, half-hopeful gesture I’m starting to recognize as what she does when she’s being seen and doesn’t quite trust it yet.
“I was just… doing what made sense.”
“That’s exactly why it mattered,” Ruth replies. She swivels the monitor back toward us and clicks through a few more screens. “These posts? The way you framed this PR event as something people could anticipate, instead of just looking back on? I bet engagement doubled.”
Faith’s head snaps up. “I think it did.”
“I thought as much,” Ruth confirms. “I can see from the post activities. People shared them. Commented. Asked questions. They tagged friends. That’s not an accident.”
I watch Faith process that, watch the old reflex rise. It was luck, it was timing, it wasn’t really me… and then hesitate.
Ruth doesn’t let the moment slip.
“You didn’t just show events,” she continues. “You showed people. In this town, you could highlight the baker who’s been here thirty years. The kids stringing lights. The quiet parts. The in-between moments.”
Faith swallows. “Those are my favorite parts.”
“And it shows,” Ruth says. “That’s the difference between marketing and storytelling.”
Faith lets out a breath, and her shoulders drop another inch.
Ruth folds her hands on the desk. “Dallas came to me the other day. He said, ‘She sees Buckhorn like it’s alive. Like it’s worth protecting.’”
Faith looks at me then, startled. Soft.
I shrug, because if I say anything, I’ll ruin it. “You do.”
Ruth clears her throat, reclaiming the room. “Here’s what I want to talk to you about. Buckhorn is looking to expand tourism. Carefully. Thoughtfully. We don’t want buses rolling in and flattening the place.”
“Good,” Faith says instantly. “That would ruin it.”
Ruth smiles. “Exactly.”
She slides a folder across the desk, but not all the way. Leaves it between us—a neutral ground.
“I want someone local, someone who understands this town from the inside, to handle our digital presence. Social media, event promotion, community storytelling. Someone who can shape how Buckhorn is seen without turning it into a caricature.”
Faith doesn’t touch the folder yet.
“You wouldn’t just be posting,” Ruth adds. “You’d be building something. A voice. A sense of continuity.”
Faith’s fingers curl in her lap. “I… I don’t know if I’m qualified for that.”
I feel my jaw tighten, but Ruth beats me to it.
“Faith,” she says gently but firmly, “qualifications are paper. Vision is harder to teach.”
Faith looks down. “I’ve had… situations where my work stopped being mine.”
The words land quietly but heavily.
Ruth’s expression doesn’t soften with pity. It sharpens with respect. “Then let me be clear about this, too. This position answers to me. No one else. You set boundaries. You decide what you need to do the job well.”
Faith lifts her head. “Really?”
“Really,” Ruth says. “And if something isn’t working, we talk about it.”
I see it then. The moment it clicks. Not excitement exactly. Permission.
“What would it look like?” Faith asks. “I mean… day to day.”
Ruth brightens—she’s been waiting for that question. “You’d start by listening. Talking to business owners. Attending events. Deciding what stories want to be told. We can start part-time.”
Faith lets out a soft laugh. “You’re serious.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you here if I wasn’t.”
Silence stretches.
Faith finally reaches for the folder. Opens it. Scans the first page. Her lips part slightly as she reads, eyes moving faster now, curiosity taking over fear.
“This is…” She trails off. “This is real.”
“It is,” Ruth says. “And you don’t have to answer today.”
Faith looks up. “I want to.”
Ruth’s brows lift. “You’re sure?”
Faith nods. Once. Firm. “Yes. I’m sure.”
My chest loosens.
Ruth smiles, wide and genuine. “Then welcome aboard.”
They stand. Shake hands. Faith’s grip is still a little tentative, but her smile… her smile is solid.
As we step back out into the cold, Faith stops dead on the sidewalk.
I turn. “You okay?”
She presses her hand to her chest, laughing softly, breath fogging in the air. “I think… I think that just changed my life.”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “You did that.”
She looks at me, eyes bright, almost disbelieving. “You brought me here.”
“I opened the door,” I say. “You walked through it.”
She exhales, then laughs again, shaking her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever had something that was just… mine.”
I take her hand without thinking. She laces her fingers through mine.
“You do now,” I say.
She squeezes my hand, and as we walk back toward the truck, the town quiet around us, I know this isn’t just a job offer.
It’s a beginning.
And watching Faith step into it, on her own terms, with her spine straight and her voice calm, might be the best damn thing I’ve ever seen.