12. Dallas
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dallas
My brain has been run through a wood chipper.
Paperwork is the devil. It always has been. But dealing with invoices and orders is my job. It allows me to be indoors, to be around my daughter more.
My office at the ranch is warm, cramped, and looks like a storm made of paperwork hit it. The only nice thing in here, the only soft thing, is the wall above my desk, covered from edge to edge with drawings.
Lila’s drawings.
Horses, mostly. Some imaginary, some that bear a closer resemblance to potatoes with legs.
One picture of “me and Daddy and Miss Faith,” which she drew last night and taped up before I could even protest. I’m a stick figure in a giant hat, Faith’s stick figure has a lopsided smile and very enthusiastic hair, and Lila’s is drawn front and center, arms in the air.
A rodeo queen greeting her adoring fans.
I don’t look at that one too long.
Faith leaving yesterday has sat in my chest as an extra rib. Tight. Achey. In the way. I keep telling myself it’s good she went. My brain nods along, but my body disagrees.
I rub the back of my neck, finish the last line item on a spreadsheet that should earn me some kind of medal, and lean back.
I need out of this office. Out of this house. Out of my own damn head.
Lunch is a good excuse. Mom and the boys will eat anything if I bring it home, even if it’s just coffee and pastries. The Buttercup Bakery is still open during the holidays, decked out in garlands and twinkle lights that you can smell cinnamon through from half a block away.
Yeah. Fresh air. Food. A break.
I grab my coat and head out.
Main Street in December is intense.
Every lamppost wrapped in evergreen. Big red bows on storefronts. Lights draped across the street. Kids dragging parents around to look at window displays, adults clutching takeaway cocoa cups. It’s the kind of small-town magic that should feel cheesy.
It doesn’t.
It makes my chest flicker with warmth, the way it always does this time of year.
Buttercup Bakery sits on the corner, smelling of sugar, cinnamon, and whatever joy would smell of if it had a scent. I tug open the door, and the bell jingles overhead.
The warmth hits instantly, along with a familiar voice.
“Well, look who the snow blew in.”
Clara Jenkins stands behind the counter wearing a red apron and a smile that could cut diamonds. She’s been the town gossip since I was old enough to ride a bike. Sweet, but nosy enough to make the FBI jealous.
“Morning, Clara.”
“Morning?” She raises one eyebrow. “It’s nearly noon, sweetheart. You sleeping in since Christmas, or did something, or someone, keep you busy?”
Oh, for the love of…
There really is no privacy in this town.
“Just ranch stuff,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “Gonna grab lunch for the family.”
“Mmhmm,” she hums, not believing a damn word. “Funny thing, I heard the McCoy place had an extra guest this week.”
I go still.
Her eyes sparkle. She can smell blood in the water. “A young woman, wasn’t it? Pretty thing. Hair like honey. The runaway bride, if rumors are true.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You know, Clara, the New Year’s coming. You could try resolutions. Maybe resolving not to torture innocent people with interrogations.”
She gasps theatrically. “Dallas McCoy, are you calling me a torturer?”
“I’m calling you curious.”
“Same thing.”
Before she can push harder, I order four turkey sandwiches, two cinnamon rolls, and a box of assorted cookies. Clara packs them up cheerfully but keeps shooting looks at me, storing questions for later.
I grab the bag, thank her in the least inviting tone possible, and step back out onto Main Street… and slam straight into someone.
Someone soft.
Someone warm.
Someone who smells faintly of vanilla from her mom’s cocoa.
“Dallas?”
Faith.
My hands go to her arms automatically, steadying her. Her eyes lift to mine. Wide, surprised, green as the first leaves of spring.
The world goes quiet in a way Main Street has no business going quiet.
My pulse goes straight to my throat.
“Faith,” I say, because apparently that’s the only word left in my vocabulary around her. “Sorry. Didn’t see you.”
“It’s okay,” she says quickly. “I wasn’t paying attention either. We have to stop crashing into one another like this.”
She’s bundled in her denim jacket, curls pulled back, cheeks pink from the cold. She looks better than she did two days ago. Rested, warm, calm.
“What’re you doing in town?”
She lifts a takeout menu. “Mom said I should go see Jet at Spurs Diner. Said she’d be working lunch shift today and I should ‘say hello.’ Which, I’m pretty sure, is mom code for ‘go reunite with your bestie, will you?’”
I let out a laugh.
She shifts her weight, hesitation flickering across her face. “Actually… I was going to grab lunch there, too. And I was wondering if you… if you wanted to… come with me?” Her eyes flicker to the bag in my hand, then away again, like she’s just realized I might already be on my way somewhere else.
Nothing in me should say yes.
Nothing.
Not with the kiss still under my skin. Not with that kiss stuck behind my ribs. Not with how damn complicated everything is, how close I came to losing my mind on that porch with her breath in my mouth and her hands fisted in my coat.
I should say no.
I know I should.
But my mouth betrays me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I can walk with you.”
She smiles. Small, relieved, almost shy.
And just like that, I’m done for.
We fall into step together on the sidewalk. Snow crunches beneath our boots. Lights glow above us. Her shoulder brushes mine once, and my pulse thunders.
I clear my throat. “How’s your mom?”
“She’s good,” she says. “Worried. Supportive. A little too hopeful I’ll stay in Buckhorn forever.” She blows out a breath, watching it fog in the air. “It’s… a lot.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I bet.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing yet,” she adds. “She keeps asking what I want. I don’t even know that.”
I swallow. “Maybe not knowing is okay.”
She looks over at me. “Is it?”
“Sometimes. Life’s not always one big plan.”
She huffs a soft laugh. “You’ve always been better at winging it.”
“I’m not winging anything,” I say, then amend, “Well… not most things.”
My voice goes tight. Stupid. Too revealing.
I glance at her. She’s studying me the way she used to when we were teenagers. She’s trying to read every layer I’m not saying out loud.
Dangerous.