15. Faith
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Faith
I have no idea what I’m doing.
That’s the only coherent thought I can hold onto as Jet stands behind me in my childhood bedroom, flat iron in one hand, lip gloss in the other, declaring me her personal holiday project like she’s filming a makeover montage no one asked for.
“Sit still,” she orders, tugging gently on a curl that refuses to behave. “You keep fidgeting. You’re messing with my art.”
“I’m not fidgeting,” I lie, fidgeting.
Jet lifts one brow at me in the mirror. “Your knee is literally bouncing like a caffeinated rabbit.”
“That’s just… nerves.”
“Uh huh.” She smirks. “Because you’re excited about going somewhere fun.”
“Because I’m about to walk into a barn full of people I haven’t seen since high school for a New Year’s Eve party,” I correct, swallowing hard.
“And I’m pretty sure half of them think I’ve been off living a glamorous life in the city when in reality I was organizing centerpieces for accountants in matching lanyards. ”
She laughs. “Small towns don’t judge as much as you think.”
I give her a look.
“Okay,” she amends, “they do judge. Constantly. But usually with affection.”
“Affectionate judgment. Great.”
Jet finishes the curl and spins my chair so I face the mirror fully.
Oh.
She’s worked magic.
My hair spills over my shoulders in soft waves, glossy and loose.
My eyes look bigger and warmer with the subtle makeup she applied, bronze and gold, like New Year’s fireworks.
The dress she convinced me to wear. A deep green wrap dress I’d forgotten I owned, skims my waist and shows just enough skin to be daring by Buckhorn barn dance standards.
I look alive.
Not a runaway bride. Not a disappointment. Not the ghost I’ve been carrying around.
Just… me. Or something close to her.
My mom appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her mug of chamomile tea. Her smile softens everything inside me.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says as she presses her hand to her chest. “You look beautiful. That dress on you… it’s stunning. And your hair…”
My throat tightens. “Jet did everything.”
“I did,” Jet agrees proudly. “You’re welcome.”
Mom crosses the room and tucks a loose strand behind my ear like she used to before school dances.
“I think this is good for you,” she says gently. “Getting out. Being around people who know you. You’ve been so tense, honey.”
“I’m fine,” I murmur.
“No, you’re breathing again.” She kisses my cheek. “Go have fun. Even if it’s just for an hour.”
I nod because if I speak, I might cry.
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. So that’s why 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.”
Do I?
Do I really?
Because the last time I saw Dallas, he pulled away from me like I was a cliff edge he almost stepped off.
I force myself to breathe as the group inches closer. Rose calls out to them, waving. The men exchange greetings, laughter, and teasing.
Dallas finally turns.
His gaze lands on me.
And stops.
His steps slow. His expression shifts. Surprise, hesitation, a warmth he immediately tries to hide.
My cheeks heat.
He looks away first.
My chest pinches so sharply I have to press a hand to my side.
Jet squeezes my hand. “Is this too much? I know I dragged you here, but if you’re overwhelmed, let me know. We can always head to a bar or something…”
“No,” I whisper back. “No. I’m okay.”
Am I?
I don’t know.
But I didn’t come here to hide.
I don’t know what I came here for exactly, but it definitely wasn’t to hide.