27. Faith #2
“He found me,” I whisper to the empty cab. “He actually found me.”
Evan’s face flashes in my mind too, all polished charm and clenched teeth. He hates being embarrassed almost as much as my father does. There’s a part of me that’s now almost more afraid of his reaction than my dad’s.
Two men. One I was supposed to marry. One I was supposed to obey. Both of them furious. Both of them with money and connections and an unstoppable need to control the narrative.
And then there’s Dallas.
Dallas, who has done nothing but offer me kindness and space and the possibility of real.
The thought of my father’s anger touching him, touching Lila, touching this ranch that has taken me in, is unbearable.
So I do what I’ve always done.
I cut myself out of the picture before someone else can.
By the time I pull up to Mom’s house, my eyes burn and my head pounds. I don’t even remember half the drive. I barely get the truck into park before the door swings open.
Mom appears on the porch, cardigan wrapped tight over her pajamas, hair half twisted up with a clip. Her face goes from sleepy confusion to concern in about half a second when she gets a good look at me.
“Faith?” she calls over the crunch of my boots as I stumble up the walk. “Honey, what on earth…”
I make it as far as the first step before whatever fragile thread I’ve been holding onto snaps. My vision blurs again, the house doubling and swimming.
“I’m sorry,” I choke. I’m not even sure what I’m apologizing for anymore. Running from the wedding. Running to Buckhorn. Running from Dallas. All of the above. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”
She doesn’t ask another question right away. She just comes down the steps fast and meets me halfway, arms opening like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.
I fall into her, full body, as if I’m five years old again and scraped my knee on the gravel. Except this hurts a thousand times more, and there’s no bandage in the world that’s going to fix it.
She wraps me up, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other rubbing firm circles between my shoulder blades.
“It’s okay,” she says, over and over. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
I sob into her shoulder, clutching her cardigan like it’s a lifeline. All the fear and shame and grief and exhaustion pour out in ugly, gulping waves. My legs feel shaky, so she steers me gently up the remaining steps and inside, lingering only long enough to shut the door against the cold.
The living room is warm, curtains half drawn. The couch looks like it’s waiting, too. Mom guides me to it, sits me down, then disappears, only to come back with a box of tissues and a blanket that smells faintly of fabric softener and wood smoke.
She settles beside me and tucks the blanket carefully around my shoulders, the way she used to when I fell asleep on the couch during storms. Then she turns sideways, one knee up on the cushion, giving me her full attention.
“Okay,” she says gently. “Start from the beginning. Or the middle. Or the end. Wherever you can.”
It takes me a while. The words get stuck in my throat, tangling with old fear and fresh guilt. I stare down at my hands, still shaking, and realize the phone is still in them, the screen dark, its weight obnoxiously small for the amount of damage it can do.
I force myself to turn it on.
The photo glares up at me as a bruise.
Mom’s lips thin as I thrust it toward her with a whisper. “He knows.”
She takes the phone carefully, like it might bite. Her eyes skim the image, then the text underneath. Her face goes very still, a muscle ticking in her jaw I’ve only seen a few times in my life.
“Did he say it was him?”
“No.” My laugh comes out broken. “He doesn’t have to. You can hear him, can’t you? That’s his voice. His… message. Running again, Faith. Humiliating me again. Making a mess again.”
The image on the phone wobbles and blurs as fresh tears well up.
“I’m so scared,” I whisper. “I don’t know what he’s going to do. I embarrassed him in front of clients, partners, and whoever else he invited. And now I’m here, and he knows, and if he goes after Dallas or the ranch or you or Charlotte…”
My voice breaks entirely.
Mom’s hand lands over mine, grounding and warm. “Hey. Look at me.”
I force my gaze up.
“You have done nothing wrong,” she says, each word crisp.
She’s choosing them as carefully as my father chooses his cutting remarks.
“You left a man you didn’t love before you signed away the rest of your life.
You ran from a situation that was suffocating you.
You fell for someone who actually sees you.
If that embarrasses him, that’s his problem. ”
“He doesn’t see it that way,” I breathe.
“No,” she agrees. “He doesn’t. And that’s why I left him.”
The reminder hits with a quiet thud. She’s been where I am. She knows the landscape.
“But you know what else?” she continues, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “He doesn’t have the power here that he thinks he does. Not in this house. Not in this town. Not over you, unless you hand it to him.”
“I don’t know how not to,” I admit. “I’ve been bending myself around him for so long, I don’t… I don’t remember how to stand straight.”
Her expression crumples, grief and anger and love mixing together. Then she takes a breath, smooths it out, and squeezes my hand.
“That’s okay,” she says quietly. “That’s what healing’s for. We’ll figure it out. One little stand at a time.”
I really hope she’s right…