30. Dallas
CHAPTER THIRTY
Dallas
The ranch doesn’t do “processing feelings.”
The ranch does chores.
It does the kind of work that keeps moving, whether you’re ready or not.
Which is convenient, if you’re trying not to think about the fact that Faith Ross has been in my kitchen twice in one month and somehow managed to rearrange my entire insides without even trying.
I tell myself I’m fine.
That’s a lie. But it’s a useful one at eight thirty in the morning.
Rusty lifts his old head off his bed near the mudroom and watches me cross the kitchen.
“What,” I mutter, grabbing the coffee pot. “Don’t start.”
His tail thumps once.
The coffee is leftover from yesterday and strong enough to strip paint, which is what I deserve. I pour it into my travel mug and take a swallow that nearly takes the enamel off my teeth.
Good. Pain is grounding.
My phone sits on the counter, screen down. I haven’t been touching it much lately because it keeps tempting me into doing stupid things. Maybe texting Faith. Rereading her last messages. Staring at her name until my brain starts making plans it has no business making.
I grab my keys instead, shove my hands into my coat pockets, and head outside.
The cold hits hard, as it always does in January. I cross the yard toward the barn, breath fogging in slow white clouds, and tell myself the same thing I’ve been telling myself since New Year’s:
Work. Just work until I lose track of time.
“Hey, Dallas.”
I turn to see my brother. “Oh, Nash, hey.”
He drifts closer, toe nudging a coil of rope. “You know, Boone asked me this morning if you were planning on consuming anything besides caffeine.”
“I ate,” I lie.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
Nash snorts. “That tracks.”
I grab a pair of gloves off the hook and tug them on a little harder than necessary. “What do you want, Nash?”
He considers that for a beat, his expression going uncharacteristically neutral. “Honestly? To make sure you’re not about to do something real dumb.”
That gets my attention. I finally glance at him. “Like what?”
“Like pretending everything’s normal when it very clearly is not.” He shrugs. “You’re not great at that, by the way. You get quieter. Start picking fights with inanimate objects. Classic tell.”
I shake my head and head for the tack room, hoping movement will shut him up. It doesn’t.
“Look,” he says, following, “I’m not trying to be Boone here. I know he already did the heartfelt brother talk thing. I’m just saying, whatever’s got you wound this tight? It’s leaking.”
“I’ve got it handled.”
“Dallas.” He stops walking. I don’t, but his tone shifts just enough that I feel it anyway. “You don’t.”
I pause with my hand on the doorframe, breath fogging the air.
“I’m fine,” I say again, because stubborn is easier than honest.
Nash exhales slowly. “Okay. Then answer me this. Are you mad, or are you scared?”
I turn back to him, jaw tight. “You always this annoying?”
“Only when I care,” he says lightly, then adds, quieter, “And when it involves kids.”
That does it.
My shoulders tense. “This isn’t about Lila.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Didn’t say it was.”
I stare at him for a long second, then look away. Snow blows in through the open barn door, cold and sharp. My chest feels too full.
Nash doesn’t push. He never does when it actually matters. Instead, he shifts his weight and changes tactics.
“You don’t owe me details,” he says. “Or explanations. Hell, you don’t owe anybody anything. But if you need cover today, space to think, I can run point on the afternoon stuff.”
I scoff quietly. “I don’t need space.”
“Everyone needs space sometimes,” he replies. “Doesn’t mean you’re weak. Just means you’re human. Shocking, I know.”
I drag a hand over my face. “I’m fine.”
Nash nods once, accepting the lie for what it is. “Alright. Offer stands. But… that’s the exact tone people use when something is not fine.”
I shove past him with a bundle of tools. “Go be useful.”
“I’m always useful.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Harsh,” he says, but he backs off, trailing after me anyway. “So what’s the plan, boss?”
“There’s no plan.”
Nash makes a thoughtful sound. “That seems unlikely.”
I don’t answer because if I do, I’m going to say something dumb. I can’t stop thinking about her.
Instead, I go back to work.
That holds me together for another hour. Maybe two.
Then Clay catches me by the feed shed.
He doesn’t come in hot. Clay’s quieter. More direct. If Nash is a mosquito, Clay is a fence post. He just stands there until you deal with him.
He watches me tighten a bolt on the feeder hinge, then hands me a wrench as if he’s my partner on a job site and not my brother about to interrogate me.
“You’ve been weird,” he says.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
Clay snorts. “Not like your normal weird. Like… you’re thinking too hard weird.”
I keep my focus on the bolt. “I think hard all the time.”
“You think hard about cattle,” he corrects. “Not feelings.”
I finally glance at him. “You got a point here, or are we just listing my personality flaws?”
His eyes flick with amusement, then soften. “I heard you haven’t been sleeping.”
“Who told you that?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Your face.”
I grunt and go back to work.
Clay waits. And when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “Is she okay?”
I know who he means. He doesn’t even have to say her name.
“I don’t know,” I admit, and the honesty tastes of rust. “She’s been… off.”
Clay nods slowly. “Yeah. She’s got a lot going on.”
I feel my chest tighten. “You think I don’t know that?”
He holds up his hands. “Easy. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just saying… maybe don’t take it personally if she’s pulling back.”
I swallow, rough. “I’m not.”
Clay gives me a look that says liar.
I scowl.
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Look, you don’t have to tell me anything. But if you do, I won’t be an ass about it.”
“That’s a bold claim,” I mutter.
He cracks a grin. “I said won’t. Not can’t.”
That’s the thing with my brothers. They’ll needle you to death, but the second it matters, they’ll plant themselves beside you.
It’s why I don’t enjoy needing them.
“Thanks,” I say, and it comes out rougher than I mean.
I finish the hinge, shove the wrench into my pocket, and walk away before I do something stupid. Such as talk about how Faith looked at me the other night as if I was someone she could trust, and how that scares the hell out of me.
I make it until lunchtime before the cracks start showing.
Not in any big, dramatic way. Nothing explodes. I don’t punch a wall or quit the ranch or drive into town. It’s quieter than that. Slower. The kind of unraveling you don’t notice until you’re standing still and realize your chest feels too tight and your thoughts won’t stay put.
I eat because Boone makes me.
He doesn’t ask questions. Just sets a sandwich down on the workbench beside me. Ham, mustard, bread that’s a little stale. Fuel.
“Don’t starve,” he says, already turning away.
I take a bite because it’s easier than arguing.
By midafternoon, I’ve run out of things that urgently need fixing. Which means there’s nothing left to hide behind.
That’s when I finally stop pretending I’m not going to call her.
I sit on the tailgate of the truck, phone heavy in my hand, staring at the screen, waiting for it to bite me.
I tell myself this is reasonable. We can’t keep orbiting each other in this way, pretending what happened didn’t matter while also letting it matter too damn much. She deserves clarity. Hell, so do I.
My thumb hovers.
I think about the last time I saw her. The way she smiled, but didn’t quite meet my eyes. The way she was holding herself together with willpower and coffee. The way she flinched when her phone buzzed.
Something is wrong.
And the thought that I might be adding to it twists my gut.
Still, I hit call.
It rings longer than I expect. Long enough that I start rehearsing an apology I haven’t earned yet.
“Hey,” she says finally, breathless.
“Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah,” she says too fast. Then, softer, “I mean. I’m fine.”
There it is again. That word.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the cold metal of the truck. “You don’t sound fine.”
She lets out a shaky little laugh. “Wow. You always this good at interrogations?”
“Only when I’m worried.”
Another pause. I can hear movement on her end. Fabric shifting. A door opening or closing. Her world doing something mine isn’t part of.
“I’ve just had… a lot,” she says carefully.
My chest tightens. “Yeah. I figured.”
“I’m sorry,” she adds quickly. “If I’ve been weird. I’m not trying to—”
“Hey,” I cut in gently. “You don’t owe me an apology.”
She exhales. “It kind of feels like I do.”
I sit up straighter. “Faith…”
“I’m okay,” she insists, but there’s a tremor under it now. “Really. Just figuring stuff out.”
I nod even though she can’t see me. “Listen. That’s actually why I called.”
Silence.
I push on before I lose my nerve. “I was wondering if you’d want to go to dinner. Just us. Talk things through.”
Another beat. Longer this time.
My stomach sinks. I’m already recalibrating, already preparing to say never mind, forget I asked, I didn’t mean tonight…
“Dinner,” she repeats, tasting the word.
“Yeah,” I say. “Nothing fancy. Just food. Conversation. No pressure.”
“I don’t know,” she says softly, and there it is. The anxiety, plain as day now. “I’m not sure I’m very good company right now.”
That ache in my chest deepens. “You don’t have to be.”
She laughs again, but it’s thin. “You say that, but I kind of feel like a walking storm cloud lately.”
I rub a hand over my jaw. “Faith, if tonight’s too much—”
“No,” she says quickly. “Dinner sounds good.”
Relief rushes through me so fast it almost knocks me sideways. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she repeats.
“Great, I’ll see you at seven.”
When the call ends, I just sit there for a minute, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to the dead line hum.
Then the guilt hits.
She’s anxious. Really anxious. And here I am, asking her out to dinner, pretending everything’s normal when her life clearly isn’t.
She just got out of a relationship. A serious one. The kind that leaves marks even when you don’t see bruises. I know that territory too well.
Maybe I’m moving too fast.
Maybe I should’ve waited.
The thought needles at me as I stand and shove the phone back into my pocket. I finish up the last of the afternoon work on autopilot, my mind replaying her voice over and over, picking apart every pause.
By the time the sun starts sinking toward the trees, I’ve made a decision.
Tonight isn’t about pushing forward.
It’s about making space.
If she needs me to step back, I will. If what she needs is a friend, someone calm and familiar who isn’t asking for more, I can be that. I want to be that.
I don’t need everything.
I just don’t want nothing.
And if all I walk away with tonight is her still in my life?
I’ll count that as a win.