Dallas
CHAPTER FORTY
It’s been days since Nash told me about the website. About the pictures. About Faith’s face being used as a prop to tell the world she’s fine.
And I’ve done what I always do when something hurts too much: I’ve tried to pack it away into a box and nail the lid shut.
Doesn’t work.
Not when Lila keeps asking about her. Not when I keep catching myself looking at the road, waiting for her headlights. Not when every quiet moment is a punishment.
I’ve stopped calling her every day.
That’s what I told myself was the healthy choice. The moving on choice.
It’s more like sawing off my own arm.
I’m staring down at a stack of invoices when the office door slams open hard enough to rattle the frame.
Rose.
She’s breathless, cheeks flushed, hair coming loose from her braid.
For a split second, my chest tightens. Panic, hope, dread, all tangled together.
“Rose?” I push to my feet. “What’s wrong?”
She crosses the room in three strides and shoves her phone toward me with a shaking hand.
“Dallas,” she croaks. “It’s Faith.”
My entire body goes still.
That name hits like a gunshot in a quiet room. My ears ring. My vision narrows. All the air in my lungs disappears.
“What do you mean?” I manage.
Rose swallows hard, eyes glossy. “I got a message. From her father’s business account. It came through ten minutes ago.”
I take the phone with hands that suddenly don’t feel mine.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
Part of me is terrified to look.
Because I’ve been living in a world where every hint of Faith is either a lie or a knife. A smiling photo. A website listing.
But this… This is direct.
I read.
And the ranch tilts under my feet.
Rose. Please. I don’t have my phone. I can’t call. I’m not alone. Ever. I’m being watched. I can’t do this anymore. I need out. Can you tell Dallas? Please tell him I’m sorry. Please tell him I’m scared.
My vision blurs so fast I have to blink hard.
The message is simple, and that’s what makes it terrifying. This isn’t a misunderstanding. This is what my gut has been screaming since the first night she didn’t show up at the porch.
She’s trapped. She didn’t “choose Evan.”
Rose sounds far away. “Dallas, what do we do?”
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
I stare down at the message again as if it might change if I read it twice.
It doesn’t.
My hands start shaking.
Anger flashes up so hot it makes my skin feel too tight. Anger at Evan, at William Ross, at myself for ever believing that staged smile meant anything.
Then fear follows it, cold and brutal.
Because if she’s being watched, if she doesn’t have her phone, and she had to sneak a message through a business account just to reach someone…
How much worse is it than we know?
“We need to find her.”
“I know.” Rose turns the phone so I can see. A corporate address in the city. My stomach drops with it. “This is where we go.”
Mom’s words echo in my head as an order: If Faith asks for help again… clearly, directly, you go. Without hesitation.
My hands clench around the phone.
I don’t even feel the decision happen. It’s already done.
I’m moving.
I’m out of the office and down the hall before Rose can finish wiping her face. Boots pounding on wood. Heart pounding harder. Every nerve in my body lit up as a wildfire.
“Dallas!” Rose hurries after me. “What… what are you doing?”
“Boone!” I shout.
Boone appears, snow dusting his shoulders, eyebrows lifting at my face.
“What?” he asks, already reading the urgency in my voice.
“Faith,” I say, and the name tastes of blood and hope. “She reached out.”
Boone goes still. “What?”
I thrust Rose’s phone toward him so he can read. His eyes track the message, and I watch his jaw tighten with every line.
When he looks up, his expression has changed.
The calm, steady Boone is still there.
But there’s a storm behind his eyes now.
“She wants out,” Boone says quietly.
“Yes.”
“And she’s being watched.”
“Yes.”
Boone’s gaze flicks to Rose. “You sure it’s her?”
Rose nods hard. “I really do think it’s her. Why would anyone else do this?”
Boone doesn’t hesitate. That’s what I love about him. About all my brothers, even when they drive me insane. When it matters, they move.
He turns and yells, “Nash! Clay! We’re going to get Faith back.”
Within seconds, boots thud overhead. A door slams. Nash barrels inside, half-zipped jacket, hair sticking up, eyes wide.
Clay follows, quieter but no less alert, his hands already tugging on gloves.
“What’s going on?” Nash demands.
Boone holds up the phone.
Nash reads.
And his face goes pale in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Damn,” he whispers. Then louder, “We’re going. Right now.”
Clay’s expression hardens into sharp and cold.
“Where is she?” he asks.
“City,” I say. “Her dad’s office address is tagged to the account.”
Clay’s mouth tightens. “How far?”
“Couple hours,” Boone says automatically, already calculating routes.
My mother cuts through from the doorway.
“Dallas.”
I turn.
Mom stands there in her housecoat, hair braided, face composed but eyes fierce. She must’ve heard my shouting.
“What’s happened?” she asks, though her gaze tells me she already knows.
I swallow hard. “Faith messaged Rose. She wants out. She’s scared.”
For one second, Mom’s composure cracks. Relief flickers across her face so fast it’s almost pain.
Then it settles into steel.
“Then you go,” she says.
Rose steps forward, wringing her hands. “Maggie, I—”
Mom reaches out and cups Rose’s cheek gently, wiping the tear with her thumb. “You did the right thing, honey.”
Then she looks back at me. “Call Sheriff Carson. Tell him what you have. Don’t go in blind.”
My chest tightens.
Part of me wants to say no. Wants to handle it myself. Wants to kick down doors and drag Faith back into the truck as if I can muscle my way through this the way I muscle through storms and broken fences.
But Mom’s right.
This isn’t ranch trouble.
This is a man with money and influence and a daughter he treats as property.
We need backup.
I nod once. “Boone, call Carson. Nash, get the truck ready. Clay, grab whatever you need. Rose, screenshot everything. If they try to say she’s happy, if they try to twist it, I want proof.”
Rose nods and starts tapping furiously, saving the messages, taking screenshots as if her life depends on it.
My whole body feels wired. I’ve been living underwater, and someone finally yanked me to the surface.
But there’s no relief yet. Not really.
Only urgency.
Rose grabs my sleeve as I move toward the back door.
“Dallas,” she pleads. “Please bring her back.”
My chest tightens. I meet her gaze.
“I will,” I promise.
And I don’t even care if it’s arrogant. I don’t care if it’s unrealistic.
Faith asked for help.
That means she still exists under all that control.
That means she’s still fighting.
And I am not leaving her there.
Nash tears out of the mudroom with keys in hand. “Truck’s ready.”
Clay is already pulling on his coat, eyes dark. “If Evan’s there—”
“He will be.”
Boone steps in close, a hand on my shoulder.
“Listen to me,” he says quietly. “We do this smart. We don’t give them a reason to paint you as violent or unstable.”
I swallow, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Because I can already picture it.
A headline: Local Cowboy Storms Office, Harasses Bride.
A story: Faith is safe, she’s just confused.
A photo: Evan with his arm around her waist, smiling.
A press release: We ask for privacy in this difficult time.
My stomach churns.
“Hold on,” I whisper under my breath, not sure if I’m talking to Faith or myself.
Because there’s only one thing I know for certain right now:
I’m coming.
And I’m not turning back.