Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The Lampstand glowed like a beacon at the heart of Laurel Valley as the sun began to set behind Twin Peaks. For over a century, the converted bank had stood as both a literal and figurative cornerstone of the community—a gathering place where locals came to celebrate life’s milestones, find comfort during hardships, or simply enjoy a good meal among friends.
Its name had always been more than just a clever moniker for a restaurant. As Simone O’Hara often reminded anyone who would listen, “A lampstand exists for one purpose—to hold the light high so everyone can see their way through darkness.” The metaphor wasn’t lost on the townsfolk, especially during the harsh Idaho winters when the glow from The Lampstand’s windows offered both physical warmth and spiritual hope.
Tonight, the private dining room hummed with O’Hara energy—laughter, overlapping conversations, and the occasional good-natured argument. Raven paused in the doorway, taking a moment to steel herself before stepping into the familial chaos. The aroma of Simone’s famous roast lamb and rosemary potatoes wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of fresh-baked bread and whatever decadent dessert was waiting in the kitchen.
“There she is!” Mac’s voice rose above the din as she bounded across the room, her dark curls almost contained in a messy bun on top of her head.
It was bittersweet to see the girl she remembered grow into the young woman who stood before her—more confident but with that same infectious enthusiasm that had defined her childhood. Ryder had barely been eighteen when Mac had been born, and Mac’s mother had taken off to parts unknown when she was only a couple of months old.
Raven and Wyatt had both been in elementary school when Ryder had announced he and Heather were pregnant and planning to get married after the baby came. Raven remembered well the chaos of that time—the fear and joy of two teenagers trying to figure out life with a new baby. But in the end, Heather hadn’t had the courage to stay and fight for her family, and she’d left Ryder to figure it out on his own.
But Mac had always been a joy, and all of the O’Haras had helped raise her. She was well loved by all. Raven squeezed her tight, holding on just a little too long.
“I was starting to think you were going to leave me to fend for myself with these people,” Mac said once she’d pulled back.
Raven laughed. “These people are your family.”
“Exactly my point,” Mac stage-whispered. “Hank and Colt have been arguing about the best fishing spot on Forgiveness River for forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes, Raven! About fish!”
From across the room, Hank looked up from his heated debate with Colt and called out, “That’s because some people think quantity matters more than quality. A true fisherman knows better!”
“A true fisherman comes home with enough fish for dinner,” Colt countered, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Hank was dressed in dress slacks and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, which meant he’d spent the day in business meetings with attorneys or financiers. He was a major developer in the area, and he didn’t get to get his hands dirty building as much as he once had. Colt had changed out of his scrubs and into jeans and a Henley after he’d seen his last patient, and his hair was still damp at the collar from his shower.
“Boys,” Anne O’Hara chided from her seat by the fireplace, though there was no heat in her reprimand. Her red hair might have silvered at the temples, but her blue eyes remained as sharp and bright as ever.
“Thank goodness for that,” Mick said, lifting his glass in his wife’s direction. After forty years of marriage, they still looked at each other like newlyweds—a fact that simultaneously warmed Raven’s heart and jabbed at the fresh wound of her own marital troubles.
Sophie waved Raven over to the empty seat beside her. “Saved you a spot,” she said. “Is Wyatt joining us?”
The question was innocent enough, but Raven felt a flush creep up her neck. “He got caught up at work,” she said, the lie coming easier than she would have liked.
“His loss,” Sophie said, passing her a basket of bread rolls. “Simone’s outdone herself tonight.”
Raven scanned the room, taking comfort in the familiar faces. Duncan sat next to Hattie, his artist’s hands constantly in motion as he described his latest project to his father. Unlike his brothers, Duncan had inherited Mick’s darker coloring—jet black hair and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to look straight through you. He rarely made public appearances in town, preferring the solitude of his studio, but family gatherings were nonnegotiable.
Hank and Sophie sat across from them, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. Occasionally, Hank would throw back his head and laugh at something Sophie had said, the sound rich and genuine. They’d weathered their own storm last Christmas when Sophie’s bookstore had burned down, but had emerged stronger for it.
Colt’s wife, Zoe, was deep in conversation with Anne about some new recipe, her writer’s hands gesturing animatedly as she tried to describe a dish she’d encountered during her recent book tour. Beside them, their enormous dog Chewy lay sprawled under the table, his huge white paws occasionally twitching as he dreamed.
In the corner, Ryder O’Hara—Simone and Tommy’s son and Mac’s father—was helping his dad arrange serving dishes on the sideboard, the family resemblance obvious in their matching profiles.
“Where’s my favorite niece?” Raven asked, noticing Duncan and Hattie’s daughter wasn’t in her usual spot of honor.
“Dylan offered to babysit so those two could have a night out,” Anne explained, nodding toward Duncan and Hattie. “That girl is shameless when it comes to stealing my grandchildren.”
Dylan was the best mechanic, other than Aidan, at The Pinnacle Garage—Aidan’s luxury mechanic shop. She loved children almost as much as she loved cars. She was practically one of the members of the family and had been invited to the festivities, but Dylan had bowed out and offered to babysit instead so the family could celebrate Mac without having to chase around toddlers.
“Sharing is caring, Mother,” Aidan said, entering the room with a tray of drinks. His resemblance to Hank and Wyatt was striking—all shared the same sandy-blond hair and green eyes, though Aidan’s features were slightly sharper. “Besides, you’ve got another one coming soon. Hattie looks like she’s going to pop any minute.”
“Never enough grandbabies,” Anne insisted, her eyes twinkling.
Raven felt the familiar weight of expectation settle on her shoulders. She and Wyatt had been married the longest of all the brothers, yet they remained childless—a fact that had never bothered her until recently, when the absences and secrets had begun. Now she wondered if a child might have anchored them more firmly to each other.
“How’s the boutique?” Simone asked as she bustled in from the kitchen, her elegant features flushed from the heat of the ovens. “I heard the summer shipment came in.”
“It did,” Raven confirmed, grateful for the change of subject. “I’ve got a new designer from Portland—all sustainable materials but with these incredible bohemian patterns. I put several pieces aside that would look amazing on you.”
“Always looking out for me,” Simone said with a wink. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”
“I heard that!” Mac protested from where she’d joined her father and grandfather.
“You’re my favorite granddaughter,” Simone clarified. “Different category entirely.”
“I’m your only granddaughter,” Mac said, grinning.
The dinner progressed with the comfortable rhythm of a family who knew each other’s cadences by heart. Stories flowed like wine—Colt’s latest mishap with a patient who’d thought he was single, Hank’s encounter with a particularly demanding resort developer from California, and the cute photographer who’d almost run Mac down with his Jeep while trying to get the perfect shot.
For a while, Raven almost forgot the hollow ache in her chest. Almost.
Until her phone vibrated in her pocket halfway through dessert—a rich tiramisu that Simone had perfected over decades. She casually slipped the device from her pocket and glanced down, expecting it to be a notification from one of her social media accounts for the boutique.
Instead, Wyatt’s name stared back at her.
Working late. Don’t wait up. – W
She slid the phone back into her pocket, the tiramisu turning to ash in her mouth. Around her, the warmth and light of The Lampstand continued unabated—laughter rising and falling, silverware clinking against plates, Mick launching into one of his famous stories about the early days of Laurel Valley.
“You okay?” Sophie’s voice was low, meant only for her ears.
Raven managed a nod, but she could feel her smile growing brittle at the edges. “Just tired.”
Sophie’s gaze lingered a moment too long, concern evident in her expression, but she didn’t press. Another quality Raven appreciated about her sister-in-law—she knew when to push and when to wait.
“Remember what I always tell the boys,” Simone was saying as she refilled Mick’s coffee cup. “A family is like this place—a lampstand in the storm. No matter how dark it gets outside, the light inside never goes out as long as we keep it burning together.”
The words settled over Raven like a prayer and a rebuke simultaneously. The light hadn’t gone out in her marriage—not yet—but it was dimming, flickering dangerously in the wind of whatever secret Wyatt was keeping.
She looked around at the faces of the O’Haras, at the unconditional love and acceptance that radiated between them even during disagreements. This was what family meant: showing up, being present, keeping the light burning even when storms raged.
Wyatt wasn’t here. Not physically, not emotionally either.
As the evening wound down and goodbyes were exchanged, Raven found herself lingering in the doorway of The Lampstand, watching as the family dispersed into the warm summer night. Mac’s laughter echoed down the street as she walked between her grandparents. Duncan’s arm was wrapped protectively around Hattie’s shoulders. Colt and Zoe headed toward their home with Chewy bounding ahead of them, while Hank and Sophie strolled hand in hand toward the newly rebuilt Reading Nook.
“Need company walking back to your car?” Anne asked, appearing at her elbow.
Raven shook her head. “I’m fine. Just enjoying the night air.”
Anne studied her for a moment, those perceptive blue eyes taking in more than Raven was comfortable revealing. “The O’Haras have weathered many storms over the generations,” she said finally. “Some external, some of our own making. But we’ve never weathered them alone.” She squeezed Raven’s hand. “Remember that.”
Before Raven could respond, Anne had turned to follow Mick to their car, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the distant glow of The Lampstand’s beacon shining against the darkening sky.
The moon cast silver ribbons across the surface of Twin Lakes as Wyatt O’Hara crouched behind the rotting porch of the Murphy cabin, his breath measuring out in controlled, shallow puffs of vapor in the cool mountain air. Summer nights in the mountains still carried winter’s ghost, especially this close to the water. He’d been in position for almost two hours, muscles cramping from holding still, but years of training had taught him patience.
Patience and silence were the tools that kept him alive.
His phone weighed heavily in his pocket as he crouched in position. With practiced stealth, he pulled it out and glanced at the screen, keeping it shielded against his chest to prevent any light from giving away his position.
Working late. Don’t wait up. – W
The message he’d sent to Raven earlier stared back at him, stark and impersonal. The words that revealed nothing of the knot in his gut or the weight on his chest. No response from her. Not that he expected one anymore.
When had they started communicating like strangers passing notes under a door?
He missed her. He missed them.
But there was no time for that now. The faint crunch of tires on gravel cut through the night, headlights extinguished long before the vehicle approached. Right on schedule.
Wyatt holstered his phone and refocused, adrenaline sharpening his senses. The late-model SUV pulled up beside the cabin, its dark blue exterior nearly invisible against the night sky. Three men emerged, their movements efficient and practiced. The driver stayed behind the wheel, engine idling.
Three months of careful work had led to this moment. In his position as a DEA agent assigned to Laurel Valley’s sheriff’s department, Wyatt had cultivated a persona that had gained him entry into Moss’s inner circle—a jaded officer willing to look the other way for the right price.
The tallest of the men—Adrian Moss, mid-thirties, ex-military with a dishonorable discharge and a penchant for tactical gear he hadn’t earned the right to wear—led the way into the cabin. His right-hand man, known only as Viper, flanked him with the watchful vigilance of a predator. The third man, newer to the operation, carried a metal briefcase handcuffed to his wrist.
“O’Hara better show,” Moss growled, his voice carrying across the still night air. “I don’t like waiting.”
That was his cue. Wyatt squared his shoulders, emptied his expression of everything but cool detachment, and stepped out from his hiding place, making enough noise to be heard but not enough to startle. In this world, startled men pulled triggers first and asked questions later.
“I’ve been here an hour,” Wyatt said, letting a hint of irritation seep into his voice as he approached them. He’d learned early that appearing overconfident was as dangerous as showing fear. “Security sweep. Standard procedure.”
Moss’s lips curled into something resembling a smile. “Cautious. I like that.”
“Cautious keeps us all breathing,” Wyatt countered, climbing the sagging steps to the cabin’s porch. Every board had been memorized during previous reconnaissance—which ones creaked, which ones might give way, which ones would provide cover if things went south.
The interior of the cabin smelled of mildew and pine sap, with underlying notes of something metallic and chemical. A battery-powered lamp cast harsh shadows across the worn floorboards. The furniture was sparse—a table, a few chairs, a moth-eaten couch pushed against the far wall. Perfect for temporary business, terrible for comfort.
At his full height of six foot three, Wyatt towered over most men. His sandy-blond hair, cut short on the sides but longer on top, caught the dim light as he moved. The beard he’d grown for this operation—neatly trimmed but fuller than he usually wore it—shadowed his strong jaw. His green eyes, watchful and calculating, missed nothing as he surveyed the room.
“Let’s make this quick,” Wyatt said, leaning against the wall near the door—close to both an exit and the Glock 19 holstered beneath his jacket. “Sheriff’s got the department on extra patrols with tourist season starting. Too many rich folks with their designer drugs coming to play in our mountains.”
Viper snorted, his narrow face pinched with perpetual suspicion. “Ironic.”
“It’s business,” Wyatt shrugged, maintaining his character’s pragmatic indifference. “Speaking of which…”
Moss nodded to the third man, who set the metal case on the table and unlocked it from his wrist. The snap of the locks releasing seemed unnaturally loud in the cabin.
“Shipment’s doubled this month,” Moss said, opening the case to reveal neat rows of plastic-wrapped bricks. “Market’s expanding. Seems your quiet little mountain town has developed quite the appetite.”
Wyatt’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Each brick represented destroyed lives, broken families, overdoses, and violence that would ripple through Laurel Valley like poison. The tourist economy that had revitalized the town was now providing perfect cover for something that could destroy it from within.
He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the colorful tattoo sleeves that covered both arms from wrist to shoulder partially visible beneath his rolled-up cuffs. The left arm told the story of his military service—scenes from his deployments interwoven with memorials to fallen brothers. The right depicted the mountains and forests of Laurel Valley, his roots and his home. Together, they were a visual biography of the man he was—a warrior with a heart, a protector of what he loved.
“Double the shipment, double the risk,” Wyatt said evenly. “Double the payment.”
Moss’s eyebrows rose. “That wasn’t the arrangement.”
“Arrangements change when circumstances do.” Wyatt maintained steady eye contact, knowing any sign of weakness would be fatal—both to his cover and potentially to him. “I’ve got a department to manage, routes to secure, product to move.”
“Getting greedy, O’Hara?” Viper challenged, his hand drifting toward the bulge beneath his jacket.
Wyatt didn’t flinch. There was a quiet magnetism to him, a natural authority that made men like Viper hesitate just long enough to reconsider. It wasn’t merely his size—though the broad chest tapering to narrow hips gave him the powerful build of a man who could handle himself in any situation. It was something more elemental, a presence that commanded attention and respect without demanding it.
“Getting realistic,” he replied coolly. “Your operation’s growing, drawing attention. I’m the thin blue line keeping that attention pointed elsewhere.” He gestured to the case. “Quality product deserves quality protection. That costs.”
The tension in the room stretched taut as a bowstring. Moss studied him, weighing options, calculating risks. These were the moments that determined survival in the undercover world—the ability to stay perfectly balanced on the knife edge between believability and suspicion.
Finally, Moss chuckled. “I told Kessler you’d have balls. Fine. Another five grand. But I expect highways clear for the trucks coming through next week.”
“Consider it done,” Wyatt said, relief carefully concealed beneath his mask of indifference.
The third man closed the case and produced a satellite phone. “Confirmation?”
Moss nodded, and the man dialed, speaking rapid Spanish into the receiver. Wyatt caught enough to understand—shipment confirmed, payment authorized, next delivery scheduled. He memorized dates, amounts, locations, storing them away for the report he’d prepare later.
The exchange was nearly complete when the distinctive crackle of a police radio cut through the night.
Every muscle in Wyatt’s body tensed as Viper’s gun appeared in his hand with terrifying speed, leveled directly at Wyatt’s chest.
“You set us up?” Viper snarled, finger already whitening on the trigger.
“Stand down,” Wyatt commanded, not reaching for his own weapon. “That’s the regular patrol. They sweep this road every night at 2100 hours.”
Moss’s hand clamped on to Viper’s wrist. “Easy. If O’Hara wanted us busted, we’d already be in cuffs.”
The blue and red lights flashed briefly through the grimy windows as a patrol car passed slowly on the main road below. Wyatt’s heart hammered against his ribs, each beat a silent prayer that rookie deputy Carson was sticking to the route and wouldn’t get curious about a vehicle parked near the abandoned cabin.
After an eternity compressed into seconds, the lights disappeared around the bend. Viper’s gun remained trained on Wyatt’s chest.
“One twitchy deputy could’ve just ended your operation,” Wyatt said coolly, despite the thundering of his pulse. “And my life. This is exactly why my fee just went up.”
A long, tense moment passed before Moss nodded and Viper reluctantly lowered his weapon.
“That particular patrol route,” Moss said with a calculating smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “is rarely a concern. We have arrangements with certain members of the department.
Wyatt kept his expression neutral. The implication sent a cold tendril of suspicion down his spine, but he couldn’t afford to show any reaction that might expose his true role.
“We’ll transfer the extra funds,” Moss said, his earlier joviality replaced by businesslike efficiency. “Product stays here until the route is confirmed clear tomorrow night. Your buyer knows where to come?”
Wyatt nodded. The “buyer” was actually DEA Agent Melissa Kwan, whose cover as a resort developer with a sideline in distribution had been meticulously constructed over the past year.
“She’ll be here,” he confirmed. “Same time tomorrow.”
“Good.” Moss snapped the case shut. “And O’Hara? Next time there’s a patrol, I’d appreciate a heads-up. Viper here doesn’t always have my restraint.”
The threat wasn’t even thinly veiled. Wyatt understood its implications perfectly—one mistake, one misstep, and he was expendable.
Just like that, the meeting was over. The three men departed as efficiently as they’d arrived, leaving Wyatt alone in the cabin with the case and the crushing weight of his double life.
He waited until the sound of their SUV faded into the distance before allowing himself to breathe normally again. His hand trembled slightly as he extracted a burner phone from his boot and sent a coded message to Blaze and Agent Kwan.
Package delivered. Pickup confirmed. Route adjustments needed.
How many more nights like this? How many more lies to Raven? How many more close calls before his luck ran out?
He secured the cabin and began the careful hike to where he’d hidden his own vehicle, a nondescript truck borrowed from the DEA’s fleet of unmarked cars. The night air felt clean in his lungs after the stifling tension of the cabin, the stars overhead offering silent witness to his solitary burden.
His regular phone vibrated again. Heart quickening, he checked it, hoping for a response from Raven.
Nothing.
The hollow feeling in his chest expanded. She hadn’t responded to his message. Didn’t ask where he was, when he’d be home, if he was safe. The silence between them had grown so deep that his wife no longer even questioned his absences.
Maybe she’d stopped caring. Maybe she’d given up on them entirely. The thought was like ice in his veins, colder than the mountain air.
Or worse—maybe she’d started looking elsewhere for the companionship he wasn’t providing. The image of Raven finding comfort in someone else’s arms twisted through him like a serrated blade.
No. He refused to believe that. Raven was loyal to her core—it was one of the things he’d first loved about her. But loyalty could only withstand so much strain before it fractured. And he’d been testing hers for months now.
Wyatt reached his truck and climbed inside, sitting for a moment with his hands on the wheel, exhaustion settling over him like a physical weight. The mission was important—vital, even. The drug operation was poisoning communities across the Northwest, ruining lives, destroying families.
Including, he realized with bitter irony, his own.
Two more weeks. That’s what Agent Kwan had promised. Two more weeks until they had enough evidence to bring down Moss and his entire network. Two more weeks of lies and absences. Two more weeks of watching Raven’s eyes grow colder, her smile more distant, her hope dimmer.
If their marriage survived that long.
Wyatt started the engine and began the careful drive down the mountain, taking the long way to avoid being seen. Tomorrow, he’d have to face Raven, look into those blue eyes the color of a lake in winter that had once shone with so much love for him, and lie again.
For now, though, he just needed to make it home—to the house that no longer felt like one.