Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The early morning light painted whispers of peach and gold across the Laurel Valley sky as Wyatt’s truck pulled into the driveway. He cut the engine, allowing silence to envelop him like a cold embrace.
For a moment, he simply sat there, staring at the Craftsman where laughter had once come easily and secrets didn’t lodge between them like splinters. The porch light still burned—Raven’s silent beacon guiding him home. She’d never stopped leaving it on, even as the distance between them had grown from inches to miles.
His body ached with a bone-deep exhaustion that sleep couldn’t cure. He rubbed his face, feeling the stubble of his beard rasp against his calloused palms. The mirror revealed shadows like bruises beneath his green eyes and lines that hadn’t been there six months ago. Undercover work aged a man, he’d been warned. What they hadn’t mentioned was how it could age a marriage just as quickly.
The front door opened with a familiar creak—one he’d promised to fix last summer but never had. The house smelled of vanilla, Raven’s signature scent that clung to every surface like a memory. He moved through the darkened living room, navigating by muscle memory past the couch where they’d once spent Sunday afternoons tangled together, past the wall of photos chronicling happier times.
He hadn’t expected her to be awake. But there she was, sitting at the kitchen island, her dark hair tumbling in loose waves around her shoulders. She wore his old DEA Academy shirt—the one she’d claimed years ago—and it swallowed her petite frame. A mug of tea steamed between her hands, the scent of chamomile threading through the air. Raven’s eyes met his, those icy blue depths that had once held nothing but warmth now guarded and uncertain. The silence between them stretched taut, fragile as spun glass.
“You’re home,” she said finally, her voice carefully neutral. Not an accusation, not quite a welcome. A simple statement of fact.
“I didn’t think you’d be up.” Wyatt set his keys in the wooden bowl by the door—a wedding gift from Duncan, hand-carved from birch. The soft clatter seemed to echo in the space between them.
“Couldn’t sleep.” She lifted the mug to her lips, her wedding ring catching the soft light from above the stove. The gold band looked almost foreign there now, as though it belonged to someone else’s life.
Wyatt moved to the refrigerator, extracting a bottle of water. His throat felt desert dry, parched from hours of careful conversation and calculated half truths. The cool liquid provided momentary relief, but nothing could wash away the taste of lies that had become his daily bread.
“Duncan saw you.” The words fell between them like stones into still water, ripples of consequence spreading outward. “On Twin Lakes Road. At dawn yesterday.”
Wyatt froze, the bottle halfway to his lips. Too exhausted to manufacture a convincing reaction, he simply waited, listening to the steady tick of the antique clock on the wall—another family heirloom, this one from his grandmother. Counting seconds. Measuring the distance between truth and deception.
“There’s nothing up there except the old Murphy cabin,” Raven continued, her finger tracing the rim of her mug. Light reflected in the ceramic, casting rippling patterns across her face. “The one teenagers use when they don’t want their parents to know what they’re doing.” Her eyes lifted to his, sharp now, cutting through his defenses. “What were you doing up there, Wyatt?”
He set the water bottle down carefully on the granite countertop, buying precious seconds. As a DEA agent assigned to Blaze’s department, his movements should have made sense. But the operation had required him to create distance, to compartmentalize in ways that were tearing them apart.
“Work,” he said, the single word falling heavy between them.
“Work,” she repeated, the word hollow. “That’s your answer for everything these days. I know you’re DEA, Wyatt. I’ve known that since you took the job. But this consulting you’ve been doing, these overtime assignments Blaze brings you in on—” Her voice trailed off, hurt etched in every syllable.
“Because it’s the truth.” The half truth that was eating him alive.
“Is it?” She pushed away from the island, her bare feet silent against the hardwood as she moved closer. The scent of her—that intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that had once driven him to distraction—wrapped around him. “Because I called the station yesterday. Carson said you weren’t on shift. So I called your field office in Boise. Want to guess what they told me?”
The knot in his gut tightened. He already knew the answer.
“The DEA office in Boise has no record of you working any active cases with them,” she said. “Imagine my surprise.”
Wyatt’s jaw tightened. Rookie mistake—not coordinating his cover story with dispatch. He’d been too focused on the operation, too consumed by the details needed to keep himself alive, to think about the details needed to keep his marriage intact.
“It’s complicated, Raven.” He reached for her, but she stepped back, arms crossing protectively over her chest. The rejection was subtle but absolute, another brick in the wall rising between them.
“That’s not good enough anymore.” Her voice trembled slightly, the first crack in her carefully maintained composure. “Do you know what it’s like? Lying awake every night, not knowing where you are? If you’re safe?” Her eyes met his, a flash of pain crossing her face. “Or whose bed you might be in?”
The accusation hit him like a physical blow. “Raven, no?—”
“What else am I supposed to think?” she said quietly. “When my husband disappears for hours, days even, and comes home smelling of someone else’s cigarettes?”
“I always come home,” he said softly, the implication wounding him more than he could show.
“Do you?” Her laugh was brittle, fragile as frost. “Your body might, but you haven’t been here in months.”
Outside, birds began their morning chorus, oblivious to the storm brewing within the cozy kitchen. The first rays of sunlight slanted through the windows, catching in Raven’s hair and illuminating the unshed tears in her eyes.
“Remember when we talked about starting a family?” She turned away, her voice smaller now. “About the nursery we’d put in the spare room? About what we’d name our children?”
The question pierced Wyatt’s armor, finding the vulnerable place beneath his ribs where he still kept those dreams, carefully preserved like pressed flowers in a book. A boy with Raven’s eyes. A girl with her smile. A family built on the solid foundation of their love.
“I remember,” he managed, the words catching in his throat.
“I stopped taking the pill like we talked about.” She turned back to face him, a confession that hung in the air between them. “Three months ago. You haven’t touched me since then. We’ve never gone that long without sex.” Her voice broke slightly, betraying the depth of her hurt. “Why wouldn’t I think that you’d been getting it from somewhere else? Explain why my logic is so far off base.”
He hadn’t realized. The thought crashed through him with devastating force. Three months of opportunities for a miracle, while he’d been crawling through the underbrush, watching drug deals and gathering evidence.
He felt the anger brewing inside him. He didn’t know where it came from, and he knew it wasn’t justified. But he couldn’t help it.
“How could we bring a child into this?” He gestured between them, at the invisible chasm that had opened beneath their feet. He was defensive, but he didn’t know how else to respond. The shame of his accusation darkened his face, making him appear guilty of the very thing he hadn’t done. “How could we bring a child into whatever this has become?”
“This.” Her voice hardened. “This is a marriage, Wyatt. Or it was. But a marriage needs trust. It needs presence. It needs both people fighting for it.” Her hands clenched at her sides, knuckles white with tension. “I’ve been fighting alone for months.”
The truth hovered on his tongue—about the full extent of the operation, about his deep undercover status, about the promise of just two more weeks. But the words remained unspoken, locked behind the oath he’d sworn and the knowledge that such information could put her in danger. If Moss or his people ever suspected Wyatt’s true allegiance, they wouldn’t hesitate to use anyone close to him as leverage. Including his beautiful, fierce wife.
“I can’t explain now,” he said finally, the words inadequate even to his own ears. “But it won’t be like this forever. I promise.”
“Empty promises.” Raven shook her head, a tear finally escaping to trace a silver path down her cheek. “That’s all you give me anymore. And what about this?” Raven pulled the folded receipt from her pocket, the paper worn from being taken out and refolded countless times over the past few days. She placed it on the kitchen island between them, her hand trembling slightly.
Wyatt’s eyes flickered to the paper. Mountain View Lodge. The motel on the outskirts of Riverton that rented rooms by the hour.
“That’s not what you think,” he said, his voice tight.
“Really?” Raven’s laugh was brittle. “Because what I think is pretty straightforward, Wyatt. Most people don’t need a motel room twenty minutes from their own home unless they’re meeting someone they don’t want others to see.”
He reached for the receipt, but she snatched it back, holding it like evidence in a trial—which in many ways, it was.
“Where did you find this?” he asked.
“In your jacket pocket. When I was doing laundry.” Her voice caught. “The jacket you wore three nights ago when you told me you were working late at the station.”
Wyatt’s jaw worked as he seemed to weigh his words carefully. “I was meeting someone, yes. But not for the reasons you’re thinking.”
“Then what reasons, Wyatt? What possible explanation could there be?” She could hear the desperation in her own voice, hated it, but couldn’t stop it. “Just tell me the truth. Please.”
For a moment—just a moment—something shifted in his expression. A crack in the wall. His eyes met hers, and she saw anguish there that matched her own.
Then it was gone, sealed behind the mask he’d been wearing for months.
“I can’t,” he said, the words clearly costing him. “Not yet. Raven—” He reached for her again, but she stepped back, putting the island between them once more. The physical barrier mirrored the emotional one, too wide to cross with a simple touch.
“No.” Her voice was steady now, though her hands trembled. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when you come home with pine needles in your clothes instead of the smell of the station. I can’t keep smiling at your family when they ask where you are, making excuses they don’t believe any more than I do.” She drew a shuddering breath. “How do I keep loving someone who isn’t here?”
The words struck like physical blows, each one finding its mark with devastating accuracy. She wasn’t just talking about his physical absence—she was talking about the emotional fortress he’d constructed around himself, the walls he’d built to protect her that were now keeping her out.
“Two weeks.” He spoke before he could stop himself, the promise tearing from somewhere deep in his chest. “Give me two more weeks. Then this will all make sense.”
“Two weeks for what?” Hope and suspicion warred in her expression. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. This time, she didn’t retreat.
“I can’t tell you. Not yet. But I swear on everything I am, everything we’ve been, I’m not…” He swallowed hard, the next words bitter on his tongue. “I’m not cheating on you. I would never.”
Raven studied his face, searching for the truth. The first light of dawn caught the tears clinging to her lashes, transforming them into diamonds. “Then what is it? Because something is happening, Wyatt. Something big enough to tear us apart.”
He took her hands, feeling her slender fingers cold against his palms. Once, he would have brought them to his lips, would have warmed them with his breath and his love. Now, he simply held them, like fragile birds he feared might fly away. The colorful tattoos on his forearms—testament to his service and his roots—stood in stark contrast to her pale skin.
“I’m asking you to trust me. One last time.” His voice roughened with emotion held in check too long. “Two weeks. And then I’ll tell you everything about this operation.”
The kitchen fell silent save for the ticking clock and their uneven breathing. The morning light strengthened, casting long shadows across the floor—a fitting metaphor for the darkness stretching between them.
“Two weeks,” she finally whispered, neither a promise nor a rejection. “But Wyatt?” Her eyes met his, clear and direct as the mountain dawn breaking outside their window. “If there’s nothing at the end of those two weeks—no explanation, no truth—then I don’t know if I’ll still be here.”
She slipped her hands from his grasp and moved past him, the scent of jasmine lingering in her wake. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, and moments later, the soft click of their bedroom door closing echoed through the empty house. Wyatt stood alone in the kitchen, dawn’s full light now streaming through the windows, illuminating the space they’d once filled with laughter and love and dreams. Two weeks to save his career. Two weeks to save his marriage.
Two weeks that suddenly seemed both an eternity and no time at all. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of dual loyalties crushing down on him. For the first time since accepting the undercover assignment, he questioned whether bringing down Moss’s operation was worth the price he might ultimately pay. Because some losses, once sustained, could never be recovered.
And Raven wasn’t just his wife—she was his heart, his home, his truth in a world of deception. If he lost her, he lost everything that mattered.