Excerpt - Forgiveness River
The woman in the mirror was a masterpiece of careful construction. Raven O'Hara studied her reflection with clinical detachment, noting how the mascara made her lashes sweep dramatically above crystalline blue eyes, how the hint of blush warmed her olive complexion to a sun-kissed glow, how the perfectly shaped brows framed a face that belonged on a magazine cover rather than in a mountain resort town.
Perfect. Pristine. A beautiful lie.
She'd spent thirty extra minutes on the facade this morning, layering cosmetics like an artist preparing for an exhibition. Not vanity—armor. In Laurel Valley, the O'Hara name carried weight, expectations. And the whispers—those she could already hear, ghosting through the town like autumn leaves— Something's not right with Wyatt and Raven. Have you noticed? Have you heard?
The motel receipt she'd found in Wyatt's jacket pocket three days ago weighed on her mind, its existence a sliver of ice lodged beneath her ribs. Mountain View Lodge, a place on the outskirts of Riverton that rented rooms by the hour. She hadn't confronted him yet—what would be the point when his answers had become as carefully constructed as her makeup?
She tucked a strand of midnight hair behind her ear, the large silver hoop earring catching the morning light that spilled through the bedroom window. The earring swung like a pendulum, marking seconds in a marriage that was crumbling with each tick forward. The delicate silver charm dangling from it—a small cactus—had been a gift from her parents when they'd moved to Arizona three years ago, seeking warmer temperatures for her father's arthritis. She missed them, especially now, and their weekly video calls were poor substitutes for the comfort of her mother's embrace or her father's steady wisdom.
"You can do this," she whispered to her reflection. "You've been doing it for months."
The thought carried no comfort, only the hollow ring of truth.
Her fingers traced the collar of her flowing maxi dress, vibrant patterns in turquoise and crimson that seemed to mock her mood with their joyful exuberance. The silk whispered against her skin as she moved, a sensual reminder of a time when touch meant connection rather than vacancy.
She inhaled deeply, the scent of her perfume—white jasmine with vanilla undertones—enveloping her in bittersweet memory. Wyatt had given her the fragrance. It was his favorite. Or it had been before everything changed.
Before the silences between them grew so vast and deep that crossing them required more courage than she could summon. Before he started coming home with that faraway look in his eyes and the smell of pine and secrets clinging to his clothes.
Her phone lay on the vanity, screen dark and accusatory. She tapped it awake, checking for messages though she already knew there would be none. Wyatt hadn't come home last night.
Again.
When had absence become their normal? When had explanations morphed into terse texts, then into nothing at all?
The sound of tires on gravel snapped her attention toward the window. A vehicle she didn't recognize—a dark blue SUV with tinted windows—slowed as it passed their driveway, the driver's face indistinct behind the windshield. Something about the deliberate way it moved made the pulse in her neck jump with nerves. Then the SUV accelerated, continuing down the street.
She was jumping at shadows. Wyatt’s absence was causing her mind to play tricks on her. She slipped her feet into strappy sandals she'd bought on her last trip to Boise with Sophie, the leather butter-soft against her skin, grabbed her car keys and purse, and then stepped out onto her front porch, closing the door behind her.
Raven closed her eyes and breathed in, letting the familiar rhythms and scents wash over her—pine and honeysuckle—the sound of a lawnmower starting up at the end of the street—and the sunlight as it poured over the mountains like warm honey, gilding the pines and aspens that surrounded Laurel Valley.
Summer had brought the tourists—more than the summers of the past it seemed—their eager faces and expensive outdoor gear a welcome infusion to the local economy. Fortunately, the extra business meant she had more than enough to occupy her mind.
This was Laurel Valley.
Home. Community. The web of connections that had held her steady through every storm of her life.
Except this one. This storm lived inside her own house, her own marriage.
"Enough," she said aloud, the word sharp in the quiet room.
The drive into town took exactly seven minutes, a journey so familiar she could navigate it blindfolded. Each curve and dip in the road mapped not just in her mind but in her muscle memory.
Downtown Laurel Valley looked like it had been plucked straight from a tourism brochure—charming chalets with flower boxes spilling geraniums and petunias in riotous bloom, cobblestone streets polished by decades of footfalls, and the majestic Twin Peaks standing sentinel in the background. She could almost hear the background music that should accompany such a scene.
Raven turned her car into the small employee parking lot behind The Reading Nook, the renovated bookstore that had risen from the ashes last year like a phoenix. Sophie and Hank had poured not just money but heart into ensuring the rebuilt store maintained the charm of the original while adding modern amenities, including the stained-glass window salvaged from the fire, which now cast rainbow patterns across the wooden floors inside.
As she pulled into her usual spot, she noticed Sophie's hybrid with its trunk open, stacks of boxes visible inside. Sophie herself was precariously balancing a tower of hardcovers while trying to reach for another box, her petite frame barely visible behind the stack. The scene pulled a genuine smile from Raven—the first of the day.
Sophie's wild wavy hair bounced with each movement, the rich brown catching copper highlights in the morning sun. The woman was perpetual motion contained in five feet two inches of determination.
Raven stepped out of her car, the familiar scent of old books mingling with fresh coffee from the café next door. "Need a hand before you become a bookstore casualty?" she called.
Sophie peered around her tower of books, her expressive brown eyes lighting up with relief.
"My hero!" she exclaimed, the stack wobbling dangerously as she shifted. "June's book club selections arrived, and I swear they multiply when I'm not looking. I swear if I have to read one more novel about a woman finding herself in Tuscany, I'm going to book a one-way ticket there just to spite the authors."
Raven hurried over, taking half the stack from Sophie's arms, feeling the comforting weight of the books in her hands.
"Thanks for the rescue,” Sophie said. “I was about ten seconds away from a literary avalanche."
The banter felt normal, grounding. For a moment, Raven could pretend that the rest of her life felt equally solid.
They maneuvered the books to the back door of the shop, where Sophie balanced her stack precariously with one hand while fishing for her keys with the other.
"How do you have this much energy this early?" Raven asked. "Please tell me you’re hiding gallons of caffeine somewhere in your bag.”
"I got my fix from The Lampstand," Sophie said, finally getting the door open with a triumphant "Ha!" that echoed in the alley. "Simone's experimenting with some new hazelnut blend that might actually be worth committing minor crimes for. I can send Freddie to grab you one if you've got time."
Raven set the books down on the counter just inside the doorway, inhaling the scent of paper and possibility that defined The Reading Nook. Sophie had created a haven here—books organized by mood rather than strict alphabetical order, reading nooks tucked into corners with plush chairs that invited lingering, and always, always, fresh flowers by the register.
"I should probably get to the boutique," Raven said, regret genuine in her voice. "New summer shipment arrived yesterday, and if I don't get those sundresses displayed, how will the tourists know they absolutely need them?"
Sophie set her own stack down and turned, studying Raven's face with the perceptive gaze that made her both a wonderful friend and occasionally unnerving companion. Her expression shifted from playful to concerned in the space of a heartbeat. "Everything okay? You've got your 'I'm fine' face on, but your eyes are doing that thing."
"What thing?" Raven asked, instantly defensive, one hand rising to touch her carefully applied eye makeup.
"That sad sparkly thing, like you're two seconds from either crying or stabbing someone with your earrings." Sophie's voice gentled, though her gaze remained steady. "You don't have to talk about it, but I'm here if you need to."
The genuine concern in Sophie's voice nearly broke through Raven's carefully constructed facade. For a fleeting moment, she considered unburdening herself—telling Sophie about the late nights, the unexplained absences, the growing suspicion that Wyatt was keeping something from her. Something big enough to drive a wedge between them.
The words hovered, dangerous and tempting, on the tip of her tongue.
Wyatt had been honest about his DEA work when they first met—it was part of what had drawn her to him, his dedication to stopping the flow of drugs into communities like Laurel Valley. But the "consulting" jobs Blaze had brought him in on recently had transformed into something else entirely. The "overtime" work had gradually consumed him, leaving less and less of the man she'd married.
The trust between them, once as solid as the mountains that cradled their town, had developed hairline fractures that threatened to become chasms.
"Just tired. Inventory season, you know?" she said instead, offering a bright smile that felt stretched too thin across her face. "Nothing a gallon of coffee and some retail therapy won't fix."
Sophie didn't look convinced. Her eyes—warm brown and too perceptive by half—narrowed slightly, but she nodded, respecting the boundary Raven had drawn. "Well, my door's always open. And I've got wine in the back office for emergencies." She paused, then added, "Whatever's going on, Raven, you're not alone in it. Remember that."
The simple assurance wrapped around Raven like a quilt on a winter night, unexpected warmth when she'd been braced for cold.
"I know," she said, squeezing Sophie's arm gratefully, the connection of skin on skin a reminder of the bonds that existed beyond her troubled marriage. "Rain check on that coffee? I promise I'll swing by later."
"I'll hold you to that," Sophie said, turning to go back to her car for more books, her movements efficient despite her small stature.
As Raven walked the short distance to her boutique, she felt both lighter and heavier. The warmth of friendship was a comfort, but it also highlighted what was missing at home. She glanced at her phone again—still no message from Wyatt. The screen remained stubbornly, accusingly blank.
For a brief moment, a prickling sensation crept up the back of her neck, that peculiar feeling of being watched. Her pulse quickened as her gaze swept the plaza, landing on a man in expensive hiking gear sitting at one of the outdoor café tables.
He appeared absorbed in his phone and coffee, the mirrored sunglasses perched on his nose reflecting the morning light. Nothing unusual about that—tourists in performance outerwear that had never seen a trail were commonplace in Laurel Valley this time of year.
When she looked more closely, she realized he wasn't even facing her direction. The breath she hadn't realized she was holding escaped in a soft sigh. She shook her head slightly, annoyed at her own paranoia. The strain in her marriage was clearly affecting her in ways she hadn't anticipated, making her jumpy and suspicious of ordinary tourists enjoying their vacations.
With practiced movements, she unlocked the front door of Raven Layne Boutique and stepped inside. The familiar scent of her shop—a mixture of fine fabrics, subtle designer perfume, and the essential oils she diffused—welcomed her in, wrapping around her like an embrace.
Here, at least, she knew exactly who she was and what she was doing. Here, luxury fabrics and exclusive designs obeyed her direction, inventory from Milan and Paris arrived when scheduled, and elite clientele responded predictably to her carefully curated collections. Here, she was still fully herself—Raven Layne, businesswoman, fashion curator, the woman who had created a destination that both locals and wealthy visitors sought out for statement pieces they couldn't find elsewhere.
She ran her fingers across a display of imported silk scarves, each one selected for its exquisite craftsmanship and luxurious feel. This space was a reflection of her vision, her impeccable taste, her understanding of what affluent visitors to Laurel Valley desired when they stepped off the slopes and into her high-end boutique.
The boutique was her creation, as solid and true as her marriage had once been.
As she moved toward the back office to prepare for opening, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, heart leaping with stupid, stubborn hope.
A text from Wyatt. Finally.
Catching a few hours sleep. See you later. - W
Eight words. Eight cold, impersonal words that told her nothing and everything at the same time. No endearment. No explanation. Just a notification, as if she were his secretary instead of his wife.
Raven set the phone face-down on the counter, refusing to let the tears gathering behind her eyes fall. The rest of her life might be a mystery, but for the next ten hours, she could lose herself in the rhythm of commerce and the comfort of beautiful things. It was enough.
It had to be.