Hunter
Chapter Fourteen
Hunter
T he county board meeting had gone exactly as planned—Wheeler’s face when the press showed up was almost worth the stress of the past few days. Almost. But watching Michael’s hands shake as he texted his father afterward, seeing the guilt shadowing his eyes every time he looked at Amelia, made victory feel hollow. He looked like the teenager from old Pine Haven photos, trying to carry a weight too heavy for his shoulders.
“We should talk,” I said quietly to Michael as we left the courthouse. The fall breeze carried the scent of approaching snow, reminding me how quickly things could change in the mountains. “All of us.”
He nodded, tension visible in his jaw. “Marie’s? Back room’s private.”
“I’ll coordinate with security,” Agent Blake said, already moving to arrange protection. Her casual sweater is a careful choice for blending in with the lunch crowd.
Twenty minutes later, we sat in Marie’s cozy back room, where generations of Evergreen families had held private celebrations and difficult conversations. The warm scents of cinnamon and fresh bread wafted through the air, a jarring contrast to the heavy atmosphere. Copper mixing bowls gleamed on overhead racks, and family photos dotted the walls—including one of Amelia’s mother judging a pie contest. Amelia had gone to check on festival preparations with Claire, leaving Michael and me alone with cooling coffee and years of unspoken concerns.
“You’re going to get her killed,” he said finally, his fingers white-knuckled around his mug.
“I’m trying to keep her safe.”
“Like you kept Janet McKinley safe?” The words hit like a physical blow, stirring memories I tried to keep buried.
I forced myself to stay calm, though Janet’s memory burned like acid. “That’s why I brought in the FBI this time. No more lone crusades.”
“Noble.” His laugh was bitter, echoing off the copper pots overhead. Through the small window, I could see fresh snow dusting the mountains. “But you’re still putting her in the crosshairs. These people—they destroy everything they touch.”
“Including your mother?”
Michael’s coffee cup clattered against its saucer, the sound sharp in the quiet room. A photo of Margaret Horton seemed to watch us from the wall, her smile hiding whatever secrets she’d carried to her grave. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then tell me.” I leaned forward, the old wooden chair creaking beneath me. The scent of fresh-baked bread made me think of countless mornings watching Amelia help in the kitchen, flour in her hair, joy in her movements. “Because right now, all I see is you carrying a secret that’s eating you alive. One that could help us protect Amelia.”
“You think that’s what this is about? Protecting her?” He stood, pacing the worn path in the floorboards where countless others had wrestled with tough decisions. “You sweep into town, playing hero, making her fall for you... do you even love her? Or is she just part of your revenge against Crystal Ridge?”
The accusation stung because I’d asked myself the same question during sleepless nights, watching shadows play across my ceiling. But I knew my truth with bone-deep certainty.
“I love her,” I replied, the words carrying the weight of everything I’d never dared say aloud. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone. And yes, I want justice for my father, Janet, and Margaret. But Amelia?” My voice softened on her name. “She’s not part of some plan. She’s everything.”
“Pretty words.” But something shifted in his expression, recognition perhaps of the same devotion he’d seen in old photos of his parents.
“Truth.” I met his eyes steadily, letting him see everything I felt for his sister. “I’m not going anywhere, Michael. Not when this is over, never. Unless she asks me to.”
“And if she gets hurt? If these people—”
“Then I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right.” My voice cracked with emotion, memories of Janet’s funeral flashing unbidden. “But right now? The biggest threat to her isn’t Crystal Ridge. It’s whatever you and your father are hiding about the night your mother died.”
The color drained from his face, making his freckles stand out like his sister’s did when she was upset. Before he could respond, the door opened with a soft creak. Amelia stood there, Claire hovering anxiously behind her. The afternoon light caught the gold in her hair, reminding me painfully of photos of her mother.
“Is this what you’ve been doing?” Amelia’s voice was tight, her mother’s bracelet catching the light as she crossed her arms. “Interrogating each other while Mom’s reputation is under attack?”
“Amelia—” Michael started, looking young and lost against the backdrop of family photos.
“No.” She moved into the room, strength in every line of her body, like her mother in the old town council photos. “I’m done with secrets. With everyone thinking, they know what’s best for me.” She turned to her brother, hurt and determination warring in her expression. “You want to protect me? Tell me the truth. What happened that night?”
Michael sank into his chair, the wood groaning beneath his sudden deflation. “I can’t.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Both.” He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture so familiar it sent a pang through me. “Dad made me promise. Said it would destroy everything Mom worked for if anyone knew...”
“Knew what?” I asked softly, the scent of cinnamon and coffee suddenly cloying.
But Michael just shook his head, standing abruptly. “I should go. Need to... need to talk to Dad.”
“Michael, please,” Amelia caught his arm, her voice cracking. “Whatever it is—”
“I saw them,” he whispered, the words seeming to physically pain him. “That night. At the curve where... I saw Wheeler’s uncle. And someone else. They were waiting.” He pulled away, avoiding his sister’s eyes. “That’s all I can say. I’m sorry.”
After he left, Amelia stood still, her reflection in the copper pots fractured and small. I moved to her, pulling her close, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo mingled with mountain air.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured into her hair. “About Michael, about all of it.”
She turned in my arms, her eyes searching mine. “Did you mean it? What you said to Michael about us?”
“Every word.” I drew back enough to see her face, memorizing how the afternoon light caught the gold flecks in her eyes. “I should have told you first, not Michael. But Amelia... you’re not part of some revenge plan. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Tears sparkled in her eyes. “I love you,” she whispered. “Even when you’re having secret conversations with my brother.”
I smiled, touching my forehead to hers. “No more secrets. I promise.”
Her phone buzzed, breaking the moment. She read the message, her face paling.
“What is it?”
“Dad,” she said. “He... he wants to talk. He says he knows we found Mom’s evidence. That there’s something we don’t understand.”
I held her tighter, remembering Michael’s guilt, his father’s information control.
“Whatever it is,” I promised, “we face it together.”
***
The hospital corridor smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee as Agent Blake completed her security sweep. I studied Amelia’s profile in the harsh fluorescent light, trying to memorize every detail—the determined set of her jaw, the way she twisted her mother’s bracelet, the subtle tremble in her fingers she was trying to hide.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she breathed, her voice echoing slightly in the empty hallway.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re memorizing me in case something goes wrong.” Her eyes met mine, fear hiding behind bravery.
I caught her hand, bringing it to my lips, feeling her pulse flutter against my touch. “Nothing’s going to go wrong.”
“You don’t know that.” She turned to face me, her fingers cold in mine. “Whatever Dad and Michael are hiding... it must be bad. Terrible.”
“Hey.” I cupped her cheek, her skin warm against my palm. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Claire appeared around the corner, her heels clicking against the linoleum. Her usual energy was subdued, her tablet clutched like a shield. “Security sweep’s done. But you both need to see this first.”
The email on her screen cast a sickly blue glow across our faces:
Ask Daddy about the real estate deal. About why Margaret Horton really had those documents. Some secrets aren’t worth dying for–just ask Michael.
Amelia’s hand tightened in mine, her mother’s bracelet cool between our palms. “They’re trying to make us doubt everything.”
“That’s their game,” I agreed, drawing her closer. “Divide and conquer.”
“Well, it won’t work.” She squared her shoulders, chin lifting in that way that reminded me of her mother’s portrait in the town hall. “Not with us.”
Arthur’s hospital room was unnaturally quiet except for the steady beep of monitors. Michael stood by the window, snow falling softly behind him, while their father sat propped up in bed, looking smaller than I remembered, but his eyes were sharp as ever.
“Finally,” Arthur said, his voice stronger than his appearance suggested. “We need to talk. About your mother. About everything.”
“Then talk,” Amelia said firmly, her voice steady, though I felt her trembling against me.
Arthur looked at Michael, who nodded slightly, snowflakes creating shifting shadows across his face.
“The night your mother died,” Arthur began, his fingers plucking at the hospital blanket, “she wasn’t just gathering evidence against Crystal Ridge. She was...” He swallowed hard, the monitor’s beeping increasing slightly. “She was meeting someone. Someone who had proof about Richard Miller’s death.”
Emotion surged through me, memories of my father cutting sharp and sudden. “Who?”
“Wheeler’s uncle. The insurance investigator.” Arthur’s voice shook, age and guilt clear in every word. “He wanted to come clean, turn state’s evidence. Margaret was helping him.”
“But something went wrong,” Michael added quietly from his post by the window, his reflection ghostlike against the falling snow. “I followed Mom that night and saw her meet him. Then... then Crystal Ridge’s men showed up.”
Amelia’s grip on my hand was painful now, her mother’s bracelet pressing between our palms. “Did they... did they cause the accident?”
“No.” Arthur closed his eyes, looking suddenly old. “That’s what everyone assumed. What they wanted people to think. But your mother... she got away from them. Made it almost home.”
“Then what happened?” I asked, dreading the answer but needing to know.
“She lost control of the car,” Michael whispered, turning from the window with tears tracking down his face. “Real accident. Cruel irony. And I... I was the first one there. Found the documents scattered everywhere. Dad made me help hide them, said if anyone found them...”
“They’d kill whoever knew,” Arthur finished, monitors marking the weight of his words. “Including you kids. So we buried the truth. Let everyone think Crystal Ridge was responsible.”
“And the documents?” Amelia’s voice was barely audible above the steady beeping.
“Some we hid in the safe deposit box. Others...” Arthur met my eyes, age-old guilt visible on his face. “Your father found some, Hunter. That’s why...”
Understanding hit me like lightning. The hospital room was suddenly too bright, too small. “That’s why they killed him. He found proof of Wheeler’s uncle’s confession.”
Silence fell, broken only by the steady rhythm of monitors and the whisper of falling snow. I pulled Amelia closer as she processed this revelation about her mother’s death—not murder, but a tragic accident. About her father and brother’s years of guilt and secrets.
“Why tell us now?” she finally asked, her voice stronger than I expected.
“Because,” Arthur said quietly, “Crystal Ridge knows the truth. They’ve always known. And they’ve been using it, threatening to reveal how we lied, how we let everyone believe they were responsible...”
“Blackmailing you,” I realized, pieces clicking into place. “To keep Pine Haven vulnerable.”
Arthur nodded, the movement weary. “But now you have the actual evidence. Your mother’s proof of their other crimes. It’s time to end this. Time to tell the whole truth.”
Before anyone could respond, Claire burst in, bringing a gust of antiseptic hospital air. “They’re moving,” she said breathlessly. “Wheeler, Crystal Ridge—they’re calling an emergency press conference. In an hour.”
“About what?” Michael demanded, moving from the window.
Claire’s eyes were grim in the fluorescent light. “Everything. They’re going to expose it all—the accident, the cover-up, everything.”
Michael began pacing the hospital room, his shoes squeaking against the polished floor. “We can’t let them control this narrative.”
“We won’t,” I said firmly, watching Amelia process everything. Her face was pale under the harsh lights, but her spine was steel. “We beat them to it.”
“How?” Arthur asked, monitors marking his increased tension.
“By telling the truth ourselves.” Amelia’s voice was steady as she looked at me, her mother’s strength shining through. “All of it. No more secrets, no more hiding.”
Agent Blake, who had been quietly observing from the doorway, stepped forward. “We can have a press conference ready in thirty minutes. Beat them to the punch.”
“And say what?” Michael demanded, snow melting from his coat onto the floor. “That we lied about Mom’s death for years?”
“We say that grief makes people see conspiracies,” Amelia answered, her fingers warm and certain in mine. “That Crystal Ridge’s history of violence made us believe they were responsible. But now...” She squeezed my hand. “Now we have proof of their real crimes. The Miller Lodge fire, Janet McKinley, the property fraud.”
I pulled her closer, pride warming my chest. “We tell the truth to take away their power.”
“They’ll still try to spin it,” Claire warned from the doorway, her tablet clutched tight. “Make it look like we’re covering up something worse.”
“Let them try.” Amelia’s voice hardened like mountain granite. “We have something they don’t.”
“What’s that?” Michael asked.
“Each other. The truth. And a whole town ready to stand with us.”
Arthur reached for his daughter’s hand, monitors catching the movement. “Margaret would be so proud of you.”
Tears glistened in Amelia’s eyes, but she smiled. “She saved all that evidence for a reason. Time to use it.”
Michael approached me as Claire and Agent Blake left to arrange the press conference, the room quieter without them.
“I was wrong about you,” he said, offering his hand. “The way you love her... it’s real.”
“More real than anything in my life.” I took his hand, feeling years of mistrust heal.
He nodded. “Take care of her. Better than we did.”
“I will.” I met his eyes. “But she doesn’t need taking care of. She’s the strongest person I know.”
“Yeah,” he smiled slightly. “She is.”
Later, as we prepared to leave, I pulled Amelia aside near the window where snow continued to fall, softening the world outside.
“You okay?” I searched her face. “Learning about your mom, about Michael and your dad...”
“I’m...” she paused, considering. “I’m sad. But also relieved. No more wondering, no more secrets.” She looked up at me, snowlight making her eyes luminous. “Thank you for being here. For loving me through all this chaos.”
“Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done,” I admitted, drawing her closer. “Everything else—the investigation, Crystal Ridge, all of it—that’s just details. You’re what matters.”
She rose on tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “We should go. Time to end this.”
But as we headed for the door, Arthur called out, his voice suddenly urgent.
“Hunter? There’s something else. About your father’s accident...” He swallowed hard, monitors marking his anxiety. “The night he died, he wasn’t alone in the car.”
Amelia’s hand tightened as my world tilted, the hospital room suddenly spinning.
“What do you mean?” I asked, though something in me already knew the answer.
“The passenger survived,” Arthur said quietly, each word falling like snow. “Someone who could prove everything. Someone Crystal Ridge has been searching for all these years.”
“Who?”
His answer changed everything:
“Your mother.”
The monitors beeped steadily in the silence that followed, marking the moment my past and future collided in a hospital room filled with falling snow and rising truth.