Chapter 3
“No,” Dylan said quickly, stepping back and grabbing a wrench she didn’t need. “Just discussing Saturday.”
“Saturday?” Ralph’s mustache twitched with interest. “What’s happening Saturday?”
“Dylan’s helping me with a project,” Aidan said smoothly, his professional mask sliding back into place. “Family thing.”
“Family thing,” Ralph repeated, his tone suggesting he wasn’t buying it for a second. “Well, don’t let me interrupt your…family thing discussion.”
Aidan headed toward his office, leaving Dylan to face Ralph’s knowing grin alone.
“Not a word,” she warned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ralph said cheerfully, then immediately launched into an operatic rendition of “Some Enchanted Evening” that followed her all the way back under the Bentley.
But as Dylan returned to work, her mind kept circling back to the puzzle. Where iron horses once ran free. Before the mountain came to be. There was something familiar about the phrasing, something that tickled the edge of memory like a word you couldn’t quite recall.
She thought about Patrick O’Hara, about the way he’d told stories that made you lean in despite yourself.
He’d talked about the old days sometimes, about how Laurel Valley had changed, how the railroad had brought prosperity and then abandonment in equal measure.
There’d been a story about a mountain that wasn’t a mountain, about a hill that had been renamed when the ski resort developers arrived, seeing profit in what had once been just another piece of the landscape.
O’Hara’s Peak. That’s what they called it now, the ski runs that brought thousands of tourists every winter. But Patrick had called it something else once, when he’d been telling her about the early days. What was it?
Her phone buzzed. Marcus Rowan, politely requesting a decision.
Dylan looked at the text, then at the garage around her—Ralph now singing to his tools, Danny arriving with new pictures of his daughter, the familiar rhythm of a Monday morning at The Pinnacle.
Through the window, she could see Aidan in his office, frowning at paperwork with the same concentration he brought to everything that mattered to him.
She thought about Patrick O’Hara’s treasure hunt, about family heirlooms and hidden rings and the way Aidan had said “everything except figuring out what actually matters.”
Maybe that’s what this was really about. Not just finding a ring, but finding what mattered. And maybe, just maybe, helping Aidan search for his grandfather’s treasure would help her find her own answer about whether to stay or go.
Dylan typed a response to Marcus: I appreciate your offer and your patience. I need until next Monday to give you a proper answer. This is my home, and leaving isn’t a decision I take lightly.
His response came quickly: Of course. Take the time you need. Good mechanics are worth waiting for, but great ones—the kind who can make a ’70 Barracuda sing—they’re worth whatever time they need.
Dylan smiled at the screen. He’d done his homework, knew about the Barracuda.
That was either impressive or slightly unsettling, but either way, it reminded her that she had something valuable to offer.
She wasn’t just another mechanic looking for a better paycheck.
She was an artist, and her work had caught the attention of someone who recognized its worth.
She tucked her phone away and got back to work on the Bentley, her mind already turning over Patrick’s riddle. Where iron horses once ran free. There was an answer there, waiting to be discovered, just like there was an answer to her own puzzle about staying or leaving.
Saturday couldn’t come fast enough. Not because she was eager to spend time with Aidan—well, not just because of that—but because maybe, in helping him find what his grandfather had hidden, she’d finally figure out what she’d been searching for all along.