Chapter 4
The irony wasn’t lost on her—here she was, afraid to commit to a place that had been civilized for over a century, while the O’Haras had committed to raw land with nothing but hope and determination.
Thursday night had come and gone without her attending the book club.
Sophie had texted her twice—once to remind her, once to ask if she was okay—and Dylan had stared at those messages with the guilt of someone who’d forgotten something that mattered.
But how could she explain that she’d been so lost in thoughts of treasure hunts and job offers that she’d forgotten about the one social commitment she’d actually made?
The truth sat heavy in her chest: Marcus Rowan’s offer wasn’t really the issue.
What she wanted—what she’d always wanted since she’d started turning wrenches beside her father—was her own shop.
A place where she could take her time, where every restoration could be art instead of just repair.
But that dream required money she didn’t have, credit she couldn’t get, and a faith in permanence she’d never learned to cultivate.
Aidan’s truck materialized through the fog at exactly eight o’clock, its headlights cutting through the white like lighthouse beams guiding ships to safety.
He parked beside her Charger, and through the mist-softened glass, she watched him check his reflection in the mirror, smoothing his hair in a gesture so unconsciously vain and oddly vulnerable that her heart performed a complicated maneuver in her chest.
“Morning,” he called, climbing out with a thermos and bakery bag that released the scent of cinnamon and possibility into the cool morning air. “I brought reinforcements.”
“Rose’s apple cider donuts?”
“As promised. Still warm. I may have charmed Rose into making a fresh batch just for us.”
“Of course you did.” But there was no bite to it. This was Aidan’s gift—making people want to do things for him, not through manipulation but through genuine warmth that made you feel like you were part of something special just by being near him.
They stood for a moment in the swirling fog, neither quite sure how to navigate this new territory—choosing to spend time together outside the familiar boundaries of work, outside the safe roles of boss and employee.
“I did some research,” Dylan said, needing something concrete to anchor herself. “About your family’s history, the railroad, all of it. Mrs. Whitfield at the historical society was very helpful.”
“You went to see Mrs. Whitfield?” Aidan’s eyebrows rose. “She usually guards those archives like they contain state secrets.”
“She warmed up when I told her I was trying to solve one of Patrick O’Hara’s riddles. Apparently, she had quite the crush on him when she was younger.”
Aidan’s laugh was warm and genuine. “Grandda had that effect on women. Even in his eighties, he could charm the paint off a barn.”
“He was kind,” Dylan said simply. “That’s rarer than charm.”
They climbed into Aidan’s truck—her suggestion, practical given the rough roads ahead—and she tried not to notice how the cab smelled like him, pine and possibility. As they drove, Aidan told her stories she’d never heard, filling in the gaps between historical records and lived memory.
“The two brothers who came here first,” he said, navigating the forest road with practiced ease, “were Thomas and Seamus. They’d lost everything in Ireland—the British took their land after some uprising, and they figured they had nothing left to lose by starting over.”
“The Nine Years’ War,” Dylan said, surprising him. “Mrs. Whitfield had records. Your family fought with pitchforks and axes against British soldiers with guns and armor.”
“You really did research.”
“I like understanding how things connect.” She watched the forest pass outside the window, trees emerging and disappearing in the fog like ghosts.
“They named this place Laurel Valley, but before that, before the Bavarian settlers came and built their perfect little Alpine village, this was just O’Hara land. ”
“Still is, mostly,” Aidan said with a pride that went bone deep. “We’ve sold some over the years, developed other parts, but the core of it—the ranch, the mountain, the lakes—that’s still ours.”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” Dylan admitted. “How do you stay? How do you look at the same views every day, walk the same paths, and not feel trapped?”
Aidan was quiet for a moment, considering. “I guess I don’t see the same views. Every season changes them. Every sunrise is different. And the paths…” He glanced at her, something soft in his expression. “The paths lead to different places depending on who you’re walking them with.”