Chapter 16
Grant's House — Barbeque
The air on the back patio was thick with pine and charcoal, that perfect North Carolina evening where the humidity dropped just enough to feel like a silk sheet against your skin.
Izzy stood at the kitchen island, tossing a massive bowl of greens. She’d traded her structured silk for denim shorts and a soft, lived-in tee that read Blue Ridge Provisions—a find from her afternoon in town with Caitlin. Her hair was twisted into a messy knot, her legs bare, sun-warmed.
She looked less like a Denver gallery manager—and more like someone who had finally exhaled.
Caitlin leaned against the counter, slicing red potatoes, a quiet smile playing at her mouth.
“You know,” she said, bumping her shoulder into Izzy’s, “when you first got here, I was a little worried.”
Izzy glanced over. “About what?”
“You looked like you were one ‘rebrand’ away from a full breakdown.”
Izzy huffed a laugh. “That bad?”
“Worse,” Caitlin said lightly. Then softer—more honest—“But look at you now.”
Izzy paused, hands still in the bowl.
“It’s the air,” she said. “Or the lack of people talking about profit margins and brand identity.”
“It’s more than that,” Caitlin said.
She set the knife down and turned fully toward her.
“I’m just glad you’re here, Iz. I know your life is in Colorado, but… seeing you like this? In a kitchen? Laughing?” She shook her head. “I wish you lived here.”
The words landed deep.
Izzy swallowed, that sudden, tight feeling rising in her.
She stepped forward and pulled Caitlin into a hug—tight, grounding.
“I missed you,” she said quietly. “More than I realized.”
Caitlin squeezed her back, then leaned away, eyes searching Izzy’s face.
“And for the record,” she added, voice dropping into something conspiratorial, “Burke’s not the only Scott who’s happy you’re here.”
Izzy blinked. “What does that mean?”
Caitlin’s mouth tipped into a knowing smile. “Have you seen the way he looks at you?”
Color crept up Izzy’s neck before she could stop it.
“Absolutely not,” she said. “We are not doing this.”
“Oh, we are so doing this,” Caitlin said, grinning. “You can pretend you don’t notice, but those eyes are practically a public service announcement.”
Izzy opened her mouth, ready with a deflection—
“Alright, alright—”
A deep, amused voice cut in from the doorway.
They pulled apart to find Burke leaning there, uniform swapped for worn denim and a faded shirt, a pair of tongs in one hand.
He reached past them into the fridge, grabbing two beers.
“Time to break up the emotional support group,” he said, popping a cap. “Steaks are five minutes out. And if you miss this sunset, Grant’s gonna personally escort you off the property.”
Caitlin grinned. “Threat noted.”
* * *
The view from the back patio was, as promised, unreal.
The sun dipped behind the jagged line of the Blue Ridge, painting the sky in violent shades of violet and gold.
They settled around the long timber table, plates filling, glasses clinking, the low hum of a perfect evening settling in around them.
Burke didn’t even pretend to behave.
Caitlin ended up in his lap before the food hit the table, his arm wrapped around her waist like it had always belonged there. His hand traced slow, absent-minded patterns along her thigh, his mouth brushing her temple, her neck—like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
Grant came out of the house carrying a heavy wooden board loaded with steaks, one hand steady underneath it. Steve abandoned his spot beside the grill and headed straight for Izzy, settling beneath her chair.
“Move,” he said to Burke, nudging his chair with his boot.
Burke didn’t budge.
“Or what?”
Grant set the board down with a solid thud.
“Or I’ll feed you last.”
Burke snorted. “You wouldn’t.”
Grant didn’t even look at him. “Try me.”
Caitlin laughed, sliding off Burke’s lap just long enough to grab a plate. “You two are ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Burke said, dragging her right back down. “But we eat first.”
Grant shook his head, but there was a hint of a grin as he reached for the tongs, flipping a steak onto Izzy’s plate.
“Don’t listen to him,” he said. “He’s been like this since we were ten.”
“Still bigger than you,” Burke shot back, taking a long pull from his beer.
“Still slower,” Grant returned easily.
That got a low laugh out of Burke—one of those quiet, competitive acknowledgments that didn’t need anything else said.
Izzy watched the exchange, something about it settling into her in a way she hadn’t expected.
She looked down at her plate, feeling that faint, prickly awareness of being outside of it.
Burke leaned in, kissing Caitlin’s neck openly, his arm wrapped around her waist like she was the only anchor he had in the world.
“Can you two behave for twenty minutes?” Grant rumbled, though there was a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he set the platter of steaks down.
“Nope,” Burke said, pulling Caitlin closer. “Happy birthday week, remember? I get a pass.”
Grant dropped into the chair beside Izzy, the wood creaking under his weight. His forearm brushed the edge of the table as he reached for the salad bowl, his presence filling the space without effort.
Izzy glanced over.
White shirt. Sleeves rolled. Forearms marked with work—small scars, sun, strength.
Grant caught her looking.
For a second—he didn’t look away.
Something shifted.
The easy, joking edge he had with Burke faded just a notch.
“Steak?” he asked, voice lower now.
“Please.”
He leaned in, closer than necessary, sliding it onto her plate.
His arm brushed hers.
The heat was instantaneous—a sharp, electric reminder of the tension that had been building since she arrived.
He paused—just a fraction too long.
His gaze dropped—to her mouth.
Then back to her eyes.
Something unspoken sat there between them.
Then, he pulled back.
Cleared his throat.
Reached for his beer.
“You’re relaxing,” he said, low enough the others wouldn’t hear.
Izzy lifted her glass, steadying her pulse.
“Is that a crime, Scott?”
“No,” he said.
He looked back out over the ridge.
“No,” he repeated. “It’s just… dangerous.”
Behind them, Burke leaned in again, murmuring something in Caitlin’s ear that made her laugh softly, her hand coming up to rest against him.
Izzy watched it for a beat.
Then looked back at Grant.
At the man who sat beside her—close, but not touching now.
And for the first time, she understood exactly what he was afraid of.
* * *
The conversation drifted easily for a while after dinner.
Stories. Small-town gossip. Burke and Caitlin bickering over something meaningless while Grant cleaned plates beside the grill with the same quiet competence he brought to everything.
The mountains had gone dark around them now, layered shadows folding into the valley beyond the pasture fences.
Izzy leaned back in her chair, glass dangling loosely from her fingers as her gaze drifted toward the ridgeline.
“You know what bothers me?” she said quietly.
Nobody answered right away.
“The Clara Vale thing.”
The laughter at the table faded.
Grant’s eyes lifted briefly.
Caitlin set her fork down slowly. “Me too.”
Izzy shook her head, still staring toward the mountains.
“It’s just…” She frowned. “Women don’t disappear like that.”
Burke leaned back in his chair. “People disappear all the time.”
“Not like that,” Izzy said immediately.
Something in her tone made Grant look at her again.
“She left everything,” Izzy said. “Her paintings. Sketchbooks. Clothes. Personal letters.” Her brows pulled together. “Who leaves all that behind?”
Nobody answered.
The night sounds suddenly felt louder somehow.
Crickets.
The faint metallic creak of fencing somewhere down the hill.
“It had to be fast,” Izzy murmured.
Caitlin looked over at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” Izzy hesitated. “It feels interrupted.”
That word settled strangely over the table.
Interrupted.
“Like she meant to come back,” Caitlin said softly.
“Exactly.”
A chill moved unexpectedly through Izzy.
Maybe it was the way nobody at the table immediately spoke.
Caitlin’s fingers tightened around her napkin. “This was her whole life. Her work. Her… love story.” She glanced at Izzy. “You read that letter. That wasn’t casual.”
Izzy nodded, throat a little tight. “She finally felt like she belonged somewhere. And then it just… stops.”
Burke finally broke the silence. “Story is, Clara and Sam Talley were serious,” he said. “Everybody thought they’d end up married.”
Izzy looked at him. “Then why didn’t he go looking for her?”
“He did.”
Grant’s voice was low beside her.
She turned toward him.
“For a long time,” he said.
Something in the way he said it made her chest tighten.
“Then why did people think he had something to do with it?” Izzy asked quietly.
Grant dragged his thumb slowly along the neck of his beer bottle.
“Depends who you ask.”
That got her attention.
Izzy watched him carefully now.
“In town,” Grant said, “some people thought Sam lost his mind after she disappeared.”
“Others,” he added, “thought grief wasn’t the only thing eating at him.”
“Oh my God,” Caitlin whispered. “You don’t think he hurt her.”
Out beyond the pastures, something metallic clanged once in the darkness.
Izzy jumped.
Grant’s gaze flicked automatically toward the sound.
Watchful.
Instantly alert.
Then back to her.
“I grew up around him,” Grant said quietly. “And even back then, he always seemed like a man missing half his life.
“That’s not good enough,” Caitlin said suddenly, her voice low but firm. “Not for her. Not for what she left behind.”
Izzy nodded, grateful for the echo. “She deserves more than a line in a file that says ‘walkaway.’ We know what this work is. We know what she felt for him.” She looked between Burke and Grant. “We can’t let that stay a question mark.”
Burke’s expression shifted, something wary and resigned all at once.
“You two planning on making my life difficult?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” Caitlin said.
Izzy managed a small, sharp smile. “Consider it a professional obligation.”
Burke glanced at Grant, then back at the women.
“I’ll see what else I can dig up,” he said at last. “Old reports. Anyone still around who remembers more than what’s on paper.”
Some of the tightness in Izzy eased.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
She looked back out at the dark line of the ridge.
And suddenly, the beautiful valley surrounding them didn’t feel quite so beautiful anymore.
It felt like a story with no ending.
And one they weren’t going to be able to walk away from.