Chapter 26
Hollis Ridge — Midday
The road climbed before Izzy realized how high they’d come. Long, easy curves followed the spine of the mountain. Not fighting the slope. Claiming it. The Escalade’s engine worked a little harder; her ears caught the faintest pressure shift.
“This all yours?” she asked. She didn’t take her eyes off the ridge.
Cal’s grip tightened on the wheel. “My father’s. Everything the light hits.”
“Big backyard.”
“Too big,” he said. “He bought the mountain so he wouldn’t have to look at anyone else’s lights.”
Izzy let that sit. It wasn’t land. It was an empire.
The gates appeared around the next bend. Iron. Hand-forged. Set into stone columns meant to look ancient. Centered between them—a crest.
Hollis Ridge Farm.
No tagline. No explanation.
“Subtle,” she said.
Cal huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s him holding back.”
The guard stepped out, saw the car, and stopped. The gate slid open without a word.
Not unless they’re expected.
Or owned, she thought.
The tires transitioned from asphalt to stone. Hand-laid pavers. The landscaping was designed to look accidental. Canadian hemlocks stood in deliberate rows; boxwoods carved into lines that softened nothing.
Controlled wilderness.
They crossed a narrow bridge. Fast-moving water cut through the quiet of the cab. The trees closed in—light shifting in patterns—then the world opened up.
Izzy leaned back.
Pasture stretched to the right. Thoroughbreds moved like fluid, their coats catching the light.
To the left, a separate structure. Stone and timber.
“The garage,” Cal said. “My corner of the map.”
“Five bays?” She counted the doors. “That’s a lot of corners.”
The drive curved, climbing higher. The air felt thinner. Sharper.
Then—the house.
Not a house. A statement.
Stone pulled from the peak. Timber cut to scale. Glass framed the ridge like he held the deed to the sky.
Behind it, the lake. Wide. Still. Fifteen acres of engineered glass tucked into a fold of the mountain.
“This isn’t a farm.”
Cal didn’t look at her. “No.”
The Escalade rolled beneath the covered drive. Stone columns rose on either side, a little larger than necessary, enough to remind you where you stood.
Cal killed the engine. The car went quiet.
“Richest man in Jackson County?” she asked.
Cal’s smile tugged up. “By a long shot.”
Izzy nodded. Her gaze was already moving. Cataloging. Measuring.
“Yeah,” she said. “That tracks.”
She stepped out.
Wealth didn’t hum here. Neither did success.
It felt like a stage. And the lead actor was waiting.
* * *
As they moved down the hall, Izzy slowed.
The walls weren’t crowded. They were curated. American Impressionism and contemporary Western realism—a Maynard Dixon and a small, restrained Hassam.
She knew the collectors who fought for these. Finding them tucked away on a North Carolina ridge wasn’t just surprising. It was a warning.
The housekeeper opened the double doors to the den.
Darker. Richer. Private. Wood-paneled walls gleamed under low light. The books weren’t decorative; the spines were broken, the leather worn from use. The fireplace was massive, built from jagged stone pulled straight from the mountain. Above it, a wide, deliberate absence.
“Well now—”
Wade Hollis stood near the hearth. Over sixty, but the mountain hadn’t bent him. He wore a Stetson with a perfect crease, pressed denim, and exotic-skin boots polished to a mirror shine.
“Darlin’,” he said. The voice was smooth, with something sharp underneath. “Good to see you again.”
He crossed the floor with the easy stride of a man who had never been told no.
Izzy offered her hand. Professional. A barrier.
Wade took it, but he didn’t shake it. He used it to pull her in. Too close. His gaze dropped—a slow, unapologetic sweep from her throat to her boots.
It wasn’t a look. It was a measurement.
“Mr. Hollis,” she said, her voice a flat line. “Lovely to see you again.”
“Pleasure’s mine, darlin’.”
His hand lingered on the small of her back, the squeeze a fraction too firm. He finally let go, but the ghost of the touch stayed. He gestured to the fireplace. “What do you think?”
“It needs presence,” Izzy said. “Something that can hold its ground against the mountain.”
Wade’s eyes sparked. “Exactly.”
He moved to the sideboard and poured two fingers of bourbon. He didn’t ask.
“Water is fine, thank you,” Izzy said.
“Nonsense. You’re at Hollis Ridge. We don’t drink water when there’s Blackwood Estate on the table.” He handed her the glass. His fingers brushed hers—deliberate. “Best winery in the county. I’ve been telling the owners for years they ought to let me buy the label and be done with it.”
He glanced toward the doorway where Cal stood. Wade’s chest expanded, a predator’s pride.
“See, you brought the boy,” Wade said. “Good. Best horseman in the state, this one. Though I still say he works too hard for his money. A man with his pedigree shouldn’t have to get his hands dirty unless he’s holding a glass.”
Cal didn’t move. He stayed near the shadows of the door, saying nothing.
Wade turned back to Izzy, settling into a leather chair that looked like a throne. “So, tell me. What’ve you been doing with yourself since you got here?”
Izzy took a sip. The bourbon was dangerously good. “A little riding,” she said. “And I stumbled into a bit of a treasure trove.”
The room went still. Wade studied her over the rim of his glass. “A treasure trove, huh? Do tell.”
“Old cabin. Up near the ridge line. Twenty-seven years of work… left there.”
Wade didn’t blink. “Lot of shacks in these woods, darlin’.”
“Not like this one. Near your property line. On Grant’s land.”
The name hit the air like a stone in a well. Wade adjusted. Barely. A shift of his weight in the leather.
“C. Vale,” she added.
Recognition flickered—a pilot light catching. Then it was gone.
“Well now,” Wade said. “That does sound familiar. There was a girl back then. Artist. Stayed out near Talley’s place.” He gave a quiet, dismissive hum. “Wouldn’t go calling it a treasure trove yet. She was more of a… passing fancy.”
“She went missing,” Izzy said.
Wade’s brow shifted. Not surprised. Not alarmed.
“Did she?”
“Reopened the case this morning,” Izzy said. “I’m trying to understand what happened. You remember anything?”
Wade leaned back. He looked around the room—at the stone, the timber, the wealth.
“Vaguely. I was building an empire back then, darlin’. Land deals. Development. I didn’t have time for the comings and goings of a wandering painter.”
He met her eyes. The charm was there, but the shade underneath had moved closer to the surface.
“People come up here thinking they can handle the mountain,” he said softly. “Then it reminds them they can’t.”
“Or something else does,” Izzy said.
Wade held her gaze until it became a dare. Then, he smiled.
“Well,” he said, setting his glass down with a definitive clack. “If the Sheriff is on it, I’m sure he’ll find whatever there is to find.”
He stood up, ending the interview. But before he turned away, his eyes raked over her one last time.
“Stay for dinner, darlin’. I like having something beautiful at the table.”
* * *
They didn’t leave the house right away.
Wade kept them long enough—another pass at the fireplace, a few controlled questions that sounded like a deposition masked as a chat. By the time they stepped back outside, the air felt different. Looser. But Izzy didn’t miss the way the house watched them leave.
Cal walked her down the stone steps. “I’ll show you my side of the fence. The part he doesn’t use for the brochures.”
They took the Escalade, but Cal veered left, cutting away from the main house. The landscaping here was stunning—boulders the size of cars tucked into the hillsides, moving water creeks that looked like they’d flowed there for a thousand years.
“It’s beautiful, Cal,” Izzy said, leaning against the window. “The way the water moves through the stone—it’s flawless.”
“Nature with a little help,” Cal said.
They passed his ranch further into the estate. It was a stunner—smaller than the main house but more honest. Stone and cedar. The pastures were pristine, the fences painted a sharp, clean white. Thoroughbreds grazed in the distance, dark shapes against the vibrant green.
But as the road curved deeper toward the back of the mountain, the scenery shifted. The “curated” wilderness gave way to something raw.
The road narrowed. Then, a gate.
Heavy steel. Chain-linked and topped with a sign that didn’t suggest—it ordered.
RESTRICTED ACCESS. NO TRESPASSING.
Mountain faces rose on both sides, creating a natural, hidden valley.
Izzy stilled. Her hand went instinctively to her bag, where the sketches were tucked away. She recognized the jagged silhouette of the ridge immediately. This was it. The backdrop from the paintings.
“What’s down there?” she asked, her voice light, testing the water.
“Dead end,” Cal said, not slowing. “Old logging road. Supposedly unstable.”
Izzy studied his profile. He was lying. Or he was told a lie so often he’d started to believe it.
Izzy glanced back at the gate.
"Your dad builds a lot of fences."
Cal's jaw tightened slightly.
"People always say that like it's a bad thing."
"Isn't it?"
He shook his head.
"Everything you saw today? The horses. The land. The jobs. The ranches. My dad built that. Folks around here love what he's done for the county until they decide he's got too much of it."
"You make him sound like a saint."
Cal looked back toward the ridge.
"No. Just a man who worked harder than anybody else."
“Oh, come on, Cal,” she said, a playful edge in her voice. She leaned toward him, enough to catch his eye. “Don’t you have a little don’t follow the rules in you? I certainly do.”
Cal slowed the Escalade. He gave her a side look—slow, heat behind it. “Honey, that’s a side I’d like to see.”
He killed the engine. The quiet of the woods rushed in.
He got out and walked to the gate. As he unlatched the heavy chain, Izzy’s attention swept the tree line.
She saw them almost immediately. High in the hemlocks: two cameras, solar-powered, lenses angled to catch every inch of the entrance.
Cal swung the gate wide, kicking up a plume of dust as they drove through.
Flags went up in her mind. This wasn’t for logging. This was for a border.
The valley opened up. It wasn’t a forest floor. In the center, cutting a gray scar through the green, was a landing strip—paved, maintained, with no weeds pushing through the asphalt.
N372FL. The tail number from the sketch burned in her mind.
“A bit much for a hobby, isn’t it?” Izzy asked softly.
Cal didn’t look at the strip. He looked at her. “My dad likes to get where he’s going without being tracked by the FAA. Private planes, private arrivals.”
“Private business,” she whispered.
A chill ran down her spine, despite the midday sun. The place pressed in around her. This didn’t feel like a getaway.
It felt like a grave.
Cal pulled the car to a stop near a cluster of pines at the edge of the strip. He hopped out and walked around to her door, opening it before she could. The air here was thin and smelled of pine needles and old oil.
“You okay?” he asked. He stepped into her space, his shadow falling over her.
Izzy looked up at him. She was thinking about Grant. She was thinking about the cabin, the missing girl, and the man back in the stone house who squeezed her waist a little too hard. She was angry at the secrets. Angry at the mountain.
Cal reached out, his thumb grazing her jawline. He was handsome, and he looked like he wanted to protect her from the very place they were standing.
He leaned in.
She should have stopped him. Instead, she let him close the distance.
Izzy didn’t pull away. She let him kiss her—a hard, distracting heat that tasted like the bourbon they’d shared. It was a brief, sharp escape from the mystery.
But as he pulled back, his eyes dark and searching, Izzy looked past his shoulder.
“We should go,” she said, her voice steady. “I think I’ve seen enough of the ‘restricted’ side for one day.”
Cal nodded, a small, knowing smile on his face. He thought he’d won her over.
She’d found the X on the map.