Chapter 27
Blackwood Estate Winery — Mid-Afternoon
Deputy Luke Hale slowed the cruiser as he passed through the gates of Blackwood Estate.
One hundred eighty-seven acres of pristine, terraced hillsides stretched out ahead, grapevines marching in perfect green rows toward the sun.
Blackboard fencing lined the drive, a sharp contrast against the rolling emerald grass.
In the center of it all stood the headquarters: a massive, matte-black barn, a monolith against the sky, softened only by the vibrant quilt square painted on its face—a traditional Tree of Life pattern in mulberry and cream that honored the mountain’s roots.
Inside, the rustic exterior gave way to a modern, high-ceilinged gallery space that led to the private residence—the grand Victorian with its sage-green walls and wraparound porches.
Mabel Blackwood met him at the door. She was the definition of Sylva genteel—blonde hair swept up, a string of pearls against a twinset, and a smile that was warm but didn’t quite reach her eyes at the sight of the uniform.
“Luke Hale,” she said, her voice a soft, melodic drawl. “I haven’t seen you since you moved back. Your mother says you’re settling in, though I imagine the pace is a bit different than what you’re used to.”
“It has its moments, Mabel.”
“I expect it does.” She turned, gesturing for him to follow. “Come. I was about to have tea. We can talk in the parlor.”
As they stepped into the room, the afternoon light poured through the tall Victorian windows. But Luke’s attention went straight to the fireplace.
Hanging above the mantel was a painting that pulled the very air out of the room. A mountain peak, rendered in bold, confident strokes, with a pasture in the foreground that looked soft enough to touch. The light was handled with haunting restraint—a golden-hour glow that felt like a goodbye.
Luke stopped dead. “Is that…?”
“Clara Vale,” Mabel said, her voice dropping an octave. “Nineteen ninety-eight. I bought it before the oil was even dry. She had a gift, Luke. A way of seeing this mountain not as a resource, but as a living soul.”
Luke stepped closer, impressed. The detail was staggering. It made the landscape sketches in the barn look like shorthand. This was the full reach of that talent.
“She was a lovely girl,” Mabel continued, settling into a wingback chair. “And Sam Talley… well, he was a wreck when she vanished. Utterly destroyed. He spent months riding those ridges, calling her name until his voice gave out.”
Luke turned back to her. “The file says it was a walkaway.”
Mabel let out a small, cynical breath, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. “That’s what the official paperwork says. But everyone in this county with a lick of sense knew better. Sam was convinced—convinced down to his marrow—that Wade Hollis had a hand in it.”
Her gaze lifted to Luke, sharpening into something cold and serious.
“Wade had been circling her like a hawk since the day she arrived. And after that fight at the livestock barn? The one where Sam laid him out in the dirt? The air in this town changed. You didn’t cross Wade Hollis back then, Luke.
You certainly didn’t humiliate him in front of the whole county and expect to keep what you loved. ”
“Did people talk about it?” Luke asked.
“Only in whispers,” Mabel said. “And never too loud. Wade held the notes on half the businesses in Sylva. He was the one who funded the new wing of the hospital, the one who kept the sheriff’s department in new cruisers.
Folks around here have a way of losing their memory when their livelihood is on the line. ”
She tipped her chin toward the painting above the hearth.
“Sam begged the Sheriff to look closer at the Hollis land. But back then? Burton Scott and Wade Hollis were two sides of the same coin. Burton told Sam to move on, that the girl was a ‘drifter’ who found a better offer elsewhere.”
Mabel held his gaze, steady and unflinching.
“She didn’t move on, Luke. A girl who paints like that… she doesn’t leave herself behind in a dusty cabin and walk away. She was taken. And the man who did it is still sitting on that ridge, acting as if this county belongs to him.”
* * *
Bridlepath Farm — Late Afternoon
The Escalade purred to a stop near the farmhouse, the black paint reflecting the long, jagged shadows of the ridge.
Cal hopped out, smooth and practiced, and opened Izzy’s door. As she stepped out, he didn't just let her go. He caught her hand, pulling her back slightly.
His back was to the equipment sheds.
But he knew exactly who was watching.
He dipped his head and kissed her.
It wasn't a question.
It was a performance.
Izzy didn't pull away.
She kept her eyes open, looking past Cal’s shoulder toward the detached garage a hundred yards away.
One of the bays stood open, the dark interior framing a flash of movement.
Grant.
Cal pulled back, a satisfied smirk on his face.
“I’ll call you, Isabella. Don't let the mountain air get too lonely.”
He threw a mocking wave toward the open garage bay and pulled away, gravel spitting beneath his tires.
Izzy didn't look at the garage.
She marched into the house, the Denver Armor tightening around her like a shield.
She didn't want to think about the kiss.
She wanted the sketchbook.
She grabbed it from the kitchen island and started flipping through the pages she'd missed. She was looking for the landing strip when she stopped near the back.
Her breath hitched.
It wasn't a landscape.
It was the cabin.
A self-portrait.
Clara was rendered in quick, urgent charcoal lines. She knelt beside the heavy oak roll-top desk, one hand disappearing into a hidden seam behind the bottom drawer.
Her face was turned toward the cabin door.
Eyes wide.
Terrified.
She wasn't painting.
She was hiding something.
A record.
A clue.
“Oh my God,” Izzy whispered.
The desk was still there.
She'd seen it herself.
Dust-covered and battered, but still sitting in that cabin.
Heavy boots sounded on the porch.
Izzy spun.
Grant stepped into the kitchen.
He looked like he'd been wrestling the mountain all day—grease on his forearms, sweat staining his black T-shirt, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line.
“You’re a piece of work, Moreno,” he rumbled. “Using a Hollis to make a point? You don't know what you're playing with.”
Izzy snapped the sketchbook shut, her eyes burning.
“I’m not playing, Grant. I’m living. Something you apparently only do when nobody's looking.”
She stepped toward him.
Matching his intensity.
“You wanted us to be realistic. You wanted distance. Well, here it is.”
His jaw tightened.
“Don't be mad because I decided to fill the space you left behind.”
“You’re going to get yourself hurt.”
He stepped into her space, the smell of work and diesel a hard contrast to her expensive perfume.
“That family doesn't do lunch without a price.”
“Then I'll pay it.”
The words came out sharper than she'd intended, fueled by the adrenaline of her discovery and the sting of his rejection.
“Because at least they aren't afraid to want something.”
The words landed.
For a beat, neither of them moved.
The tension stretched tight between them.
“Now, if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do.”
She brushed past him.
Her shoulder clipped his.
Neither apologized.
She headed for her room without looking back.
She wasn't going to be humiliated again.
Not by Grant.
Not today.
Later that night, after Grant finally left her alone, Izzy photographed the sketch and sent it to Caitlin.
* * *
The Back Ridge Trail — Morning
The climb was steady, the morning air crisp and carrying the scent of pine. Izzy and Caitlin rode side-by-side where the trail widened, the horses’ hooves crunching rhythmically over the dry earth.
“I’m just saying, Cate,” Izzy said, leaning back in Ghost’s saddle. “The landscaping at Hollis Ridge isn't natural. It’s a performance. Even the water looks like it was told where to flow. It’s a kingdom, not a farm.”
Caitlin laughed, adjusting her grip on Jasper’s reins. Even after months in Sylva, she still carried that Denver glow, though she handled the gelding like she'd been born to it.
“That’s what Burke says. He’s lived here his whole life and still won't go up there without a warrant or an invitation. I'm starting to be glad I didn't know who Wade Hollis was when I moved here. He sounds like a nightmare in a Stetson.”
“He is,” Izzy said, her voice tightening. “And his son isn't much better at taking no for an answer.”
Caitlin shot her a look.
“Speaking of sons... are you actually interested in Cal, or are you just playing Nancy Drew to get under Grant’s skin? Because if you're trying to make my brother crazy, mission accomplished. He looked like he was about to eat a wrench when you left for brunch.”
“Grant made his choice,” Izzy said, staring at the trail ahead. “He wanted realistic. He wanted distance. I’m just filling the space.”
They rounded the final bend.
The trail narrowed.
The trees closed in.
The cabin appeared through the brush—gray, weathered, and silent.
Suddenly, the front door slammed against the exterior wall with a crack like a gunshot.
A figure in a dark hoodie exploded off the porch.
They didn't look back.
They hit the thicket at a dead run, moving with the terrifying speed of someone who knew the mountain by heart.
“Hey!” Izzy shouted.
Ghost danced beneath her.
Jasper shied hard to the side.
“Whoa!” Caitlin grabbed for the reins, fighting to steady him. “Izzy!”
The figure disappeared into the trees.
Gone.
“Who was that?”
Caitlin’s hands shook as she dug her phone from her pocket and hit speed dial.
“Burke,” she said the second he answered. “Somebody was at the cabin. They just ran. They headed toward the Hollis property line. We're right outside.”
“Get out of there.”
Burke's voice cracked through the speaker, pure sheriff.
“Caitlin, turn those horses around and get back to Grant’s house right now. Do you hear me? I’m rolling with lights.”
“He’s right, Cate.”
Izzy's eyes never left the open cabin door.
“But we have to check the desk. If they were looking for what Clara hid, we need to know if they found it. It'll take two minutes.”
“Burke said go back!”
But Izzy was already swinging out of Ghost's saddle.
“If we leave now,” she said, “they’ll come back for it.”
“Izzy—”
“Stay on the phone with him.”