Chapter 47
Bridlepath Farm — Early
Izzy hadn’t planned on waking up with the sun, but the mountain air didn’t let you sleep away the light. She’d slipped downstairs in an old pair of Grant’s muck boots that clacked against her heels, a thick fleece pulled over her shoulders against the dawn chill.
She found Naomi already in the feed room, the rhythm of the farm moving like clockwork around her.
Naomi hadn’t ordered her back to the house. She’d handed Izzy a green plastic scoop and pointed toward the row of yearling stalls.
“Two scoops for the chestnut, one for the bay,” Naomi said. “Watch your fingers with the gelding. He thinks everything’s a carrot.”
For the next two hours, Izzy lost herself in the repetitive, grounding rhythm of the barn.
She learned the drag of the sliding latches, the warm velvet pressure of a Thoroughbred’s nose against her palm, and the way the mountain mist lifted off the fields in long ghostly ribbons once the sun cleared the ridge.
She didn’t look like a Denver curator anymore.
Her jeans were streaked with sweet-feed dust. Her hands still looked like they belonged to someone who worked indoors, but they were learning the weight of muck forks and hay bales. She handled the heavy water hoses without checking her watch every five minutes.
And somewhere between the feed room and the wash rack, the constant buzzing anxiety that usually lived beneath her ribs had gone completely quiet.
Grant caught sight of her near the wash rack after eight.
He stopped dead in the aisle, a flake of alfalfa balanced against his hip beneath one arm.
Izzy stood beside a restless filly, one hand smoothing slowly down the horse’s neck while soft morning light filtered through the barn slats around her.
Calm.
Steady.
Like she belonged there.
Grant didn’t say a word.
He just watched her.
The way she didn’t flinch when the filly tossed its head toward her shoulder.
The way her city-honed posture had softened into something unhurried.
The way she moved through the barn now without hesitation, like she understood the rhythm of the place.
There was something terrifyingly permanent about the sight of her standing in his barn light with her hair loose from sleep and dust smudged across her jeans, looking less like a visitor and more like part of the mountain itself.
When Izzy finally looked up and caught him staring, Grant cleared his throat roughly, dropped the hay beside the stall, and walked away before she could catch the look in his eyes.
Because the realization had hit him hard enough to steal the breath from his lungs.
She wasn’t just passing through anymore.
She was taking root.
And when she finally left, the silence she’d leave behind in this valley was going to be deafening.
* * *
Bridlepath Farm
The farmhouse had gone quiet after Caitlin’s call.
Late-afternoon sunlight spilled across the kitchen counters. Outside, the Blue Ridge Mountains rolled beyond the pastures in deepening layers of blue and green, peaceful enough to make the rest of the world feel impossibly far away.
Izzy sat at the kitchen island with one of Clara Vale’s sketchbooks open in front of her, but she hadn’t turned a page in nearly ten minutes.
Her mind was somewhere else entirely.
You could stay here.
Caitlin’s voice still echoed in her head.
Open your own gallery.
Do it your way.
We could be together again.
Izzy stared out the window toward the fences stretching across Bridlepath.
Denver suddenly felt very far away.
Looking down at the ink strokes on the aged paper, a sudden, heavy wave of familiarity hit her.
Clara hadn't just drawn these ridges; she had been trying to anchor herself to them.
She was a city girl who had come to this valley with an artist's heart, falling for a rugged local man while fighting the terrifying urge to belong somewhere versus the instinct to run.
Izzy wasn't just investigating a mystery anymore.
She was tracing the footsteps of her own ghost story, living the life of a woman who had desperately wanted to stay—right up until the mountain swallowed her whole.
RiNo Arts Gallery had been her life for years. Her identity. Proof she’d built something on her own. She knew the streets there, the noise, the crowded coffee shops. Galleries packed with sharp elbows and expensive opinions, full of people always trying to become something bigger than themselves.
That world had made sense to her.
Until it didn’t.
Now the thought of opening her own place here in the mountains did something dangerous in her mind.
Her own gallery. No board. No investors. No politics. Just art.
Could she actually leave Denver for this—the quiet, the isolation, the slower rhythm of a town where people knew each other?
A few days ago, she would’ve laughed. Now she wasn’t so sure.
The crunch of gravel outside pulled her thoughts apart.
For one brief second, relief loosened her shoulders.
Grant.
She looked toward the front window.
An SUV rolled slowly into the yard, dark windows reflecting the late-afternoon sun.
Her stomach tightened.
Wade Hollis? The thought came first because it was easier than the second possibility, rising cold and sharp behind it. The SUV stopped. The driver’s door opened, and two men stepped out in dark jackets. Izzy went still. The men from town. The ones outside City Limits.
Fear slid through her. Grant’s warning flashed back. Those men were watching you at the gala. They were watching you and Caitlin at City Limits yesterday.
Her pulse pounded.
The men moved toward the porch calmly.
Three knocks hit the screen door.
“Ms. Moreno?” the taller man called. “Sheriff Scott asked us to check on you.”
Every instinct she had screamed.
Izzy backed toward the door, reaching for the deadbolt.
The screen door jerked open.
The taller man hit the porch in two quick strides and slammed his boot into the farmhouse door before she could shut it.
Wood cracked.
Izzy stumbled backward with a gasp.
“Hey!”
The man caught her wrist in a bruising grip.
“Let go of me!”
She twisted hard, bringing her phone up on instinct to hit him.
He caught her forearm mid-swing.
“Easy,” he said flatly.
Panic detonated in her.
The second man stepped onto the porch behind him, scanning the property once with cold, practiced eyes.
“Move,” he said.
The man yanked her off the porch.
Izzy dug her sneakers into the dirt, fighting now, terror fully detonating inside her.
“Help!” she screamed. “Let me go!”
The grip on her arm tightened.
An engine roared up the driveway.
Cal’s SUV fishtailed across the gravel.
“Hey!”
Cal was out of the vehicle before it stopped. He grabbed a tire iron.
Pure fury on his face.
“Get your damn hands off her!”
Relief slammed through Izzy so hard her knees almost buckled.
The broader man stepped toward Cal calmly.
Cal swung first.
The tire iron cut hard through the air.
The man slipped under it and drove a brutal shot into Cal’s chin.
The sound was sickening.
Cal staggered, choking for breath.
But he didn’t go down.
He swung again—shorter this time—and clipped the man across the shoulder.
The man’s expression darkened.
He grabbed Cal, slammed him against the SUV, then drove an elbow into the side of his neck.
Cal dropped to one knee in the gravel.
“Hollis boy,” the taller man muttered.
“Yeah,” the other answered.
Izzy’s blood went cold.
They knew exactly who he was.
“Cal!” she screamed.
The taller man dragged her toward the open back door of the black SUV.
She fought wildly now, nails clawing, heels digging trenches into the dirt.
The farmhouse blurred behind her. They shoved Cal into the floorboard first. Izzy was thrown in after him, her shoulder slamming against his ribs.
The door slammed, the child locks clicking into place with a final, mechanical snap.
The SUV shot forward, gravel spraying behind it, leaving Cal’s empty vehicle idling alone in the dirt.
Through the rear glass, Izzy caught one last glimpse of Bridlepath Farm. The front door still open. The farm disappeared behind dust and trees.
Izzy looked toward the driver.
“Where are you taking us?”
The driver adjusted the rearview mirror slowly, meeting her eyes for the first time.
His expression never changed.
“You’re the one with the secrets, Izzy,” he said quietly.
“We’re here to find out what they are.”
* * *
Jackson County Museum — 5:11 PM
Caitlin tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she stepped out of the restoration room, balancing her phone against her shoulder while locking a display case.
She smiled when Izzy’s contact popped up.
Or tried to.
The smile faded when the call rolled straight to voicemail.
Caitlin frowned and pulled the phone away from her ear.
That was odd.
Izzy had been answering almost immediately all day.
She hit redial while walking toward the front desk.
Far away, in the black SUV racing through the mountains, Izzy’s watch buzzed softly against her wrist.
Izzy jerked at the sound.
Caitlin.
Relief hit so hard it almost hurt.
She tried to keep her face neutral as the vibration continued against her skin.
Beside her, Cal was still half-conscious on the floorboard, blood at the corner of his mouth.
The taller man in the passenger seat glanced back once.
Izzy slowly slid her hand over the watch face and killed the call.
The vibration stopped.
A few seconds later—
Buzz.
Caitlin again.
Izzy swallowed hard and covered the watch, ending the call before the sound could keep going.
This time the man in the passenger seat turned.
His eyes dropped to her wrist.
“Give me your hand.”
Izzy froze.
The SUV swerved as he suddenly reached over the seat and yanked her arm hard enough to drag her halfway forward.
“Hey!” she cried out.
He twisted her wrist, spotted the watch, then ripped it clean off.
Pain shot through her skin.
The window rolled down.
Mountain wind exploded into the SUV.
Without a word, the man tossed the watch into the trees rushing past outside.
Then the window rolled back up.
The silence afterward felt even worse.
Izzy stared at the empty place on her wrist, breathing hard.
The passenger finally looked at her.
“No trackers,” he said calmly.
Back in Sylva, Caitlin stopped walking.
Her stomach tightened.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
She dialed a third time.
Nothing.
Unease crawled up her spine.
She pulled up Naomi’s contact and hit call.
Naomi answered on the second ring.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
“Have you seen Izzy?”
“No, why?”
“She’s not answering me.”
Naomi laughed softly. “Honey, she’s probably reading those sketchbooks. That girl looked more relaxed today than I’ve seen her since she got here.”
Caitlin exhaled a little.
“Her phone’s going straight to voicemail.”
Naomi paused.
“Well, Cal’s SUV is still parked up by the farmhouse. I saw it when I came back from the south pasture.”
Relief loosened Caitlin’s stomach briefly.
Okay.
Okay, maybe they were talking.
Maybe Izzy left her phone somewhere.
Maybe—
But something still felt wrong. Cold. Persistent.
Caitlin pulled the phone back from her ear long enough to send a text.
Call me now. I’m worried.
Delivered.
No response.
Her pulse climbed.
She hit call again.
Straight to voicemail.
Now she knew. This wasn’t right.
“Naomi,” Caitlin said sharply, already grabbing her purse. “Can you go check on her? I’m on my way, but she isn’t answering and I don’t like this.”
Naomi went silent for half a beat.
Then—
“I’m headed there now.”
* * *
Bridlepath Farm — 5:19 PM
Naomi swung up onto one of the lesson horses bareback, boots digging lightly into the horse’s sides as she started up the long drive toward the farmhouse.
The evening air had gone strangely still.
Halfway up the hill, she slowed.
Something didn’t feel right.
The closer she got to the farmhouse, the tighter her stomach became.
Then she saw Cal’s SUV.
Parked crooked near the side of the drive.
Driver’s door hanging wide open.
Naomi pulled the horse to a sharp stop.
“Oh no.”
Fear hit instantly.
The farmhouse front door stood wide open, too, the screen door rocking softly against the frame in the evening breeze.
No movement.
No voices.
Nothing.
Naomi slid off the horse fast, boots hitting the gravel hard as she hurried toward the porch.
“Izzy?” she shouted.
Nothing.
“Cal?”
Nothing.
The kitchen lights were still on.
A glass of water sat untouched on the counter.
One of Clara’s sketchbooks lay open on the island beside Izzy’s phone charger.
But the house was empty.
Naomi’s pulse hammered.
She backed out onto the porch and grabbed her phone with shaking hands.
Burke answered immediately.
“Naomi?”
“They’re gone.”
The words came out breathless.
“Burke, something’s happened.”
His tone changed instantly.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Cal’s SUV is here with the driver’s door standing open. The farmhouse door’s wide open too and nobody’s here.” Her voice cracked. “Something’s wrong.”
Silence.
Then Burke’s voice went deadly calm.
“Do not touch anything.”
Naomi looked back toward the empty farmhouse, fear spreading cold through her.
“Burke—”
“We’re on our way.”
The line disconnected.
Naomi immediately hit Caitlin’s number next.
Caitlin answered before the first full ring.
“Naomi?”
“They’re gone.”
A sharp inhale.
“What?”
“The house is empty. Cal’s SUV is sitting here open. Front door’s standing wide open.”
For one second Caitlin said nothing.
Then Naomi heard it.
A broken sound.
“No,” Caitlin whispered.
Then louder—
“No! Please—”
The cry shattered straight through Naomi.
“I’m almost there,” Caitlin choked out. “Oh my God—”
The line went dead.
* * *
Highway 107 — 5:24 PM
Grant barely slowed as Burke’s truck flew onto the gravel road leading toward Bridlepath.
Dust exploded behind them.
Burke drove one-handed, phone pressed to his ear while Grant sat rigid in the passenger seat, every muscle in his body locked tight.
“What exactly did Naomi say?” Grant demanded.
“House open. Cal’s SUV there. Nobody inside.”
Grant’s stomach dropped.
No.
No.
Izzy promised she’d stay there.
Fear slammed into him so hard it felt like rage.
Sam Talley’s parting words echoed through the roar of the engine, a bitter ghost mocking him from the dark.
Give your heart to a bird, eventually it flies.
He realized with a sickening stab of clarity that he’d spent weeks pushing Izzy away, so terrified of turning into Sam that he’d convinced himself she was destined to abandon him.
But he’d been a blind fool. The real tragedy of Clara Vale wasn’t that she had flown away from the man who loved her.
The tragedy was that she had wanted to stay, and the monsters on this mountain had stolen her choice.
He wasn’t running to stop Izzy from leaving anymore; he was fighting to give her the chance to choose.
Burke hit the gas harder.
The truck fishtailed through the curve.
By the time Bridlepath came into view ahead, both men already knew.
Something terrible had happened.