Revival in Laurel Valley (Laurel Valley)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The mountains were supposed to bring peace. That’s what Blaze O’Hara had promised when he’d called three weeks ago, his voice holding that easy confidence that made people trust him.

Yeah, right.

Grant Boone stood at the window of the sheriff’s office and stared out at Twin Peaks rising behind the town like white-capped sentinels.

The Bavarian-style buildings below looked like something from a storybook—peaked roofs and flower boxes, cobblestone streets and old-world charm. Picture perfect. Pristine.

Nothing like Detroit.

Nothing like the life he’d left behind. There was a restlessness inside him. And anger. Oh, so much anger.

“You’ve been staring at the bakery for a long time,” Blaze said. “Go get a donut. And get me one too.”

“Just because I’m a cop doesn’t mean I crave donuts,” Grant said. “That’s a myth. My body is a temple.”

He glared toward Heavenly Delights Bakery in the distance, where warm light glowed from the curved windows. He could practically smelled the sugared dough from where he stood. Was this what retirement was like? Craving things that would give you heart disease and watching your waistline grow?

Blaze O’Hara snorted from behind his desk. “You were a cop. You can have all the donuts you want now.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Grant’s hands fisted at his sides, and he felt the familiar rage simmer just beneath the surface.

He knew Blaze hadn’t meant anything by it.

Blaze was one of the few people who understood what it meant to lose everything in a single night.

But that didn’t make the truth any easier to swallow.

“Right,” Grant said, his voice flat. “I was a cop.”

“Grant—”

“Forget it.” He turned from the window, running his fingers through his hair. It was too long, hanging past his collar, but he couldn’t seem to care enough to get it cut. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

Blaze studied him with those sharp green eyes that saw too much.

He had the kind of presence that came from hard-earned experience.

The sleeve tattoos visible beneath his rolled-up uniform shirt told stories of a past that didn’t quite fit with the respectable sheriff image.

But then, Laurel Valley seemed to have a way of taking in strays and giving them a second chance.

Grant wondered if there was a second chance here for him.

“How long are you planning to stay mad at the world?” Blaze asked.

“However long it takes.”

“That’s healthy.”

“I gave Detroit twenty years.” Grant’s jaw tightened. “Worked undercover in the worst neighborhoods, with the worst people. Built cases that put away drug dealers and killers. And they threw me away like garbage because one psycho ex-cop decided I was her enemy.”

“Internal affairs didn’t have a choice—”

“They had a choice.” The bitterness tasted like ash. “They could have believed me. Could have backed me up. Instead they forced me into retirement and made it clear I was lucky they weren’t pressing charges.”

Blaze was quiet for a moment. They’d known each other since Grant was fourteen—those summers his parents had sent him to stay with his uncle’s family just outside Laurel Valley.

Blaze had been the local kid who’d shown the city boy the ropes, taught him to fish and ride and navigate the mountains.

They’d stayed friends through the years, even when Grant went into law enforcement in Detroit and Blaze eventually became sheriff in Laurel Valley.

When everything fell apart six months ago—when Caine nearly killed him and internal affairs forced him into retirement—Blaze had been one of the few people who’d reached out. “Come to Laurel Valley. Get your head on straight. Figure out what’s next.”

Grant’s hand went unconsciously to the scar along his jaw—the jagged reminder of the night Caine had ambushed him in a Detroit warehouse.

The bullet had missed his head by two inches.

He’d been alone that night. No backup. No one to blame but himself for being too obsessed with bringing her down to follow proper protocol.

Internal affairs had seen it. His captain had seen it. And in the end, they’d decided Grant Boone was a liability.

So here he was. Forty-one years old with nowhere to go and nothing to do but watch the world move on without him.

A bright red BMW SUV suddenly roared past the sheriff’s office, engine loud enough to rattle the windows. The squeal of tires echoed as it disappeared around the corner.

Grant straightened. “Good grief. Who’s the maniac?”

Blaze grinned and stood, grabbing his cowboy hat from the stand.

“That would be our new baker. I’m going to have to give her a ticket this time.

We’ve warned her about the speed three times already.

” He shrugged into his sheepskin coat. “But you’re going to want to steer clear of that mess. She’s nothing but trouble.”

The first spark of interest Grant had felt in months flickered to life. “What’s her story?”

“Name’s Liza Carmichael. Her great-aunt Rose passed a few weeks back and left her Heavenly Delights.” Blaze settled his hat on his head. “Rose Baker ran that place for fifty years. This town won’t be the same without her.”

“The baker was named Baker?”

“Yeah, life’s funny that way.” Blaze headed for the door. “Liza’s made it clear she’s only here long enough to sell and move on. Los Angeles, last I heard.”

“Perfect,” Grant said, grabbing his jacket. “Neither of us is staying.”

“That’s what worries me.” Blaze’s gaze caught on Grant’s scar. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re about to do something stupid.”

Grant followed him out into the cold March morning. The wind cut through his jacket, carrying the scent of pine and snow from the mountains. Laurel Valley spread out before them—all peaked roofs and flower boxes, tourists in designer ski wear, money and privilege wrapped up in small-town charm.

“I thought you said she was trouble,” Grant said.

“She is. Which is exactly why you’re interested.” Blaze started walking toward downtown. “Just remember—you’re supposed to be lying low, getting your head on straight. Not getting tangled up with a woman who drives like a NASCAR reject.”

But Grant was already hooked. Trouble was exactly what he needed.

Liza Carmichael brought in the first load of boxes and bakery bags and then leaned against the counter of Heavenly Delights and surveyed the damage.

Half her inventory was gone—cleaned out by resort executives grabbing artisanal lattes before strategy meetings, yoga instructors fueling up on gluten-free scones, and the handful of locals who still remembered when this bakery had been the heart of the community instead of just another tourist stop.

She’d had to put the closed sign up and run to the catering supply shop to restock. Lesson learned.

She’d been up since 4 a.m., her hands moving through the familiar rhythms Aunt Rose had taught her all those summers ago. Braiding dough, folding butter into croissants, coaxing sugar and cinnamon into something that made people believe in magic before breakfast.

Her arms ached. Her feet hurt in her rhinestone-studded boots—but she had an image to maintain. She’d already heard whispers of the wild child running the bakery. She’d been called worse things. Truth be told, she kind of liked the moniker.

She sighed. She still had another full batch of supplies in her car. But she went ahead and unlocked the front door and turned the open sign on.

“Come on feet,” she muttered to the empty bakery, “just a little longer.”

The back door of Heavenly Delights opened onto the parking lot that served the shops along this section of Main Street.

Even here, behind the scenes, Laurel Valley maintained its standards—neatly maintained asphalt, wooden planters filled with evergreens that stayed lush year-round, wrought-iron lampposts that matched the ones on Main Street.

Shop owners and the people who lived in the apartments above the stores parked here, away from the picturesque cobblestone pedestrian streets that made tourists reach for their cameras.

It was the working side of downtown, practical and functional, but still unmistakably Laurel Valley.

March wind hit her the moment she stepped outside, sharp enough to make her eyes water.

The kind of cold that reminded her this wasn’t Vancouver or New York, where you could duck into a Starbucks every few blocks.

This was Idaho mountain country, where spring arrived on its own schedule and didn’t care about anyone’s preferences.

Liza’s bright red BMW sat in her designated spot. She popped the trunk and stared at the rest of the supplies. She groaned. She’d thought she could get the rest in one more trip.

A car door slammed nearby, and Liza turned to see Raven O’Hara emerging from her sleek black SUV.

Raven looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine instead of a parking lot at nine in the morning.

Dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, catching the sunlight, and she wore a flowing silk caftan in swirls of turquoise and purple over fitted black pants, the fabric moving around her like water with every step.

Thick gold hoops gleamed in her ears, and her wrists were loaded with bangles that chimed like distant bells.

Liza had to admire the commitment to style.

Not many women could pull off bohemian chic at 9 a.m. in a parking lot, but Raven made it look effortless.

But it was her eyes that always caught people—crystalline blue, the kind of blue you saw in mountain lakes on postcards, sharp and warm at the same time.

Eyes that saw everything and somehow still made you feel welcome.

The first real friend Liza had made when she’d rolled into town three weeks ago with a lawyer’s letter and absolutely no plan beyond trying not to have a complete breakdown.