Chapter 4 #2
“For what it’s worth, I think you’d be good at it.” Liza meant it. She’d seen him in action today—the way he’d protected her, the way he’d taken charge of the chaos. “And Laurel Valley could use someone like you. Someone who knows real danger, not just drunk tourists and runaway livestock.”
“Lane told you about the cattle incident?”
“Everyone told me about the cattle incident.” She laughed. “Apparently it’s the most exciting thing that’s happened here in months. Until today, anyway.”
The humor faded as they both remembered why they were driving through the darkness.
“What about you?” Grant asked. “What comes next for Liza Carmichael?”
“I honestly don’t know.” She looked out at the darkness rushing past. “I thought I had it figured out. Sell the bakery, go to LA, start fresh somewhere nobody knew me. But now…” She trailed off.
“Now?”
“Now I’m not so sure running is the answer.” The admission surprised her. “Maybe Aunt Rose left me that bakery for a reason. Maybe she knew I needed a place to stop running.”
“You think she knew you’d stay?”
“I think she hoped I would.” Liza’s throat tightened.
“She used to tell me stories about the O’Haras, about the families who’d been here for generations, including my own ancestors.
About what it meant to belong somewhere.
To build something that lasted.” She looked at Grant.
“I’ve never had that. Never stayed anywhere long enough to build anything. ”
“It’s not too late.”
The way he said it—like he believed it, like he could see a future for her that she couldn’t see herself—made her chest ache.
“What about you?” she asked. “Could you stay? Build something here?”
His hands tightened on the wheel. “I don’t know if I remember how.”
Grant felt the words settle between them like a promise. Or maybe a confession. He’d spent twenty years building walls, keeping people at arm’s length, never letting anyone get close enough to matter. It was easier that way. Safer.
But looking at Liza—at this woman who’d driven a car through her ex’s window and refused to back down from a killer—he wondered if safe was worth it anymore.
The road climbed higher into the mountains. There were no other vehicles. No signs of civilization. Just darkness and the sound of the engine and the woman beside him.
“Tell me about the good cases,” Liza said suddenly. “The ones that made it all worth it.”
Grant’s first instinct was to deflect. But there was something about the darkness, about the intimacy of the small space, that made him want to answer.
“There was a kid,” he said. “Maybe nine years old. His name was Marcus. He got caught in the crossfire of a gang shooting—wrong place, wrong time. Took a bullet meant for someone else.”
“Did he make it?”
“Barely. But while he was in the hospital, I started digging into the gang. Spent six months building the case, getting witnesses to talk, gathering evidence. When we finally brought them down, I went to see Marcus. He was home by then, recovering.”
Grant could still see the kid’s face, the way he’d smiled when Grant had told him they’d gotten the guys who shot him.
“He told me he wanted to be a cop when he grew up. Said he wanted to help people like I’d helped him.” Grant’s voice softened. “That’s what made it worth it. Knowing that sometimes, if you fought hard enough, you could actually make a difference.”
“You still can,” Liza said softly. “Make a difference, I mean. Just in a different place.”
Before he could respond, headlights appeared in the rearview mirror.
Grant’s entire body tensed. They’d been alone on this road for the past twenty minutes. No one came up here this time of night, especially not in March when the ski season was winding down.
“Company?” Liza asked, noticing his reaction.
“Maybe.” He watched the lights grow closer. Too fast. Way too fast for these roads.
The vehicle pulled up behind them—close enough that Grant could see it was a motorcycle in his mirrors. Single rider, all in black.
“That’s her,” he said, his voice hard. “Hold on.”
He pressed the accelerator, the Bronco surging forward. But the motorcycle was faster, more maneuverable on the winding road. It pulled alongside them, and Grant saw the rider reach for something—
“Get down!” he yelled.
Liza ducked as the rider opened fire. Not at them—at the Bronco’s engine. Three shots, precisely placed.
Steam erupted from under the hood. The engine sputtered, coughed, died.
Grant fought the wheel as the Bronco coasted to a stop, already reaching for his weapon. The motorcycle circled back, the rider slowing for a kill shot.
Grant threw open his door and returned fire—three quick shots that forced the rider to swerve and accelerate past them. The motorcycle disappeared around the curve ahead, but he knew she’d be back. Repositioning for another approach.
“Out! Now!” He grabbed the go-bag and satellite phone from the glove box while Liza scrambled out her side. He ran to the back, yanked open the hatch, and grabbed a second bag of supplies—the food and medical kit Wyatt had packed.
The motorcycle engine roared in the distance. Coming back.
“Move!” Grant grabbed Liza’s hand and pulled her off the road into the forest just as the motorcycle came screaming around the curve.
Bullets kicked up dirt where they’d been standing seconds before.
He looked around, getting his bearings. They were a few miles from the cabin. A few miles of rough terrain in the dark with a trained killer hunting them.
“We run,” he said, shouldering the bag. “Stay close to me. Don’t make noise. If I tell you to hide, you hide. If I tell you to run, you run. Understood?”
Liza’s face was pale in the moonlight, but her jaw was set. “Understood.”
Grant led them off the road and into the forest. The trees closed around them, blocking out the moonlight. He pulled out a small flashlight, keeping the beam low.
Behind them, he heard the motorcycle engine again. Getting closer.
“Run,” he said, and they did.