Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The ground gave way beneath her feet without warning.
One moment she was following Grant through the darkness, the next she was falling through rotted wood and empty air. She didn’t even have time to scream before she hit bottom.
Pain exploded through her ankle and up her leg. The breath left her lungs in a rush. Above her, she could see the ragged hole she’d fallen through—maybe fifteen feet up. Moonlight filtered down, barely enough to see by.
“Liza!” Grant’s voice, sharp with fear. His face appeared at the edge of the hole. “Are you hurt?”
“My ankle.” She tried to move it and gasped. “I can’t tell if it’s broken.”
“Don’t move. I’m coming down.”
“Grant, no—”
But he was already lowering himself through the opening, finding handholds in the coarse timber supports. Within seconds he dropped beside her, his hands immediately going to her ankle.
“Old mine shaft,” he said, gently probing the injury. “Must be dozens of them up here from the silver rush days.” His touch was careful, professional. “Can you wiggle your toes?”
Liza tried. The pain was intense, but her toes moved. “Yes.”
“Good sign. Probably sprained, not broken.” He pulled the supply bag closer and dug through it, finding the medical kit Wyatt had packed.
Inside was an ACE bandage and medical tape.
He wrapped her ankle carefully, firmly enough to provide support but not so tight it would cut off circulation. “Can you stand?”
She tried and immediately crumpled. Grant caught her before she fell.
“Okay, new plan.” He looked up at the opening. “I’m going to lift you up, then pull myself out. Think you can hold on to the edge while I get up there?”
Liza nodded, not trusting her voice. The pain was making her nauseous, and her head was pounding again from the concussion.
Grant positioned himself beneath the opening and laced his fingers together. “Step here. I’ll boost you up.”
It took three tries—each one sending fresh waves of agony through Liza’s ankle—but finally she got her hands on the edge. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase on the rotted wood while Grant pushed from below.
“Got it,” she gasped, pulling herself up and out. She rolled onto solid ground, breathing hard.
Grant was up seconds later, moving with the kind of strength and grace that shouldn’t be possible after the day they’d had. He knelt beside her, checking the bandage on her ankle.
“How far?” Liza asked through gritted teeth.
“Maybe three more miles.” He looked at her face in the moonlight, saw the pain she was trying to hide. “I’m going to carry you the rest of the way.”
“Grant, you can’t—”
“Watch me.” He swept her into his arms, settling her weight against his chest. “Save your strength. We’re almost there.”
The cabin appeared through the trees like something from a dream.
It was small, built of weathered logs that had gone silver with age.
A stone chimney rose from one end, and a covered porch wrapped around the front.
Through the windows Grant could see it was dark inside, undisturbed.
No motorcycle. No fresh tracks in the dirt.
No sign that anyone had been here in weeks.
He did a full perimeter check before approaching, Liza still in his arms. The forest was silent except for the whisper of wind through the pines and the distant call of an owl. When he was satisfied they were alone, he carried her up the porch steps.
The door was locked, but Wyatt had told him where to find the key—under a rock shaped like a bear near the woodpile. Grant found it, unlocked the door, and carried Liza inside.
The cabin smelled like pine and old smoke and something indefinable that spoke of safety.
Grant found a lantern and matches on a shelf by the door.
The warm glow revealed a single room with a woodstove, a kitchen area with a hand pump at the sink, two bunk beds built into the wall, and a table with mismatched chairs. Simple, but clean and dry.
“Home sweet home,” Grant said, carrying Liza to one of the lower bunks. The mattress was thin but there were thick wool blankets folded at the end.
“It’s perfect,” Liza said, and meant it. After the fear and the running and the cold, this small cabin felt like a sanctuary.
Grant built a fire in the woodstove while Liza watched from the bunk. His movements were efficient, practiced—crumpling newspaper, arranging kindling, coaxing flame to life. Within minutes, warmth began to seep into the space, chasing away the chill that had settled into her bones.
He found canned food in the cupboards—soup, beans, vegetables. The manual water pump at the sink creaked but worked, producing clear cold water. There was coffee in a tin, sugar in a jar, even a bottle of whiskey on a high shelf.
“Colt keeps this place stocked,” Grant said, pulling out supplies. “We’ve got food, water, medical supplies. We can hold out here for as long as we need to.”
He brought the medical kit to the bunk and carefully unwrapped Liza’s ankle. It had swollen during the hike, purple bruising already spreading across her skin like storm clouds.
“This is going to hurt,” he warned, pulling out an ice pack and activating it with a sharp snap. He placed it gently on her ankle, and Liza hissed at the cold.
“Better than the alternative,” she managed.
Grant elevated her foot on rolled blankets, then turned his attention to the cut on her temple from the bakery shooting. It had scabbed over, but the bruising around it was spectacular.
“How’s your head?”
“Hurts. But everything hurts right now, so it’s hard to say which part is winning.”
“Good. Because I have plans for you, and I need you conscious for them.” He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “Drink this.”
He handed her water and pain pills from the medical kit. Liza swallowed them gratefully, feeling the cool water soothe her throat.
“Your turn,” she said. “Let me see your hands.”
Grant’s hands were cut and bruised from the mine shaft, from carrying her for miles through rough terrain. Liza took the antiseptic and gauze and cleaned each wound carefully, her touch as gentle as his had been.
“We make quite a pair,” she said. “Both falling apart.”
“We’re still standing. That counts for something.” Grant caught her hand, brought it to his lips. The gesture was so tender it made her chest ache. “You were incredible out there. Most people would have given up.”
“I had good motivation to keep going.” She met his eyes. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”
He laughed, the sound warm and unexpected in the small space. Then his expression sobered. “I need to check in with Lane. Let them know we’re here.”
He pulled out the satellite phone and made the call, keeping it brief. Liza heard him give their location, heard him confirm they were safe for now. When he hung up, his jaw was tight.
“What did he say?”
“No sign of Caine since she disabled the Bronco. State police and FBI are coordinating, but the tactical team won’t be in place until the day after tomorrow at the earliest.” He set the phone down. “We wait here until then.”
“And if she finds us before that?”
“She won’t.” But Grant checked his weapon anyway, setting it within easy reach on the small table. “This land belongs to the O’Haras. Thousands of acres of private property. Even if she knows we’re in the general area, she’d have to search for days to find this specific cabin.”
Liza wanted to believe him. And looking at his face in the firelight, at the determination in his eyes, she almost did.
Grant heated canned soup on the woodstove while Liza rested. The simple act of cooking, of taking care of her, felt right in a way he couldn’t explain. Like this was what he was supposed to be doing. Like she was who he was supposed to be doing it for.
They ate sitting on the bunk together, sharing the single bowl because there was only one spoon. The soup was terrible—bland and oversalted and nothing like real food—but it was hot and filling.
“This is the best soup I’ve ever had,” Liza said.
“It’s terrible soup.”
“Maybe. But the company makes up for it.” She smiled at him, and Grant felt something shift in his chest. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
“Liza—”
“Don’t,” she said softly, setting the bowl aside. “Don’t apologize again for getting me into this. Don’t tell me you should have stayed away from the bakery. Just…be here with me now.”
So he did. He set aside the soup and pulled her close, careful of her ankle. She fit against him like she was made to be there, her head on his shoulder, her hand over his heart. They sat like that for a long time, listening to the fire crackle and the wind whisper through the pines outside.
“Tell me something true,” Liza finally said. “Something you’ve never told anyone.”
Grant was quiet for a long moment, his hand moving slowly up and down her arm.
“I was scared to come here. To Laurel Valley. Not because of Caine, but because I didn’t know who I was without the job.
Without the badge.” His voice was thick, the admission harder than he’d expected.
“I’ve been a cop since I was twenty-two.
It’s all I’ve ever known. And when they took that away, I felt…
empty. Like someone had hollowed me out and left nothing but the shell. ”
“And now?”
“Now I think maybe I was empty long before they forced me out. I just didn’t want to see it.” He looked down at her, at the way the firelight played across her face. “What about you? What’s your truth?”
Liza was quiet, her fingers tracing slow patterns on his chest. “I’ve been running my whole life. From my parents’ divorce, from relationships, from anything that felt permanent. I told myself it was about freedom, about adventure, about living life to the fullest. But really, I was just scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of failing. Of trying to build something and watching it fall apart like everything else in my life. Of caring about something enough that losing it would destroy me.” She tilted her head to look at him. “But you know what scares me more now?”
“What?”