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.
