Page 25 of Revival in Laurel Valley

He was careful even in his passion, mindful of her injured ankle, his touch both tender and urgent.

“Your ankle—” he murmured against her mouth.

“Will be fine if you’re careful.” She smiled against his lips. “And you’re always careful with me.”

He was. His hands were gentle as they learned the shape of her, as they discovered what made her gasp and sigh. And when he made love to her in the flickering firelight, it was with a reverence that brought tears to her eyes.

Liza woke to pale morning light filtering through the cabin windows and the warmth of Grant’s body beside her. She was curled against his chest, his arm around her, holding her close even in sleep. The fire had burned down to embers, but the cabin was still warm, still safe.

She studied his face in the soft light. The strong jaw covered in dark stubble. The scar that ran along his jawline—she’d traced it with her fingers in the darkness, had kissed it and felt him tremble. The lines around his eyes that spoke of too many years carrying too much weight.

The mouth that could be hard or tender, depending on the moment.

This man had carried her through the forest. Had protected her, cared for her, chosen her. In less than two days, he’d become essential.

His eyes opened, dark and warm as they found hers. “Morning.”

“Morning.” She traced the scar with her finger, gentle. “Does it still hurt?”

“Sometimes. When it’s cold, or when I’m tired.” He caught her hand, brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. “But right now, I don’t feel anything but you.”

“Good answer.”

He smiled, slow and easy. “I’ve gotten pretty good at knowing what you want to hear.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s so.” He pulled her closer. “Want me to prove it?”

She did. And he did. And the morning passed in a haze of touch and whispers.

They made breakfast together—or rather, Grant made breakfast while Liza sat at the wooden table and supervised, her ankle elevated on a chair. He heated canned beans and made coffee on the woodstove, and somehow it tasted better than any meal she’d had at a five-star restaurant.

The coffee was strong and bitter, the beans were bland, but sitting across from Grant in the warm cabin with morning light streaming through the windows felt right. Felt like something she could do for the rest of her life and never grow tired of.

“Tell me about summers here,” Liza said, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. “You said you spent them with your uncle’s family?”

Grant’s expression softened with memory. “Every July and August from the time I was thirteen until I went to college. My parents…they fought a lot. Loud, ugly fights that left the house feeling like a war zone. So they’d pack me off to Uncle Ray’s ranch outside Laurel Valley, and for two months I got to pretend I had a different life.”

“That must have been hard. Being sent away.”

“At first, yeah. Felt like I was the problem they needed to solve. But Uncle Ray and Aunt Martha, they made me feel wanted. Like I belonged there.” He took a sip of coffee. “And then there was Blaze.”

“Tell me about him. About you two as kids.”

Grant’s mouth curved into a smile. “He was everything I wasn’t. Confident, fearless, completely comfortable in his own skin. I was this skinny city kid who didn’t know anything about horses or ranching or surviving in the mountains. Blaze took one look at me and decided I was his project for the summer.”

“What did he teach you?”

“Everything. How to ride a horse without falling off. How to fish in the river. How to read the forest—which plants were edible, which tracks belonged to which animals, how to find your way using the stars.” Grant’s voice went soft. “But more than that, he taught me what it felt like to have a real friend. Someone who had your back no matter what. Someone who didn’t judge you for where you came from or what your parents were like.”

Liza heard the emotion beneath the words. “You loved him.”

“Like a brother. Still do.” Grant looked at her. “That’s what the O’Haras do. They take you in, make you family, and then they never let you go. Once you’re theirs, you’re theirs forever.”

“Is that what you want? To be theirs?”

“I want to belong somewhere again. To have people who know me, who count on me, who I can count on.” His gaze held hers. “I want Sunday dinners that are loud and chaotic. I want to coach Little League and help with barn raisings and know my neighbors’ names. All the things I thought I didn’t care about anymore.”