Page 27 of Revival in Laurel Valley

“Why is it called Forgiveness River?”

“Old legend from when Laurel Valley was founded.” Grant’s voice took on the cadence of a story told many times. “Two families came here from Ireland in 1847—the O’Haras and the Hamiltons. They’d had a blood feud going back generations, brought it with them across the ocean.”

“Let me guess. Star-crossed lovers?”

“Close. It was winter, brutal cold. One of the Hamilton kids—maybe seven or eight years old—was playing on the frozen river and fell through the ice. An O’Hara saw it happen, jumped in without thinking, pulled the kid out and saved his life.” Grant’s eyes were warm. “After that, the families declared the feud over. Said that anyone willing to risk their life for their enemy’s child deserved forgiveness. They called it Forgiveness River because that’s where old grudges died and new friendships began. The O’Haras and the Hamiltons still own the same land today.”

“That’s beautiful.” Liza felt tears prick at her eyes. “This whole place—it’s built on second chances, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I think it is.”

The afternoon passed quickly. They shared stories from their childhoods, their first loves, their greatest fears. Grant told her about the mentor who’d taught him to be a good cop, about the cases that had broken his heart, about the night his parents died in a car accident and he’d had to identify their bodies.

Liza told him about her first bakery job in Vancouver, about the time she’d traveled alone through Southeast Asia for six months, about the moment she’d caught Richard in bed with another woman and felt her whole future crumble.

“I thought I’d have to start over from nothing,” she said, lying on the bunk with her head on his chest. “Thought I’d lost everything.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. I found something better.” She tilted her head to look at him. “I found me. The real me, not the version I thought I was supposed to be. And then I found you.”

Grant’s arm tightened around her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Later, Grant helped her outside to the porch. The afternoon sun was warm despite the cold air, and Liza sat on the steps wrapped in a blanket while Grant checked the perimeter. When he was satisfied they were alone, he sat beside her.

“Tell me another story,” Liza said. “About you and Blaze.”

Grant’s eyes grew distant. “There’s this place called Mirror Lake—way up in the mountains, maybe an hour’s hike from here. It’s effortlessly still, like glass, and it reflects the whole valley. On a clear day, you can see all the way from Twin Peaks to the town, all of it doubled in the water. That’s why they call it Mirror Lake.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

“It is. But the real treasure is the ruins. There’s an old chapel up there—just stone walls now, no roof. Built in the 1880s by some of the original settlers, burned down in 1945. Lightning strike, they said. But the altar and the walls are still standing.”

“You and Blaze went there?”

“Every summer. We’d pack food, hike up there, spend the whole day exploring. We’d pretend we were archaeologists discovering ancient ruins, or knights defending a castle.” He smiled at the memory. “Blaze always said the place was sacred. That you could feel the prayers of all the people who’d worshiped there, still lingering in the stones.”

“Do you believe that?” Liza asked. “That places can hold on to the past like that?”

“I don’t know. But I know that place felt special. Peaceful.” He pulled her closer. “There’s a stone near the altar where Blaze and I carved our initials when we were fourteen. We swore we’d always be friends, no matter where life took us. That we’d come back someday and our names would still be there, proof that we’d existed, that we’d mattered.”

“He kept that promise,” Liza said softly. “He’s here for you now.”

“Yeah. He is.”

The second day dawned bright and impossibly cold. Frost covered the windows in delicate patterns that looked like ferns and feathers. Grant got the fire going while Liza watched from the warmth of the blankets, admiring the play of muscle beneath his skin as he moved.

“You’re staring,” he said without turning around.

“Can you blame me?”

They spent the morning wrapped around each other in the bunk, talking in whispers about the future they were building in their minds.

“I want a dog,” Liza said, her head on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. “A big one. Something that will hike with us in the mountains and sleep by the fire and make the house feel like home.”