Page 2 of Atonement Trail
She returned to the Barracuda, focusing on the engine that gleamed like jewelry under the hood. This was what she was good at—taking something broken and making it whole, bringing the dead back to life, creating beauty from rust and neglect.
The rumble of a truck in the parking lot made her look up. Seven o’clock—Ralph arriving for his shift, right on time. Soon the garage would fill with noise and work and the comfortable chaos of a business day.
Dylan tucked the envelope back in her pocket as Ralph burst through the door, his energy preceding him like a wave.
“Morning, sunshine!” he called out, his voice echoing in the empty space. His walrus mustache twitched with amusement. “Beat me here again. You trying to make the rest of us look bad?”
“Sleep is overrated,” Dylan said, falling into their familiar banter.
Ralph was somewhere north of fifty, had been turning wrenches for thirty years, and treated everyone in the garage like they were part of his extended family. His salt-and-pepper hair was already escaping from under his cap.
“You finish the Morrison car?” He came over to admire the Barracuda, letting out a low whistle. “Man, that paint job is perfect. She’s going to flip.”
“That’s the idea.”
“You ever think about opening your own restoration shop?” Ralph asked, running his hand along the car’s lines. “You’re too good to be working for someone else.”
The envelope seemed to burn in her pocket. “Maybe someday.”
“You’ve been saying that for two years.” He grabbed his coveralls from his locker. “Danny and I have a bet going. He thinks you’ll be here forever. I think you’ve got bigger plans.”
If only he knew she’d been saying maybe someday in every shop she’d ever worked in. It was easier than saying the truth—that she didn’t know how to stop moving long enough to build something permanent.
“Speaking of Danny, where is he?” she asked, deflecting.
“Running late. His baby kept him up all night. Teething or something.” Ralph stroked his mustache sympathetically. “Thank God my kids are grown. I’d forgotten what those sleepless nights were like until he started coming in looking like the walking dead.”
Dylan smiled despite herself. Ralph had three grown kids and five grandkids, and his toolbox was plastered with their pictures. Roots. Family. The kind of permanence that both terrified and fascinated her.
The bell on the wall phone rang, shrill in the morning quiet. Dylan answered it, half listening to Mrs. Morrison confirming the four o’clock pickup time for the Barracuda. Her voice was so excited, so full of anticipation for the surprise she was giving her husband.
“He’s going to cry,” Mrs. Morrison confided. “He sold that car to pay for our daughter’s college. Broke his heart, but he never complained. He deserves to have it back.”
After Dylan hung up, she stood looking at the Barracuda. A car that had been sold for love, restored for love, given back in love. The kind of story that made her chest ache with want for something she’d never had. Something she’d stopped believing she could have.
At exactly seven fifteen, Aidan O’Hara’s truck pulled into the parking lot.
Dylan didn’t need to look up to know it was him. She knew the sound of that engine like she knew her own heartbeat—a 1967 F-100 he’d restored himself, painted deep blue like the lake in summer. She knew he’d park in the same spot he always did, three spaces from the door. Knew he’d check his phone before getting out, probably deleting messages from women he’d disappointed by not calling back.
Five years of this routine. Five years of pretending she didn’t time her coffee breaks to coincide with his. Five years of casually asking Ralph about Aidan’s weekend plans, then making sure she had somewhere else to be when he mentioned dinner reservations at Lakeside Lodge or drinks at the new wine bar that catered to the resort crowd. Aidan never lacked for company. He was a social creature by nature, the complete opposite of her. Which is why her attraction to him would only ever be a fantasy.
The door opened, and October air swept in, carrying the scent of cedar and mountain air. Aidan moved through the world like he owned it, and maybe he did. The O’Haras were Laurel Valley, their name on half the businesses downtown. They belonged here in a way Dylan never would, their roots so deep they’d become part of the mountain itself.
“Morning, Dylan,” he called out, and she had to look up, had to meet those green eyes that made her forget every perfectly logical reason she should take the Seattle job.
“Morning.” She kept her voice neutral, professional, safe.
He started toward her bay, that easy stride that ate up ground without seeming to hurry. Five years, and her pulse still did that stupid skip when he smiled at her like they shared a secret. Five years of being quietly, hopelessly in love with a man who went through women like restoration projects—he gave them intense focus until they were fixed, then it was on to the next challenge.
“The Barracuda looks incredible,” he said, stopping at a safe distance but still close enough that she could smell his soap—something piney and clean that made her think of mountain mornings. “Morrison’s going to lose it.”
“That’s the idea.” Dylan forced herself to focus on the engine, adjusting something that didn’t need adjusting.
“Hey, did you get my text about the book club Thursday?” He leaned against the workbench in that way that made his shoulders look broader. “Sophie keeps asking if you’re coming. She said you promised and it’s time you do something besides spend all your time at the shop.”
She had promised, three weeks ago in a moment of weakness when Sophie had been particularly persistent and Dylan had been particularly tired of saying no to everything that might make her feel like she belonged here.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” she said.
