Page 1 of Atonement Trail
Chapter One
October mornings in Laurel Valley arrived like old friends—familiar, comforting, and carrying stories in every shadow. Dylan Flanagan left her apartment above Millicent’s Antiques at five thirty, when the town belonged to ghosts and memories and people like her who preferred their solitude served with sunrise.
The cobblestone streets gleamed with dew, treacherous under her worn boots but beautiful in the way that dangerous things often were. The Bavarian-style buildings stood like something from a children’s book—peaked roofs and painted shutters, window boxes that would soon transition from autumn mums to winter greens, every detail carefully maintained to sell the illusion that this had always been an Alpine village rather than a mining town that had learned to survive by becoming something else entirely.
Dylan pulled her jacket tighter against the mountain air that carried hints of woodsmoke and the coming winter. Five years of these morning walks, and she still wasn’t sure if she was walking toward something or away from it. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe just walking because movement felt like progress even when you were traveling in circles.
Heavenly Delights Bakery sat on the corner like a promise of warmth, its curved glass windows dark but welcoming. Rose always left a thermos outside for the early shift workers—the ones who kept Laurel Valley running while the tourists slept. Black coffee, strong enough to wake the dead, with a trust box for payment that had never once come up short in the thirty years Rose had been doing this.
Dylan poured her coffee into her travel mug, left her three dollars in the box, and continued down Main Street. The Reading Nook’s restored stained-glass window caught the first hint of dawn, throwing prisms across the sidewalk like scattered hopes. Sophie O’Hara had rebuilt after the fire two years ago, and the bookstore was now the crown jewel of downtown, proof that broken things could be made beautiful again. Sometimes.
Past Raven’s boutique with its mannequins dressed for lives Dylan would never lead—cashmere and confidence, designer bags that cost more than her monthly rent. Past The Lampstand, where Simone O’Hara would already be in the kitchen, starting the pot roast that would simmer all day, filling downtown with the scent of home cooking that made tourists believe they’d found authentic mountain life.
The town square stood empty, the gazebo that hosted summer concerts now decorated with pumpkins and corn stalks for the Harvest Festival next week. The old skating rink had been drained for the season, leaves gathering in its basin like collected memories. Come December, it would be filled again, and the massive Christmas tree would go up, and Laurel Valley would transform into the kind of place that existed in snow globes and holiday movies.
Five years she’d been walking these streets. Five years of watching the town change with the seasons while she remained exactly the same—suspended in amber, preserved like one of the antiques in Millicent’s shop window.
The envelope in her jacket pocket pressed against her ribs with each step. Pacific Custom Restoration’s latest offer, delivered yesterday with a deadline that felt more like a countdown. Marcus Rowan had even included photos of the shop—pristine bays, state-of-the-art equipment, a paint booth that made her current setup look like a child’s crayon box.
Her phone buzzed—speak of the devil. She let it go to voicemail. Marcus would call again. And again. Men like him always did, unable to understand that not everyone was motivated by the same things that drove them.
By the time she reached The Pinnacle Garage, the sky had shifted from black to deep purple, the mountains emerging from darkness like slowly developing photographs. The garage occupied a converted warehouse on the edge of downtown’s deliberately maintained charm, its modern lines a stark contrast to the Bavarian fantasy behind her.
She unlocked the side door with her key, breathing in the familiar scent of motor oil and metal, possibility and purpose. The lights flickered on, revealing her kingdom—six bays, each one currently occupied, tools arranged with military precision, the concrete floor so clean you could perform surgery on it.
Her corner called to her—the 1970 Plymouth Barracuda she’d been resurrecting for three months sat there like a purple jewel, waiting for the final touches that would bring it back to life. She’d always been able to see what it could be beneath the rust and neglect.
She ran her hand along the hood, checking the paint she’d applied yesterday. Perfect. Plum Crazy purple, exactly as Chrysler had made it in 1970, with a white racing stripe that ran down the center like lightning frozen in time. Mrs. Morrison would cry when she saw it—they always did when they saw their past restored, made better than memory.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. She could resurrect dead cars but couldn’t seem to fix her own life. Couldn’t stop herself from checking the time, knowing that in exactly one hour and forty-five minutes, Aidan O’Hara would walk through that door, and her carefully controlled world would tilt on its axis the way it did every morning at seven fifteen.
Dylan grabbed her creeper and slid under the Barracuda, checking the fuel line one more time. The undercarriage told its own story—decades of Montana winters, salt scarred and weather beaten, now restored to better than new. She’d sweet-talked old-timers from here to New Mexico for original parts, haunted junkyards like a grieving relative, learned the exact pressure required to wet sand paint until it became liquid color.
Her phone rang again. This time she pulled herself out from under the car and answered, if only to stop the insistent buzzing.
“It’s not even seven, Marcus.”
“Dylan, finally.” His voice carried that particular Seattle intensity—urgent, caffeinated, important. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I’ve been working.” She wiped her hands on a shop rag, already knowing where this conversation was heading. “The answer’s still the same.”
“You haven’t heard the new offer.”
“I don’t need to?—”
“Ten thousand signing bonus.” He paused, letting the number settle between them like a challenge. “Plus full relocation, your own restoration bay, and first pick of projects. You’d be lead specialist, Dylan. The work you’d be doing—museum-quality restorations, cars that belong in collections. Not just keeping tourists’ rentals running.”
Dylan closed her eyes. Ten thousand dollars. That was a lot of money. She could stop checking her bank balance before buying groceries. Could maybe even think about a future that consisted of more than just getting through each month.
“I’m driving down today,” Marcus continued. “I’ll be there by noon. Just give me an hour to show you what we’re offering. You’re too talented to be hidden away in a tourist town.”
“Marcus—”
“I’m already in Spokane. Noon, Dylan. The Lampstand. Just lunch and conversation.”
He hung up before she could protest, leaving her standing alone in the garage that suddenly felt smaller than it had five minutes ago.
Through the open bay door, she could see Laurel Valley waking up. The sun had crested the mountains now, turning the town into something from a postcard—perfect, contained, impossibly beautiful. Soon the streets would fill with tourists clutching cameras and lattes, searching for the authentic mountain experience that Laurel Valley had perfected selling them.
