Page 8 of Atonement Trail
“Saturday?” Ralph’s mustache twitched with interest. “What’s happening Saturday?”
“Dylan’s helping me with a project,” Aidan said smoothly, his professional mask sliding back into place. “Family thing.”
“Family thing,” Ralph repeated, his tone suggesting he wasn’t buying it for a second. “Well, don’t let me interrupt your…family thing discussion.”
Aidan headed toward his office, leaving Dylan to face Ralph’s knowing grin alone.
“Not a word,” she warned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ralph said cheerfully, then immediately launched into an operatic rendition of “Some Enchanted Evening” that followed her all the way back under the Bentley.
But as Dylan returned to work, her mind kept circling back to the puzzle. Where iron horses once ran free. Before the mountain came to be. There was something familiar about the phrasing, something that tickled the edge of memory like a word you couldn’t quite recall.
She thought about Patrick O’Hara, about the way he’d told stories that made you lean in despite yourself. He’d talked about the old days sometimes, about how Laurel Valley had changed, how the railroad had brought prosperity and then abandonment in equal measure. There’d been a story about a mountain that wasn’t a mountain, about a hill that had been renamed when the ski resort developers arrived, seeing profit in what had once been just another piece of the landscape.
O’Hara’s Peak. That’s what they called it now, the ski runs that brought thousands of tourists every winter. But Patrick had called it something else once, when he’d been telling her about the early days. What was it?
Her phone buzzed. Marcus Rowan, politely requesting a decision.
Dylan looked at the text, then at the garage around her—Ralph now singing to his tools, Danny arriving with new pictures of his daughter, the familiar rhythm of a Monday morning at The Pinnacle. Through the window, she could see Aidan in his office, frowning at paperwork with the same concentration he brought to everything that mattered to him.
She thought about Patrick O’Hara’s treasure hunt, about family heirlooms and hidden rings and the way Aidan had said “everything except figuring out what actually matters.”
Maybe that’s what this was really about. Not just finding a ring, but finding what mattered. And maybe, just maybe, helping Aidan search for his grandfather’s treasure would help her find her own answer about whether to stay or go.
Dylan typed a response to Marcus: I appreciate your offer and your patience. I need until next Monday to give you a proper answer. This is my home, and leaving isn’t a decision I take lightly.
His response came quickly: Of course. Take the time you need. Good mechanics are worth waiting for, but great ones—the kind who can make a ’70 Barracuda sing—they’re worth whatever time they need.
Dylan smiled at the screen. He’d done his homework, knew about the Barracuda. That was either impressive or slightly unsettling, but either way, it reminded her that she had something valuable to offer. She wasn’t just another mechanic looking for a better paycheck. She was an artist, and her work had caught the attention of someone who recognized its worth.
She tucked her phone away and got back to work on the Bentley, her mind already turning over Patrick’s riddle. Where iron horses once ran free. There was an answer there, waiting to be discovered, just like there was an answer to her own puzzle about staying or leaving.
Saturday couldn’t come fast enough. Not because she was eager to spend time with Aidan—well, not just because of that—but because maybe, in helping him find what his grandfather had hidden, she’d finally figure out what she’d been searching for all along.
Chapter Four
Saturday morning arrived dressed in fog, the mountains invisible behind veils of white that turned Laurel Valley into something from a fairy tale—mysterious, ethereal, holding its breath for what might happen next. Dylan reached the Pine Ridge turnout at seven forty-five, fifteen minutes early because she’d been awake since four, her mind refusing to quiet its endless circling around riddles and rings and the dangerous territory of hope.
She’d spent the week diving into research during her lunch breaks, haunting the historical society’s archives like a woman possessed. Mrs. Whitfield, the elderly librarian who guarded the archives with the ferocity of a dragon protecting gold, had eventually warmed to her quest, pulling out documents that hadn’t seen daylight in decades.
“The O’Haras,” Mrs. Whitfield had said, her voice carrying the reverence reserved for founding families, “came here when there was nothing but wilderness and possibility. Two brothers from County Sligo, following stories of land that looked like home.”
The documents told a story Dylan had only heard fragments of—how those two O’Hara brothers had arrived in 1847, when Idaho was still untamed territory, when Laurel Valley was nothing but a dream waiting to be named. They’d claimed land that reminded them of Ireland, with its own mountain and lake, its own harsh beauty that could break your heart or make your fortune depending on how you approached it.
Standing now in the fog-wrapped morning, waiting for Aidan, Dylan thought about those first O’Haras. What kind of courage did it take to leave everything behind, to stake your claim on land that didn’t even have proper maps yet? They’d built their first shelter with their own hands, turned wilderness into ranch land, raised families who would become the backbone of a town that didn’t exist yet.
The irony wasn’t lost on her—here she was, afraid to commit to a place that had been civilized for over a century, while the O’Haras had committed to raw land with nothing but hope and determination.
Thursday night had come and gone without her attending the book club. Sophie had texted her twice—once to remind her, once to ask if she was okay—and Dylan had stared at those messages with the guilt of someone who’d forgotten something that mattered. But how could she explain that she’d been so lost in thoughts of treasure hunts and job offers that she’d forgotten about the one social commitment she’d actually made?
The truth sat heavy in her chest: Marcus Rowan’s offer wasn’t really the issue. What she wanted—what she’d always wanted since she’d started turning wrenches beside her father—was her own shop. A place where she could take her time, where every restoration could be art instead of just repair. But that dream required money she didn’t have, credit she couldn’t get, and a faith in permanence she’d never learned to cultivate.
Aidan’s truck materialized through the fog at exactly eight o’clock, its headlights cutting through the white like lighthouse beams guiding ships to safety. He parked beside her Charger, and through the mist-softened glass, she watched him check his reflection in the mirror, smoothing his hair in a gesture so unconsciously vain and oddly vulnerable that her heart performed a complicated maneuver in her chest.
“Morning,” he called, climbing out with a thermos and bakery bag that released the scent of cinnamon and possibility into the cool morning air. “I brought reinforcements.”
“Rose’s apple cider donuts?”
