Page 19 of Forgiveness River

A week of Wyatt still coming home late, if at all.

“These are gorgeous,” a tourist gushed, running her hand along one of the scarves on the sidewalk display. “They’d be perfect with that sundress I bought earlier.”

Raven shifted seamlessly into shopkeeper mode, the smile she’d practiced in the mirror that morning sliding into place. “That particular one is hand-dyed by an artist in Portland. No two patterns are exactly alike.”

The customer held the fabric against her skin, tilting her head to catch her reflection in the small mirror Raven had positioned cleverly at the edge of the outdoor display. “It’s like it was made for me.”

“I thought the same thing when I saw it,” Raven agreed, expertly wrapping the purchase in tissue paper after the woman handed over her credit card. “It brings out the blue in your eyes.”

As she handed the bag to the customer, the hairs on the back of Raven’s neck stood up—that peculiar sixth sense that had always alerted her to Wyatt’s presence. She turned toward the crowd, and there he was, moving through the festivalgoers with that familiar purposeful stride.

He wore his tactical gear—the dark navy shirt with the sheriff’s office logo emblazoned across the back stretched across his broad shoulders, cargo pants with that crisp crease down the front, his badge catching the festival lights, and his department-issued hat tucked under his arm. There was something jarring about seeing him this way, as if she’d conjured a version of her husband from the past, before secrets had created chasms between them.

Their eyes met across the busy festival street, and for a moment, the crowd seemed to fade away. Even with everything hanging between them, the sight of him still made her heart stutter in her chest. It wasn’t fair, she thought, that her body could still betray her this way—that the longing could remain so visceral even when trust had been fractured.

She watched as he changed course, heading directly for her booth with that confident stride she’d always found so attractive. Despite herself, her pulse quickened.

“Evening, Mrs. O’Hara,” he said when he reached her, his voice pitched low and intimate. Before she could respond, he leaned across the sidewalk display and brushed his lips against hers in a brief but deliberate kiss.

The casual contact sent electricity racing down her spine, and Raven fought to maintain her composure. This was new—this public display of affection when they’d barely spoken in private for weeks.

“Wyatt,” she managed, painfully aware of the curious glances from locals who’d known them both since childhood. In Laurel Valley, people noticed things—especially when those things involved an O’Hara.

Wyatt’s green eyes held hers, and she saw something there she couldn’t quite interpret—a message he was trying to convey without words.

“Thought I’d stop by on my patrol route,” he said, running a hand along the silk of one of her displayed dresses on the sidewalk rack, his touch reverent in a way that made her remember other nights, other touches. “I bribed the band to play our song at nine. Thought I might steal a dance with the most beautiful woman in Laurel Valley.”

The normalcy of the request, as if nothing had changed between them, made her throat tighten with emotion.

“I close at eight thirty,” she said, hating the breathless quality that had crept into her voice. “I’ll be waiting for you to pick me up.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in that half smile that had always been her undoing. “I’ll be here.”

A dispatcher’s voice crackled over his radio, and he responded with practiced efficiency before turning his attentionback to her. His fingers brushed against hers as he pretended to examine one of the bracelets on display, the contact brief but deliberate.

“Been a long week without you,” he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.

The simple statement struck her like a physical blow. She wanted to ask what he meant—if he was talking about the emotional distance or merely stating a fact about his absences. But before she could form the words, he was pulling away, touching two fingers to the brim of his hat in a gesture that was pure Wyatt.

“Later, then,” he said, louder this time, for the benefit of the teenage girls who had wandered into the booth and were eyeing the handsome agent with unabashed interest.

Raven watched him go, the familiar set of his shoulders, the way he acknowledged people by name as he passed through the crowd. How many times had she observed him this way, pride swelling in her chest at the respect he commanded, at the man she’d chosen? Now, that pride was tangled with confusion, hurt, and a longing that seemed to grow sharper rather than duller with time.

“Your husband is hot,” one of the teenage girls sighed, breaking into Raven’s thoughts.

“Yeah,” Raven agreed, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “He certainly is.”

By nine o’clock, the festival was in full swing. Lanterns cast a golden glow over the revelry as children darted between open shop doors with cotton candy-stained fingers, and couples strolled hand in hand along the closed-off Main Street.

Raven had flipped the “Closed” sign at precisely eight thirty, but she still moved about the boutique, straightening displays that didn’t need straightening, adjusting inventory that was already perfect. She’d reapplied her lipstick twice, smoothed her hair countless times, and had positioned herself by the window so she wouldn’t miss Wyatt’s approach.

At nine, the opening notes of Elvis’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love” drifted through the open door from the central stage. Their song. Wyatt had requested it for their first dance at their wedding, whispering the words in her ear as they swayed together, promising to love her just as those lyrics described—deeply, inevitably, eternally.

Raven couldn’t help swaying slightly to the music, her eyes drifting closed as memories washed over her. This was the song that had been playing the night he’d proposed, the song he’d learned to play for her on guitar one Christmas, the song that had become their own private language of love.

But Wyatt wasn’t here to share it.

“Busy night?” a familiar voice asked, startling her from her reverie.

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