Page 2 of Forgiveness River

Raven hurried over, taking half the stack from Sophie’s arms, feeling the comforting weight of the books in her hands.

“Thanks for the rescue,” Sophie said. “I was about ten seconds away from a literary avalanche.”

The banter felt normal, grounding. For a moment, Raven could pretend that the rest of her life felt equally solid.

They maneuvered the books to the back door of the shop, where Sophie balanced her stack precariously with one hand while fishing for her keys with the other.

“How do you have this much energy this early?” Raven asked. “Please tell me you’re hiding gallons of caffeine somewhere in your bag.”

“I got my fix from The Lampstand,” Sophie said, finally getting the door open with a triumphant “Ha!” that echoed in the alley. “Simone’s experimenting with some new hazelnut blend that might actually be worth committing minor crimes for. I can send Freddie to grab you one if you’ve got time.”

Raven set the books down on the counter just inside the doorway, inhaling the scent of paper and possibility that defined The Reading Nook. Sophie had created a haven here—books organized by mood rather than strict alphabetical order, reading nooks tucked into corners with plush chairs that invited lingering, and always, always, fresh flowers by the register.

“I should probably get to the boutique,” Raven said, regret genuine in her voice. “New summer shipment arrived yesterday, and if I don’t get those sundresses displayed, how will the tourists know they absolutely need them?”

Sophie set her own stack down and turned, studying Raven’s face with the perceptive gaze that made her both a wonderful friend and occasionally unnerving companion. Her expression shifted from playful to concerned in the space of a heartbeat.“Everything okay? You’ve got your ‘I’m fine’ face on, but your eyes are doing that thing.”

“What thing?” Raven asked, instantly defensive, one hand rising to touch her carefully applied eye makeup.

“That sad sparkly thing, like you’re two seconds from either crying or stabbing someone with your earrings.” Sophie’s voice gentled, though her gaze remained steady. “You don’t have to talk about it, but I’m here if you need to.”

The genuine concern in Sophie’s voice nearly broke through Raven’s carefully constructed façade. For a fleeting moment, she considered unburdening herself—telling Sophie about the late nights, the unexplained absences, the growing suspicion that Wyatt was keeping something from her. Something big enough to drive a wedge between them.

The words hovered, dangerous and tempting, on the tip of her tongue.

Wyatt had been honest about his DEA work when they first met—it was part of what had drawn her to him, his dedication to stopping the flow of drugs into communities like Laurel Valley. But the “consulting” jobs Blaze had brought him in on recently had transformed into something else entirely. The “overtime” work had gradually consumed him, leaving less and less of the man she’d married.

The trust between them, once as solid as the mountains that cradled their town, had developed hairline fractures that threatened to become chasms.

“Just tired. Inventory season, you know?” she said instead, offering a bright smile that felt stretched too thin across her face. “Nothing a gallon of coffee and some retail therapy won’t fix.”

Sophie didn’t look convinced. Her eyes—warm brown and too perceptive by half—narrowed slightly, but she nodded, respecting the boundary Raven had drawn. “Well, my door’s always open. And I’ve got wine in the back office foremergencies.” She paused, then added, “Whatever’s going on, Raven, you’re not alone in it. Remember that.”

The simple assurance wrapped around Raven like a quilt on a winter night, unexpected warmth when she’d been braced for cold.

“I know,” she said, squeezing Sophie’s arm gratefully, the connection of skin on skin a reminder of the bonds that existed beyond her troubled marriage. “Rain check on that coffee? I promise I’ll swing by later.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Sophie said, turning to go back to her car for more books, her movements efficient despite her small stature.

As Raven walked the short distance to her boutique, she felt both lighter and heavier. The warmth of friendship was a comfort, but it also highlighted what was missing at home. She glanced at her phone again—still no message from Wyatt. The screen remained stubbornly, accusingly blank.

For a brief moment, a prickling sensation crept up the back of her neck, that peculiar feeling of being watched. Her pulse quickened as her gaze swept the plaza, landing on a man in expensive hiking gear sitting at one of the outdoor café tables.

He appeared absorbed in his phone and coffee, the mirrored sunglasses perched on his nose reflecting the morning light. Nothing unusual about that—tourists in performance outerwear that had never seen a trail were commonplace in Laurel Valley this time of year.

When she looked more closely, she realized he wasn’t even facing her direction. The breath she hadn’t realized she was holding escaped in a soft sigh. She shook her head slightly, annoyed at her own paranoia. The strain in her marriage was clearly affecting her in ways she hadn’t anticipated, making her jumpy and suspicious of ordinary tourists enjoying their vacations.

With practiced movements, she unlocked the front door of Raven Layne Boutique and stepped inside. The familiar scent of her shop—a mixture of fine fabrics, subtle designer perfume, and the essential oils she diffused—welcomed her in, wrapping around her like an embrace.

Here, at least, she knew exactly who she was and what she was doing. Here, luxury fabrics and exclusive designs obeyed her direction, inventory from Milan and Paris arrived when scheduled, and elite clientele responded predictably to her carefully curated collections. Here, she was still fully herself—Raven Layne, businesswoman, fashion curator, the woman who had created a destination that both locals and wealthy visitors sought out for statement pieces they couldn’t find elsewhere.

She ran her fingers across a display of imported silk scarves, each one selected for its exquisite craftsmanship and luxurious feel. This space was a reflection of her vision, her impeccable taste, her understanding of what affluent visitors to Laurel Valley desired when they stepped off the slopes and into her high-end boutique.

The boutique was her creation, as solid and true as her marriage had once been.

As she moved toward the back office to prepare for opening, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, heart leaping with stupid, stubborn hope.

A text from Wyatt. Finally.

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