Page 24 of Forgiveness River

“Thanks, Mom,” he said, his throat tight with unspoken words. “I’ll be there soon.”

He hung up and stared at the phone in his hand, contemplating calling Raven one more time. What would he say that he hadn’t already said? The only thing she wanted to hearwas the truth, and that was the one thing he couldn’t give her. Not yet.

With a sigh, he grabbed his keys and the bottle of wine his father liked. Maybe the chaos of family would be a welcome distraction from the silence of home.

The O’Hara family ranch bustled with the familiar Sunday evening energy that had been a constant throughout Wyatt’s life. Even before he reached the front door, he could hear the overlapping voices, the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen, the deeper rumble of his father and brothers laughing about something.

He steeled himself before knocking, plastering on what he hoped was a convincing smile. The door swung open to reveal his mother, her perceptive blue eyes immediately taking inventory of his appearance, missing nothing about her son’s disheveled state.

“You look terrible,” she said without preamble, pulling him into a hug. “Come inside before you miss dinner.”

The familiar atmosphere of the house enveloped him as he stepped across the threshold—the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread, the whirring of ceiling fans fighting the summer heat, the walls lined with family photos chronicling generations of O’Haras. This place had always been his sanctuary. Today, it felt like a witness stand.

“There he is,” Mick called from his favorite chair on the screened porch, raising a glass in greeting. Still handsome in his early sixties with silver hair that had once been black as coal and the piercing blue eyes of his Irish ancestry, Mick O’Hara’simposing presence filled any room he entered. “Just in time. They’re about to come to blows over the best fishing spot.”

“North fork,” Wyatt said automatically, shrugging off his light jacket. “No competition.”

“That’s because you’ve never caught anything decent at Eagle Point,” Duncan countered from the wicker couch, where he sat with his arm around Hattie, a tall glass of iced tea sweating on the table beside him.

As the family artist, his hands were constantly in motion, even now tracing invisible patterns on Hattie’s shoulder as he spoke. “You need patience for the big ones.”

“What he needs is better bait,” Aidan chimed in, emerging from the kitchen with a cold beer in hand. He passed the beer to Wyatt with a questioning look. “Raven parking the car?”

And there it was—the first in what promised to be an evening of uncomfortable questions. Wyatt took a long pull from the beer before answering.

“She’s not feeling well,” he repeated the lie he’d told his mother. “Sends her love to everyone.”

The room fell silent for a beat too long. His brothers exchanged glances, and Wyatt could practically hear the unspoken communication passing between them. The O’Hara network was firing on all cylinders.

“That’s too bad,” Hattie said, breaking the tension. Her hand rested protectively over her growing belly. “I was hoping to get her opinion on the nursery color schemes.”

Grateful for the diversion, Wyatt moved to sit beside her. “I’m sure she’d be happy to help when she’s feeling better. How’s my future niece or nephew doing?”

“Practicing for the Olympics, I think.” Hattie laughed, guiding his hand to feel a strong kick. “Duncan’s convinced it’s a boy.”

“Father’s intuition,” Duncan said confidently.

The conversation shifted to safer territory as more family members filtered in for the weekly tradition. Sunday dinners at the O’Hara ranch were a standing invitation—whoever could make it, did. Some weeks saw nearly every branch of the family tree represented; other times, just the core group gathered. But rain or shine, summer or winter, Anne O’Hara always prepared enough food for an army.

Colt and Zoe arrived with their enormous dog, Chewy, who immediately sought out Wyatt for ear scratches. As Laurel Valley’s most trusted physician, Colt’s medical practice kept him just as busy as Wyatt’s DEA work. His wife, Zoe, came in behind him. Wyatt noted the careful way Colt avoided mentioning Raven, though their eyes met briefly in silent acknowledgment of the secret they shared.

Uncle Tommy and Aunt Simone came through the kitchen door carrying a massive bowl of fresh summer fruit salad and homemade ice cream—Simone never arrived empty handed, even though Anne insisted she didn’t need to bring anything. Simone had been as much a mother figure to the O’Hara boys as Anne herself. Her elegant features were flushed from the summer heat, but her dark eyes missed nothing as they swept the room, taking inventory of who was present—and who wasn’t.

Blaze arrived moments later, still in his uniform, apologizing for being late. “Had to close up some paperwork on those break-ins at the north end,” he explained, accepting a glass of whiskey from Mick. His eyes found Wyatt’s, a subtle nod confirming they needed to talk later.

Ryder, Tommy and Simone’s oldest, slipped in next with his teenage daughter Mac, who immediately made her way to Sophie. Jax came in after her, the youngest child of Tommy and Simone’s five children, and then Sloane, their only daughter, came in last.

Dinner was served in the sprawling dining room, where the absence of Raven at Wyatt’s side was glaringly obvious. The empty chair seemed to grow larger as the meal progressed, becoming the elephant in the room that everyone studiously avoided mentioning.

Until they didn’t.

“So,” Aidan said during a lull in conversation, setting down his fork with deliberate care. “Anyone want to address the fact that Wyatt’s wife has been staying above Colt’s clinic for the past three days, or are we just going to keep pretending everything’s normal?”

Wyatt’s mother shot Aidan a warning look, but the damage was done. All eyes turned to Wyatt, waiting for an explanation.

“Aidan,” Colt said sharply. “Not the time or place.”

“When is the time or place?” Aidan countered. “Our brother looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, his wife is suddenly living elsewhere, and we’re supposed to just pass the potatoes and make small talk?”

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