Chapter 21
Caleb
I lead the way to my truck and open the passenger door for her. Her perfume—something subtle with notes of amber and something spicy—surrounds me briefly as she slides past. For a moment, I’m transported back to the other morning when I woke with her curled against me, her head on my shoulder. The memory sends warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with the truck’s heater and everything to do with how she felt in my arms.
“So this surprise,” she says as I climb into the driver’s seat, “is it in Pinecrest? Because I’m not sure I’m up for running into the mayor after what we learned today.”
I shake my head, starting the engine. “We’re going in the opposite direction. There’s a place about thirty minutes from here that I was told about yesterday. It’s... special.”
She settles back in her seat, smiling, “Special how?”
“You’ll see,” I reply, enjoying the way curiosity plays across her features. “How’s your throat feeling?” I ask, remembering how Danny pressed his arm against it. I wanted to break his jaw for breathing the same air as she did.
Her fingers drift unconsciously to her neck. “Better. Just a little tender now.”
The drive takes us away from Pinecrest, following winding roads through snow-covered forests. We talk easily about small things—nothing about treasures or century-old conspiracies. Just normal conversation, the kind people have when they’re getting to know each other. I learn that she loves thunderstorms but hates lightning, that she speaks passable Spanish from a year spent in Barcelona, and that she once broke her arm falling out of a tree while rescuing her neighbor’s cat.
In turn, I tell her about growing up with Jake, about my years in special forces, about my passion for woodworking that I’ve had no time to indulge in since coming to Jake’s. It’s the most I’ve talked about myself in years, but with Lana, it feels natural.
As we crest a hill, a small valley opens before us, and at its center, a collection of warm lights glows against the darkening sky.
“What is this place?” she asks, leaning forward.
“It’s called Mountain Ridge Lodge,” I explain, turning onto a narrow drive lined with lanterns. “It’s a family-run restaurant and inn that’s been here for generations. The chef trained in Montreal, but came home to run the place when his parents retired.”
“How did you find it?”
“Connor told me about it. He and Mia found it when they first came to Wolf Creek.”
I park in the small lot beside the historic-looking log building. Warm light spills from its windows, and I can see a stone fireplace blazing through the glass. The sign above the door is hand-carved wood, weathered but well-maintained.
“It’s beautiful,” Lana says as I help her from the truck, her hand lingering in mine.
“Wait until you see inside,” I reply, guiding her toward the entrance. “I just know that the pictures online didn’t do it justice.”
The interior is everything a mountain lodge should be—stone and timber, a soaring ceiling with exposed beams, and that massive fireplace dominating one wall. It all reminds me of the home that Lana shares with Kori and Kane, Wolf Creek Lodge. The dining area is intimate, just twelve tables well-spaced for privacy, most of them occupied by couples speaking in hushed tones.
“Are you Caleb?” I nod as a burly man with a salt-and-pepper beard approaches, hand extended. “Connor said you might be coming by. He and Mia were here just last night.”
“Henri? Connor has told me all about your wonderful establishment,” I greet him, shaking his hand. “This is Lana.”
Henri’s eyes crinkle warmly as he takes her in. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. Your table is ready—the best in the house, as requested.”
He leads us to a secluded corner table near the fireplace set in front of a huge window, partially hidden by a stone partition that creates the illusion of dining alone. A single candle flickers at the center of our white tablecloth, its flame reflected in the window glass, while a bottle of wine rests in a chiller, waiting.
Through the window, I glimpse a winter garden where string lights twine through dormant rose arbors, casting pools of gold against the snow. Stone pathways curve between sleeping flower beds, each outlined by tiny blue solar lamps like a blueprint of summer’s promise. “This is perfect,” Lana says as I hold her chair. “How did you arrange all this on such short notice?”
I sit across from her, the firelight playing across her features. “I called yesterday. Before... everything that happened today.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “You planned this before I even agreed to have dinner?”
“I was hopeful,” I admit, feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I wanted to have something special lined up, just in case you said yes.”
A soft smile curves her lips. “That’s very optimistic of you.”
“More like determined,” I reply, holding her gaze. “Some things are worth taking a chance on. If you hadn’t agreed to dinner, I planned to kidnap you and take you to KFC.”
She laughs. “Well, I’m decidedly happy that I accepted your invitation,” she says, shooting me an impish grin as Henri returns with two menus, handing each of us one. He proceeds to uncork the wine with practiced efficiency and pour two glasses, “I’ll send Sadie over to take your order.”
