Page 8 of Revival in Laurel Valley

He stayed with Liza, one hand on her shoulder, willing her to wake up.

An ambulance arrived at the vehicle access point, and paramedics came running with their equipment. Within minutes, they were assessing Blaze, preparing to transport him.

Colt appeared in the bakery doorway, his hands bloody from treating his cousin. He knelt beside Liza with the calm efficiency of someone who’d seen his share of trauma.

“Talk to me,” he said, already examining her. “What happened?”

“Debris hit her in the head when I pulled her down. She’s been out maybe fifteen minutes.”

Colt’s hands moved quickly—checking pupils, pulse, the wound on her temple. “Pupils equal and reactive. Strong pulse. Respiration normal.” He carefully probed the wound. “Superficial laceration, no sign of skull fracture. Concussion for sure, but vitals are stable.”

“When will she wake up?”

“Soon, hopefully. Head injuries are unpredictable.” Colt pulled gauze from his bag and replaced the blood-soaked towel with a proper bandage. “The ambulance can only take one to the hospital. Blaze needs surgery for that shoulder. But she needs monitoring for the next twenty-four hours.”

“The hospital’s forty-five minutes away.”

“Exactly.” Colt sat back on his heels. “The apartment above the sheriff’s office—Blaze had it reinforced when he started working undercover ops with the DEA. Bulletproof windows, secure entry. I can monitor her there.”

Grant’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and his blood turned to ice.

Unknown number. A photo of Liza from this morning—arms full of boxes, hair blowing in the wind, walking into the bakery.

Below it: Pretty girl. Would hate for her to have an accident.

He showed Colt the screen.

Colt’s expression hardened. “We need to get her to the apartment. Now.”

Outside, the paramedics were loading Blaze onto a gurney. Grant saw a dark-haired woman running toward them—Lily, Blaze’s wife. Her face was pale but composed as she took her husband’s hand.

“I’m okay,” Blaze was telling her. “It’s just a scratch.”

“You got shot, you idiot.” But her voice was gentle as she brushed his hair back from his face.

Blaze caught Grant’s eye over her shoulder. “Keep her safe.”

“I will.”

Grant scooped Liza into his arms. She was tall, solid, but adrenaline made the weight manageable. Her head lolled against his chest, dark hair falling across his arm.

Colt led the way to the sheriff’s office next door, up the reinforced stairs to the apartment above. The door was solid steel, the lock heavy duty. Inside, the space was simple but comfortable—a leather couch, a small kitchen, a bedroom visible through an open door.

Grant laid Liza carefully on the couch. Colt was already pulling out supplies, checking her vitals again.

“Still stable,” he said. “But she needs to wake up soon.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then we transport her to the hospital too.” Colt looked up. “But let’s give it another thirty minutes before we worry.”

He pulled out antiseptic and fresh gauze. “Your turn. Sit.”

Grant sat in the chair across from the couch, his eyes never leaving Liza’s face. Colt worked efficiently, cleaning the cuts on Grant’s face and hands from the flying glass.

“Lane’s coordinating with state police,” Colt said. “This kind of firepower, this bold of an attack—they’ll want to bring in resources.”

“Good.”