Page 103 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

Brielle’s mouth hangs open. Her face slowly drains of color. “No. You can’t.”

If I wasn’t so tired, I might enjoy this moment a little more. But I don’t care about me right now. I just want to be with Lexie. How can I repair the damage I’ve caused?

“It’s done. We no longer have the authority to build a mine in the Soren Creek watershed. And I’m going to make sure Hemery Tate cleans up the mess.”

“Those divorce papers I signed yesterday are going into the shredder.”

“I know,” I say, trying to keep my cool. “But is that what you really want? What about your future? Don’t you want to fall in love someday? Have a family?”

Brielle heaves a long sigh, and I have to give her credit—at least she’s listening.

“Is that what you want?” she asks in a soft voice.

A bright, vibrant warmth rises through me, and I can’t help but smile. Maybe this makes me a fool, but I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. “Yes, it is.”

“What about your mom and sisters?”

“They’re going to be okay.” I’ve been saving since Hemery Tate began turning profits. Without the Soren Creek mine payout, it won’t be the fortune I’d hoped to turn over, but according to my phone call with them an hour ago, it’s enough.

“You’re going to throw all of this away? For what? Some fleeting shot at love? Why, Dawson? You and I both know that love doesn’t last.”

She might be right. I don’t even know if repairing the damage I’ve done to Lexie is even possible, or where we go from here. But I have to try.

“We had a good run, Brielle. But it’s over.” I step past her and open the door to Quinn’s room. Behind me, Brielle huffs. The tapping of her heels on the linoleum fades as she hurries off.

“Hey, pardner,” I say.

Quinn’s sitting sideways on the bed with a bandage over his right ear. He’s dressed in a pair of hospital pants, nonslip socks, and a long-sleeved t-shirt. I told them to throw his original clothing away, and I can’t wait to do the same with mine.

“Hey. Where’s Lexie?” he asks.

A nurse enters the room pushing a wheelchair.

“She’s with her family,” I say to Quinn.

The nurse parks the wheelchair next to Quinn and gives him a bright smile. “Ready to get out of here?”

Quinn’s anxious gaze drifts from mine.

He’s got some ringing in his ear from a busted eardrum and a mild concussion, but he should heal just fine.

I don’t know if it’ll be that easy for us.

I walk beside the nurse holding Quinn’s discharge papers and instructions. He doesn’t remember getting hit from behind, but the doctor said it was most likely a tool or a piece of machinery. We’ll probably never know.

Based on the questions Sheriff Kaufmann and his posse fired at me, I’m convinced that someone else was in the camp. Someone who wasn’t afraid to sacrifice three innocent lives. Deb’s research on Kalle Jensen stalled after she successfully tracked the name to a stolen ID from Spokane, Washington, two years ago.

Was this impostor responsible for what happened? Ecoterrorists can be brazen and callous, but they’re not known for murder.

If the goal was to defend Soren Creek, that’s an extreme way of making a point.

We pass through the hospital’s main doors to the curb. If the lumberjack taxi driver is surprised at our condition, he keeps it to himself.

The nurse cautions Quinn not to drive until he’s been approved. Then she scrutinizes me and frowns. “The same goes for you.”

I’m sure I look like a walking disaster. My pants are now shorts thanks to the paramedic who cut them to get to my burns. Thick bandages dot my forearms where I smothered Lexie’s burning hair. I’ve managed to wash my face but not the rest of me.

“Yes, ma’am.”

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