Page 18 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

“Drift boat, river boat, yes. Ocean vessel, no.”

“I get seasick on the ocean.” I fork a bite of my potato salad. It’s the German kind, made with bacon and a mustardy vinaigrette I could eat with a spoon.

“It’s true,” Dawson says, eyeing me warily, as if I might hurl any moment. “Let’s stick with rivers. And the glacier thing.”

“How about music?” I ask. That little tune Dawson was humming earlier is a sign, one I intend to nurture back to life.

Lexie’s eyes light up. “Like live music?”

“Yeah, or festivals?” I nibble on a corner of my roast beef sandwich.

“The Pelican has live music Friday nights, and I’m sure there are live shows elsewhere. My brother Jared plays at a bluegrass festival in Silver City every summer, but I don’t know when.”

“Bluegrass, huh?” Dawson taps the table with the side of his thumb. He gives me a knowing glance. “That could be fun.”

I smile, satisfied. He may think his music career is over, but I disagree.

“Got it,” Lexie says. “You want me to plan something every day, or just some days?”

“How about every other morning and evening? That’ll leave us plenty of time for what we need to accomplish. Did you find us a driver?”

“I wish I could rent us an electric vehicle, but they aren’t available yet. I managed to borrow my brother Cooper’s truck. At least it’s a diesel.”

I swallow the hard knot in my throat. That she cares about our use of fossil fuels brings up conflicting emotions I don’t want to think about right now. “How many brothers do you have, anyway?”

“Too many,” she replies with a shake of her head.

“Did you find a chef?”

“If you aren’t picky, I have that solved too.”

“We’re only picky about certain things,” Dawson says. “Food isn’t one of them.”

If Lexie catches this meaning, she doesn’t let on. “Then I think we have everything handled.”

Dawson and I exchange a glance, and though it’s lightning fast, I read the humor in his eyes.

It gives me hope that my friend is finally coming back to me.

* * *

“Music?”Dawson asks as we are buzzed through the gate of the marina.

“Why not?” I pretend to focus on the impressive assortment of boats—sailboats, crabbing boats, Boston Whalers, but mostly salmon fishing boats.

“It’s only a hobby,” he says in a low tone.

“I know,” I say easily.

We cross the street and skirt the marina’s parking lot to the south pier, where several float planes are parked. Inside Kenai Air’s tiny office, we sign the paperwork for our flight and walk down the floating dock to the big yellow float plane at the end.

“Morning,” our pilot calls as he steps down to one of the pontoons before jumping onto the dock. The bright sun highlights his thick white hair and mustache and his bright blue eyes.

“You must be Quinn and Dawson. I’m Ken Adams.” He offers his hand, and we shake while he glances between us, a curious look on his face. “You two brothers?”

I laugh. “Not by blood.”

Ken nods. “Got it. Ready?”

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