Page 19 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

Once we’re onboard, Dawson in the front and me in one of the two backseats, Ken closes the doors, instructs us on how to work the headset and seatbelts, and settles into his pilot seat.

The engine kicks to life, and we idle toward the open water of the bay. After clearance from marine traffic control, Ken increases the throttle, and we accelerate forward, engines roaring. The smell of the fuel tickles the back of my nostrils as spraying ocean water and scenery fly by the window. Gently, the plane lifts off the surface. My stomach drops as we soar into the sky.

Even though Dawson and I have plenty of money now, I still get excited about stuff like this. There was a time when I didn’t dare to dream. I was too busy trying to survive.

Up in the air, the vast landscape spreads before us like one of those 3D models, the trees like little sticks and the mountains steep and rocky.

Ken flies over the forest edging the bay and turns inland. Giant mountains rise in snowy domes flanked by forested foothills. I’m blown away by how big everything is here. Alaska is more than twice the size of Texas, yet with the landscape of the Swiss Alps, plus more coastline than the entire lower U.S. combined.

When Soren Lake comes into view, I recognize it from the pictures and the maps we’ve studied, but in real life, it’s breathtaking. The lake sparkles like a giant sapphire in the bright sunshine. The lodge and cabins are clustered on the southeast corner of the lake, and I can just make out the narrow trails used by guests to access the many creeks. A row of royal-blue seaplanes lines a floating dock, the metal glinting in the sun.

Ken follows the steep-sided valley to the high country, soaring over the spongy tundra dotted with rocks and patches of melting snow. Using the sketches Bealer-Vollbrecht sent us, I pick out Soren Mountain, which according to the geologists, contains 600 tons of molybdenum and 220 tons of copper, worth over three billion dollars.

Enough for Brielle to build her own empire. Is that what she’s after? Or is it true that she’s vying for attention from foreign interests?

The final step for me and Dawson is securing all the contracts. Supply chains need building, the fiber optic cables and gas power pipeline need coordinating, labor contracts need signing.

Meanwhile the engineers at Bealer-Vollbrecht International need to fix a problem with their proposal. Dawson wants a higher level of safety for the tailings pond. One that accommodates for climate change and the gravelly soil, which could cause leaks.

It’s what happened six years ago in Otter Creek, the last contract Dawson’s daddy brokered before he drank himself to death and forced his bankrupt company on his only son. A tailings pond containing toxic chemicals from the mine breached, releasing a catastrophic flood that destroyed everything in its path and contaminated a pristine watershed for years to come.

Dawson was in a bind. The only way to save his family from ruin was to join forces with his childhood friend and ally, Brielle Hemery. She needed a husband in order to gain a seat in her family’s enterprises, and Dawson needed her savvy business sense and her Rolodex of high rollers. They agreed to stay married until the company was back in the black with the debt paid off, or a total of four years—whichever came first. They rebranded the company as Hemery Tate, and Dawson made a pledge to never let an Otter Creek disaster happen again.

Dawson so badly wanted to trust her, and to her credit, Brielle has pulled Hemery Tate out of the mud. But she’s trashed his heart in the process, just like I knew she would.

Through the plane’s small window, I gaze at the vast landscape. Snowy, rocky peaks and tundra and sky extend into what seems like forever.

Countless mountains. Thousands of creeks and meadows and lakes.

It’s hard not to think how tiny Bealer’s footprint will be in comparison.

By signing this deal, Dawson can escape the hold Brielle has on him. Finally, he’ll be free.

At this point, I’d cut off my arm to get her to sign those papers.

Ken banks left, making a sweeping turn over the terrain. We pass over a series of small lakes, each dotted with black rocks. Wait—not rocks. Birds. Hundreds of them. I blink, but it’s not an illusion. What are so many birds doing so far up here? I’m about to ask Ken about it when he levels out, affording me a view of the entire basin, including the survey camp. One core drill, a small dozer, two steel shipping containers, one the core samples and the other a temporary office, plus a Nissen hut bunkhouse.

I’ve seen pictures, but in person, the camp’s even uglier. Bealer’s mining operation isn’t going to look any better.

Yet it’s just one mountain—a few hundred acres in a land of millions. One little mountain for my friend’s freedom. If we’re careful—and we always are—the tradeoff will be worth it.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

ChapterSix

LEXIE

Hunter meetsme at the bank. I’ve never had this much money in my life and I’m nervous as hell.

“Who are these guys?” Hunter asks while we wait for a teller. He hooks his thumb in his leather weave belt as he stares at the check made out to me for $50,000.

“Dawson used to be a musician, but now he and Quinn run some kind of real estate business.”

“It must be a profitable one.” He scrutinizes me with a steely look. “This is a lot of money, Lex. Just for being someone’s tour guide.”

“I know, but they refused to pay less.” He’s probably thinking that two strangers who show up out of the blue to throw this kind of money around are cause for suspicion. I suppose he’s justified, but questioning my judgement is annoying.

“And you trust them?” Hunter asks, rubbing his chin.

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