Page 24 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

But it’s racing back into focus now—bringing old frustrations with it. She’s a reminder of what I’ve lost and what is likely gone forever.

I release a long sigh.

Trading my coffee for my guitar, I strum a few chords, then build in harmony and a riff I’ve been meaning to try. The words are just out of reach, but it’s a process. I don’t rush it. As I play, the emotions get tighter, more focused. Like I’m angry, or frustrated. Maybe I’ve just been waiting for my life to start for too damn long.

My agitation only worsens when I walk inside to Quinn barking into his cell phone.

“They can’t do anything, right?” he says, rubbing his forehead. “We own that mineral tenure.”

He covers the phone to point at the snacks he’s assembling on the counter. I finish what he started. A bag of trail mix, pretzels and salami, apples, and chocolate bread from the café yesterday.

“See if you can keep it quiet,” Quinn says, and hangs up.

“Keep what quiet?” I ask.

He spins. “Apparently a conservation group called Alaska Wild is challenging our contract with Bealer.”

“Challenging how? They don’t have the ability to stop this. Alaska’s mining tenure laws are clear on that.”

“They could make it messy, though.”

I think about this. “Did they reach out to us? Maybe they just want assurances that our plan is safe.”

“They’re threatening a lawsuit.”

“Shit.” Not that they’d win. But lawsuits tend to slow things down, a complication I’m not willing to consider.

“Does Brielle know?” I ask.

“If she did, your phone would have exploded by now.” He pockets his phone and sighs. “I don’t like this, D.J.”

“How can we get this done faster?” I ask.

“Approve Bealer’s plan for the storage pond.”

“Did they come up with a solution?”

Quinn rubs down his chin, looking grim. “Not yet.”

“Damn it!” I draw a full breath and pinch the bridge of my nose, the pain grounding me. “Let’s get a meeting with that weasel of a CEO. Let him know our patience is running out.”

“Agreed,” Quinn says, already texting.

Lexie pulls up in a silver truck. She looks tiny driving such a big vehicle, but I have a feeling if I brought this up, she’d clock me with the nearest implement.

“Incoming.” I grab my daypack and hiking boots. I try to forget about a potential lawsuit and Bealer’s laziness. It’s going to be fine.

In the driveway, Lexie hops down from the truck and shuts her door. A faded canvas visor shades her eyes, but her cheeks are pink in the sunlight.

“Morning!” she chirps when I step outside.

That same bittersweet longing and loss tangle up inside me. I force it down and smile. “Morning.”

Quinn echoes my greeting, and we join Lexie at the back of the truck to load our gear. With a flick of her wrist, Lexie opens the hatch, and an awkward shuffling of gear and positioning ensues.

Lifting my waders into the bed, I accidentally brush the bare skin of Lexie’s wrist. She jerks back, tripping on Quinn’s foot and knocking a thermos off the tailgate. Quinn manages to catch Lexie around the waist before she topples backwards, while I lunge for the thermos.

Lexie starts laughing. “No more coffee for me, jeez.”

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