Page 3 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

Dread pools low and heavy in my gut. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

“It’s your father,” she gets out before sucking in a sob. “He’s—”

“What did he do?” I grit my teeth. When I left, I made sure she and my sisters were safe.

“Dawson, he’s gone,” Mom replies.

I release a slow breath while conflicting anger and confusion break loose, making my head throb. Dad being gone means we’re free of his emotional abuse and neglect, but it also means I’ve lost my chance to confront him.

“Come home. Please,” Mom says. “I waited as long as I could. There’s…some things to sort out.”

I steady myself against the wall. She knew about tonight, but waited to tell me about Dad so the news didn’t ruin it.

Fuck.

“What things?” My leg muscles, already spent from the performance, start to shake. I need to sit down.

“He’s left you in charge.”

I swallow, but it goes down like razor blades. My frazzled mind goes blank and the already dark hallway narrows. Forcing my feet to move, I make it through the backdoor to the parking lot. Dim street lamps cut the darkness and the air feels cool on my face, but it’s not enough to quell the resentment building inside me.

“I guess he got his wish after all,” I say to Mom, my voice cracking.

“I’m afraid it’s much worse than that,” she replies.

This sounds ominous, but I don’t want to know any more right now. I recalibrate my next three weeks of touring to accommodate a visit to Austin to deal with this nightmare. To bury my father and make sure my mom and sisters are okay.

But it’s clear to me that I can’t make both of these things work. I have to choose.

I slump against the tailgate of a car. “I’ll be home by morning.”

“Okay,” Mom says. We end the call and I gaze up, wishing I could see the stars, but it’s just empty, infinite sky.

ChapterTwo

LEXIE

SIX YEARS LATER

I leave the post office,our weekly mail and Grandma’s knitting catalogues tucked under my arm, but the black jeep parked on the street stops me in my tracks.

“What are you doing here?” I ask the guy leaning against it.

Hayden gives me a smug, sideways grin. “You need a lift, right?”

“Not from you,” I reply.

My refusal has zero effect because his smile turns sly. “You used to like riding in my jeep.”

Deep in the pit of my stomach, that old unease starts tugging everything tighter. I cram the bundle of mail into my bike’s pannier, keeping one eye on him. “I thought you were in Oregon.”

He shrugs, casts his gaze down the street. “The coach was an asshole.”

So that’s his story. More likely, his short fuse got him kicked off the team. That or his bad habits.

“I heard about Terrilynn,” he says, locking eyes with me again.

My chest tightens. Though Terrilynn and I weren’t friends, her tragic death and the mystery behind it sit heavy on my heart. I wonder how well Hayden really knew her, but shake it off. It doesn’t matter now.

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