Page 7 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

Sheri types something quickly, then clucks her tongue. “A claim that size usually goes for ten to eleven million.”

A tunnel of black narrows my vision. Ten million dollars?

“Honey, you okay?” Sherri asks, but it’s like her voice is coming down a long pipe.

“Lex,” Evan says in a calm but stern voice that cuts through my panic. He gently pries my fingers from the counter’s edge.

“Thank you,” Hunter says to Sherri, who gives us a concerned smile before leaning to the side to call for the next customer.

Evan pulls me into a hug. His strong arms wrap me tight. He’s the best hugger on earth, but it doesn’t quell the dread pooling in my stomach.

“Let’s get out of here.”

We climb into the truck.Evan starts the engine, and we roll out of the parking lot.

The summer sun breaks through a patch of cloud, spilling its golden rays. The forests and hillsides come alive with vibrant color, but instead of reveling in the beauty, my stomach tightens with dread. I finger my locket again as the tears break loose.

How could this be happening?

Soren Lake Lodge and the surrounding land have been in my family for eighty years. It’s where my brothers and I spent our summers growing up. After Mom and Dad were killed, it became my home. And now someone thinks they can jeopardize it for some selfish gain?

No fucking way. I’ll stop them. Whatever it takes.

ChapterThree

DAWSON

I stepoff the small plane, squinting at the snowy, vast wilderness. Giant mountains poke into the sky, interspersed with thick forests and deep valleys.

“Kinda takes your breath away, doesn’t it?” Quinn says from behind me.

The frosty air is like icicles in my throat, but I force down a swallow. “I might need more long underwear.”

“You can have mine,” Quinn says, slinging his arm across my shoulder.

Visiting the Soren Creek claim before we proceed with our plan was my idea, even though being in Alaska stirs up old feelings. Feelings best left alone.

I follow Quinn inside to the luggage carousel. While we wait for our bags, I toggle my phone out of airplane mode, then regret it when several messages from Brielle fill my screen. With a calming breath, I tuck my phone back in my pocket. Sometimes it’s hard to believe we started out as childhood friends so many years ago, or that I thought marrying her was a solid plan.

Just a few more weeks of her, and I’ll be free.

“Think this thriving metropolis has a bar?” Quinn asks as our luggage appears on the carousel.

“It’s a fishing town.” I sling my duffel over my shoulder and grab my guitar. “The odds are high.”

Outside the tiny airport, Quinn hails a cab. A mud-splattered Suburban pulls up to the curb. Our driver looks like a lumberjack on steroids—bushy black beard, red flannel shirt, jeans, and leather boots. He even grunts. Once our luggage is loaded in the back, Quinn and I climb into the backseat.

“How’s the weather lately?” Quinn asks once we’re underway.

“Good,” the lumberjack replies.

“Rain?”

“Some.”

“I’ll bet it’s warmed up though, right?”

“Some.”

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