Page 8 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

Quinn peers out the window at the sun still high in the sky. “How do you get used to so much daylight?”

The lumberjack grunts.

I jab Quinn in the side, and he shoots me an innocent glance. “What? Just being friendly.”

We pull up to the hotel, a faux-log-cabin with a neon sign in the shape of a leaping fish. Due to our late arrival, a night in town made sense. Tomorrow, we’ll pick up our car and relocate to the vacation rental that Deb, our assistant, secured for our stay.

After checking in at the hotel’s reception, Quinn and I head down the hallway to our rooms.

“Fifteen minutes?” I say, tapping my key card on my door handle.

“Sounds good,” Quinn replies, and disappears into his room.

I’ve spent enough time in hotel rooms all over the world to curb my expectations. And I’m actually not very picky. A bed is a bed. Good for fucking, or sleeping, or when I’m really lucky, both. Doesn’t matter if it’s a dingy motel in Stanley, North Dakota, or the Ritz in London.

But I’m pleasantly surprised at the homey touches inside my room. A king-sized bed is made up with soft flannel sheets and a white down comforter, and there’s a sturdy desk with a chair that actually looks comfortable.

After placing my duffel on the luggage stand and checking that my guitar is in one piece, I open the window and take my first deep breath of the day. The air smells of sweet earth and pine. Insects hum from the tall grass and birds call from somewhere in the trees. In the distance, mountains upon mountains melt into the pale horizon. It’s beautiful, yet formidable. Like there’s a primal, raw energy to this place.

Is that why Odessa couldn’t stay away?

My heart gives a tight, hot twist, and I shut my eyes.

God, it still fucking hurts.

If only she’d never come back here. If only she’d let us help her.

After a quick shower and shave, I dress in jeans, cowboy boots, and a plaid shirt that our assistant, Deb, insisted will help me blend in. I laugh out loud. Even with a beard, I could never blend in here.

My phone buzzes with a text. It’s another message from Brielle.

I want pictures from the air

I’ve ignored her enough today, so I reply with a thumbs up and head for the door.

Quinn meets me in the hallway dressed in a blue long-sleeve t-shirt, puffer vest, and dark jeans. His playful gaze meets mine, and he grins. It lightens my mood considerably.

While we walk the long hallway, I scan our bar-hopping options on Yelp. “Take your pick. The Sea Spray, The Rusty Pelican, The Chugach Club…”

“The Pelican one,” Quinn says. “So we can knock off some rust.” He gives me a wink, and I laugh.

“Come on, one night,” he continues. “Tomorrow, we’ll return to acting like respectable gentlemen.”

I scoff. “We’re always gentlemen.”

“Truth.”

Uber hasn’t found its way to this wilderness depot, and there are no taxis idling at the curb. When I ask the receptionist to call us one, she checks the clock behind her.

“At this hour, it’s quicker to walk,” she says.

It’s barely eleven o’clock.

The woman gives us an apologetic smile. “I mean, Larry’s at the bar, Mike and Joel are at the poker game, and Nettie’s kids have the flu.”

“Got it.” I return outside. “Looks like we’re on foot.”

“Good. We can stretch our legs.”

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