Page 88 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

Instead, it was the end?

I swallow the brick in my throat. “Last night doesn’t mean shit if it was all a lie.”

“It’s not a lie. We care about her.”

“Like she’ll see it that way now.” I stare at the long stretch of bare highway.

Quinn releases a sigh, and the growing silence is like static in my ears.

“I’ve texted her, but no reply yet,” he says, worry etching his face.

“No surprise.”

“Where are we going?”

“She lives at Soren Lake, right? Let’s start there.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

I press the accelerator down. “The truth.”

“Okay,” he says with a slow nod. “Okay.”

At the lodge,the silver F-150 isn’t in the parking lot. “Shit.”

“Maybe there’s a separate access to her home.”

The GPS navigation on the car’s screen doesn’t show anything. “Let’s ask at the lodge.”

We step from the car and hurry to the entrance path.

The sandy trail is lined with huckleberry bushes, reminding me of the day we saw the bear and her two cubs. If I had known then what I know now, would I have done things differently? Or would I have let my selfish, withered up heart lead?

The distant whine of a seaplane taking off cuts the silence, and as we crest a rise, the plane is already disappearing into the far valley.

Nestled below us is the sparkling indigo-blue lake. When we flew over Soren Lake Lodge with Ken, the buildings looked like toy figurines and the little paths between them were barely visible in the greenery. But from this vantage point, it’s stunning. The buildings are handsome log-built cabins with covered porches, and the trees and plants have been left wild, creating a welcoming vibe.

“Wow,” Quinn says.

I set off for the lodge, a two-story giant shaded by a grove of ancient spruce on one side, and a broad deck with a view of the lake on the other. The stands of tall, pink fireweed sway in the breeze, creating a mirage of moving color.

Inside the main entrance, a thick red carpet leads to a small reception desk. A young woman looks up from a computer and smiles. “Welcome to Soren Lake Lodge. What can I do for you?”

“We’re looking for Lexie,” I say.

The woman’s eyebrows crowd together, as if she’s not sure she should answer. “Lexie works in the evenings.”

“She lives here, right? Where?”

The woman is still wearing a puzzled expression.

“Can we speak with a manager?” Quinn interrupts.

“Yes,” the woman replies, picking up a phone. Keeping her eyes on us, she informs whoever answered her call that two visitors would like to speak with her.

“She’ll be right down,” the receptionist says with a kind smile, then indicates the sitting area to our right that faces a giant stone fireplace and four leather chairs. “You’re welcome to take a seat.”

We wander away from the desk, but waiting feels like torture. From the hallway, the clinking of silverware and murmur of conversations signal that it’s breakfast time at the lodge. Guests are fueling up before a day of fishing and adventure.

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