Page 104 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

I help Quinn climb into the backseat of the truck, then settle in next to him.

“What’s Brielle going to do?” he asks.

I stare out the window. “I’m not sure.”

“It’s my fault.”

“It’s mine too.”

The lumberjack pulls up to our vacation rental. I pay him double because he came at a moment’s notice and because I like him. But he hands back the extra twenty.

“Do something good with it instead,” he says.

I climb down from the truck and hobble to the door. Quinn punches the code and we both head straight for our rooms.

Before I climb into the shower, I text Lexie.

Thinking about you.

I don’t wait for a response. Standing here watching for it hurts too much.

The medic told me to keep the bandages on my arms dry, which requires some creative positioning in order to wash my hair. The wounds on my calves sting like hell, but I embrace the pain. It reminds me of my selfish, foolish actions. Actions that nearly got us all killed.

I think of my dad, who died alone in a lavish hotel room in Las Vegas. Did he know he was dying? What did he think about, during his final moments? Was he satisfied that he’d manipulated my life—finally getting me to honor his wishes? Or did he have the clarity to be ashamed of abandoning his wife and daughters? Sad that he wouldn’t see them grow up? Of the choices he’d made?

In those frantic moments in that bunkhouse with Lexie, one thought dominated my mind: keep her from harm.

And I’m not turning it off.

Not without a fight.

Quinn slipsonto the deck carrying two rocks glasses, each with a healthy pour of whiskey and ice.

My throat is too sore to play, but I’ve been scratching out lyrics while the clouds shift and the dense river air bathes my skin. I’m sure the words on the page are crap—my head is a mess—but it’s better than letting my thoughts rattle around in the void.

“I fucked up,” Quinn says after he’s lowered into a nearby chair.

“Painkillers and whiskey are definitely a mistake.”

He doesn’t take my bait. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” I sip from the glass, the ice-cold whiskey going down like sweet fire. It’s probably not what my raw throat needs, but maybe it’ll ease the hurt inside.

Quinn takes a sip. “I heard some of what you said to Brielle. Is it true you gave Lexie the claim?”

“Yeah.”

He nods. “Did Brielle consider your offer?”

“I don’t know. When she realized what we were up to, she got on the first flight out of Denver. Maybe when she cools down, she’ll be more receptive.”

“It’s good,” Quinn says. “Creative. I wish I’d thought of it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m the dreamer, you’re the strategist, remember?”

Quinn grimaces. “Any word?”

“No.”

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