Page 32 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

My heart does a somersault. He bought this for me? Why?

I glance at the house, longing for him to make an appearance, so I can thank him.

A rod like this is crazy expensive, and with what they’ve paid me, not necessary. Unless Dawson knew I would never buy something like this for myself? The idea makes my heart do a pirouette. I’ve never had a rod like this. It’s so generous, and thoughtful. I caress the shiny carbon fiber rod, and know that every time I use it, I’ll think of him.

When I get back home, Grams is gone, but Charlie leaps up to greet me, wagging his tail so hard it knocks over the potted fern by the door. He follows me past our picnic benches to the back yard where I rinse my waders and hang them on the line, then stow my gear. Back inside, I make a cup of blackberry tea and grab the ice pack for my swollen shin. Charlie settles in next to me with a heaving sigh and is snoring in minutes, oblivious of the churning thoughts going on inside my mind.

Dawson can be intense.

No shit. He was like a wounded animal.

Was this Brielle person—hiswife—the cause of his obvious torment? What did she do that set him off? I ball my fists. I hate her.

Quinn said after this trip, Dawson will be free. Is that what the argument was about today—did Brielle challenge this somehow? Change their agreement?

The next afternoon,I pick up Dawson and Quinn for “wildflower hunting” as they’re calling it, followed by dinner at the best barbecue in the valley.

I’m a little early, so when nobody answers my knock at the door, I peek in the side window. I don’t see movement, but I hear music. My breath catches in my throat. Is Dawson playing?

I follow the music around the side of the house on a manicured path lined with blooming hydrangea and ornamental grasses. Dawson’s playing on the back deck, the chords ringing sharp and true in the thick summer air. I creep closer, hoping he doesn’t see me.

Dawson ends the song with a gentle descending harmony that makes my chest tighten. The song sounds sad, regretful. Is it about Brielle—what he wishes he had with her, but never will?

On his one and only album, he sings a love song, “Thunder Heart.” It’s spiked with a yearning, like this one. Like he’s had his heart broken. I used to listen to that song over and over. Typical teenage girl believing a musician across the country understood her desires and fears.

Dawson begins another song, and this one I know. He sang it that night six years ago. It’s catchy and playful and always makes me smile. I peek over the deck to watch.

He’s perched on the edge of a chair, his back to me, his heel tapping the deck as he plays. His fingers dance across the strings, the motion fluid, natural. I watch from the shadows, entranced, my curiosity growing. Is he content to play for the birds and the trees?

Dawson closes his eyes as he sings, the tendons in his neck straining with the force of his voice. I close my eyes and sing along with him in my whisper, imagining that he’s singing this song for me.

When he strums the final chord, he sits for a long moment, his shoulders heavy.

The back door opens and Quinn pokes his head through. “We’re on with Bealer’s head of engineering tomorrow morning.”

I drop out of sight.

“Does he have a solution for us?” Dawson asks. The deck planks squeak, like he’s walking.

“His assistant called it a proposal,” Quinn replies.

“Damn it.”

“I know. Let’s at least listen to what he has to say.”

Dawson releases a heavy breath. “Fine.”

The back door shuts and I return to the front of the house just as Quinn swings the door open.

I’m still turning over their conversation in my head, but flash him a smile. “You guys ready?”

“Ready,” he says. Dawson joins him, looking flustered.

“Let’s go hunt some wildflowers.”

ChapterNine

DAWSON

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