Page 89 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

To keep from gnawing the plaster, I scan the black and white pictures lining the walls. There are men in wool trousers standing on the side of a river holding giant fish, shots of fishermen in boats, scenes of life at the lodge, wildlife.

From the hallway, I peek into the dining room. Behind the cozy collection of tables, a series of windows offer a sweeping view of the lake, the rocky valley slopes a patchwork of mint and forest green. Below, matching float planes are tied up to the floating dock. A group of guests are climbing into the nearest one, dressed for a day of fishing.

I remember the creek we fished with Lexie, the clean, earthy scent of the water and its steady, soothing melody, and about the wild creature I held for one long, tender moment.

Lexie’s bright smile and her infectious joy swells warm and tight inside my chest. In that moment, something was shifting. My heart was lighter, softer. I realize now what it felt like: hope.

Without Lexie, that feeling will vanish.

“D.J.,” Quinn says, pulling me from my thoughts. He beckons me over to a family photo taken on the shore of the lake.

The family must be Lexie’s. An older couple stands in the back, both with rosy complexions and graying hair. Flanking them on either side must be Lexie’s parents. Lexie’s mother has shiny blonde hair and inquisitive, laughing eyes. Her dad is tall with dark hair and a warm smile. Lexie’s brothers look like a combination of their parents. Two of them are brawny, one is more slight.

“I thought she said she had three brothers,” Quinn says, studying the picture. He points at the young boy holding his mom’s hand. He’s skinny with straight hair and a carefree smile. “Who’s that?”

“Don’t know. A cousin, maybe?”

Lexie stands in the middle of the frame, surrounded by three teenaged boys. She has her mother’s eyes, but her hair is dark like her dad’s.

“Look at that,” I say, pointing at Lexie’s mother. Around her neck is the locket Lexie always wears.

“It was her mother’s,” he says. “No wonder it’s so special.”

From the lake, a seaplane roars as it accelerates away from the lodge. I peek down the hall to the big window just as the plane lifts gently into the sky.

Behind us, a door opens and a tall woman with shoulder-length blonde hair walks toward us. She extends her hand. “Hi. I’m Annie, the manager here.”

I introduce myself and Quinn. “We’re looking for Lexie,” he interjects before I can come up with something. I’m thankful for his cool head and steady tone. I’m having a hard enough time keeping my heart in my chest.

“We’re friends from out of town,” Quinn continues. “She offered to give us a tour but we’re early and thought we’d drop by her house.”

“Of course,” Annie says. “Just take the main path to the first fork. Turn right and follow the creek. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” I say and race for the door.

We locate the fork in the path marked with directional signs for the cabins and sauna, the seaplane dock and lakeshore, and one for a private residence.

The trail climbs along a trickle of a creek that cuts through chunky rock and furry purple gentian that Lexie identified for us on that hike.

At a saddle between two low hills, the view opens to a broad meadow with a shallow, rocky lake surrounded by blocky mountains, the last of the snow melted down to white lines that crisscross like spider webs.

Lexie’s home is another log structure like the lodge, set in a broad meadow on a bench above the lake. When we near it, a chocolate Labrador scrambles from his bed on the porch. He woofs, but his tail wags as he trots over to greet us.

A woman comes to the door, dressed in faded, baggy jeans and a thick wool sweater the color of pewter. I recognize her from the family photo on the wall in the lodge.

“This is a private residence,” she says in a polite but wary tone. I wonder if she keeps a shotgun behind the door. This is Alaska, after all, and she and Lexie live alone.

“Sorry to disturb you. We’re looking for Lexie,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as frantic as I feel.

She furrows her brow and crosses her arms. “Why? Is something wrong?”

I paste on a smile to disarm her worries. “I’m Dawson, and this is Quinn.”

“Ohhh,” she says, her eyes softening. “You’re the ones she’s been taking care of, right? I’m Mary Alice, her grandma.”

Quinn and I exchange a furtive glance. “We were supposed to meet up this morning, but we had a…a miscommunication. Any idea where she might be?”

“I don’t pry into her business. She’s independent that way.” Mary Alice draws a long breath and exhales with a grimace, her nostrils flaring. “Should I be worried?”

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