Page 5 of On Tap for the Bear
But this isn't danger. It's anticipation. Like the ley lines are waiting for something, preparing for something.
Someone.
I stay there for a long time, crouched in my own cellar, trying to understand what the earth is trying to tell me. The honey-lavender ale I've been working on for weeks is in the barrel to my left, still not quite right, still missing something I can't identify. I should be focusing on that, on perfecting the recipe, on the normal problems that have normal solutions.
Instead, I'm thinking about a food writer I've never met, about the way my instinct responded to just the mention of her name, about the uncomfortable feeling that my carefully controlled life is about to get significantly more complicated.
The ley line hums beneath me, patient and eternal and utterly indifferent to my concerns.
I finally stand, my knees protesting after too long in one position. I climb the stairs, lock the cellar door, and head out to my truck. The drive to the family compound takes fifteenminutes through winding forest roads, the headlights cutting through the darkness between towering redwoods.
My A-frame sits at the edge of the clearing, its huge windows dark. I built those windows myself three years ago, wanting to see the forest from every angle, wanting the kitchen to feel like it was part of the woods. Inside, the massive kitchen takes up most of the main floor—restaurant-grade appliances, a prep island I can walk circles around, enough counter space to host Thanksgiving for half the town.
It's too much space for one person. Always has been.
Through the windows, I can see the other homes scattered across the compound—Calder's stone cottage where a light still burns, Beau's converted railway car dark and silent, Sawyer's barn with the soft glow of a nightlight in his son's room. Jonah's log cabin sits empty, windows dark, waiting for a brother who might never come home.
I stand in my kitchen, not bothering to turn on the lights. The digital clock on the stove reads 1:03 AM.
There's a food writer coming to town who doesn't know what she's walking into. Or maybe she does, and she came anyway.
The ley lines hum beneath the compound, restless and insistent. My bear paces in response, refusing to settle.
Tomorrow, I'll meet the woman who made my animal react to just her name. The woman who made the ley lines sing.
I should probably be worried about that. Instead, I'm looking forward to it.
CHAPTER 2
QUINN
Ipull into Redwood Rise just after nine in the morning, my eyes gritty with exhaustion despite the few hours I managed to sleep in my car at a rest stop north of Eureka. I'd left San Francisco Monday evening, needing to escape before I did something stupid like go back to the Epicurean Monthly offices and make things worse. But somewhere around midnight, exhaustion and the winding dark roads convinced me to pull over. I'd dozed fitfully in my reclined seat, my grandmother's knife in my bag serving as an odd sort of security blanket, until dawn broke and I could force myself to finish the drive.
The drive took longer than the GPS predicted—five hours of actual driving plus the impromptu nap, plus a stop for gas and a bathroom I barely remember using. The last hour was the worst—Highway 101 giving way to smaller roads that twisted through the redwoods like they were trying to shake off anyone who didn't truly want to be here. Twice I'd had to pull over to let logging trucks pass, their loads of massive tree trunks a reminder that this is still working forest country, not just a pretty backdrop for tourists.
The town announces itself with a hand-carved wooden sign that's either charmingly rustic or desperately in need of replacement—I can't quite decide which, and the uncertainty bothers me more than it should.
Main Street curves along the coastline like someone drew it freehand, ignoring the basic principles of urban planning. Victorian storefronts painted in jewel tones crowd next to weathered wooden buildings that look like they've stood here since the gold rush. Flower boxes overflow with late-season blooms, their colors almost aggressively cheerful in the morning light. The whole town has the calculated quaintness of a movie set, the kind of place that probably triples its population during tourist season and hibernates the rest of the year.
I'm being unfair. This defensive cataloging of flaws is what I do when I'm scared, when I'm vulnerable, when I don't want to admit that something might actually be exactly what I need.
The GPS directs me to the end of Main Street, where the road curves up onto a promontory. The Pinecrest Inn sits here like it's claiming the best view in town—a three-story Victorian painted sage green with white trim and a wraparound porch that looks out over both the redwoods and the Pacific. It's the kind of place that promises long afternoons with books and coffee, watching fog roll in off the ocean.
A woman emerges as I park, wiping her hands on an apron decorated with embroidered hummingbirds. She's somewhere in her sixties, with silver hair twisted into a bun and a face that's seen enough of life to be both kind and skeptical in equal measure.
"You must be Quinn," she says, her voice warm but assessing. "I'm Evelyn. Welcome to the Pinecrest."
I climb out of my car, aware of how rumpled I must look after hours on the road, how my eyes probably betray exactly howlittle I slept last night. "Thank you for having me on such short notice."
"Oh, honey, I'm always happy to have guests." She studies me with the thoroughness of someone who's spent decades reading people who check into bed and breakfasts. "Though when someone books a room online in the middle of the night and shows up looking like they haven't slept in days, they're usually either running toward something or running away from it."
I freeze, my hand on the car door. "I'm just—I needed a change of scenery."
"Mm-hmm." Evelyn holds my gaze, then something in her eyes softens. "Well, you picked a good place for it. Redwood Rise has a way of giving people what they need, even when they don't know what that is yet. Come on, let's get you settled."
The room she shows me to is on the second floor, with windows that look out over the forest and a bed covered in a quilt that someone clearly made by hand. There's a small desk, a comfortable chair, and a bathroom with a clawfoot tub that makes me want to sink into hot water and never emerge.
"I left some muffins on the nightstand," Evelyn says from the doorway. "Blueberry lemon, fresh from the oven this morning. I know some folks might think cookies are more welcoming, but I save those for afternoon tea. There's coffee downstairs whenever you want it, and I'm happy to make you a proper breakfast when you're ready—just let me know what sounds good. You need anything else, you just holler."
