Page 1 of North

ONE

She was most definitely not running.

She just needed an escape from the last six months. A timeout. Something peaceful, without any chaos or trauma or hurting people, and no, she wasn’t hiding. Okay, maybe a little. But a remote camp in northwestern Washington State for the next three months seemed exactly the respite she needed to figure out how to mend her broken heart.

And stop calling herself stupid.

Selah Silver forced her attention back to her book, but the words blurred together on the page. Great. So much for finishing the latest fantasy novel by Victor Holt. She’d been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes.

She blamed the hum of the Amtrak, the steady rhythm and rocking of the wheels on the rails as the Empire Builder wound through the Cascades, early-morning sun breaking through patches of fog that clung to the mountainsides.

Gorgeous country, the snow-tipped mountains clothed with evergreen pines and firs, the deep greens a vivid contrast to the pale-blue, nearly cloudless skies. Occasionally the view opened to a meadow where an explosion of wildflowers—purple lupine, white avalanche lilies, and pink fireweed—waved in the breeze. Here and there, a few cabins perched on overlooks and in patches of forest, reminders of the rugged remoteness of the interior of Washington State.

So much untainted, glorious beauty. The kind a gal might get lost in—as in forget the past, dive into a summer with campers, with games and roasted marshmallows and…

And far, far away from a Caribbean island called Mariposa and...words. So many terrible words.

How am I supposed to protect you when you do stupid things? When you get yourself into trouble?

North hadn’t meant it—or that’s what she’d wanted to believe. Except, the glare in his brown eyes, the solemness of his expression, the way the frustration rolled off his sweaty body⁠—

Yeah, he’d been dead serious.

She leaned her head back against the leather seat of her sleeper cabin, sighed, and tried to block out her own brutal retort. Something about their three-year romance being just a rescue mission and how she didn’t need him to fix her. Not sure why she’d said all that, but...

But twenty-four hours later, she’d ended up on a small plane to nearby St. Lucia and then back to Minneapolis.

And he hadn’t followed. So, apparently he’d meant his last words: Don’t expect me to show up next time you⁠—

She’d slammed the door on the rest, but she could finish the sentence with any number of scenarios, e.g., get yourself kidnapped in Nigeria. Or better, find yourself held at gunpoint by a local gang in an impoverished village. Or, get yourself into trouble...

So maybe the man had a point.

But that wasn’t the biggest problem, was it.

Coffee. She needed more coffee. So much for the “relaxing” train trip out west. It would help if the ghost of North Gunderson wasn’t following her across the country.

Her phone buzzed. Chloe’s name flashed on the screen, her fifth message since Selah left Minneapolis. She should probably answer, given the fact that Chloe lived half a world away.

Chloe’s questions still hit perilously close to home.

Selah turned the phone face down on her fold-out table, accidentally knocking over her empty paper cup. The sleeve had Time to move forward written on it—some stupid morning affirmation that wasn’t working.

Camp Evergreen’s brochure lay dog-eared next to her book. Three months of teaching kids to make friendship bracelets, win at tug-of-war, and skip stones into the lake. No emergencies. No split-second decisions.

No North.

The train lurched around a bend, and her backpack slipped from the seat beside her, spilling open. A first aid kit tumbled out—the heavy-duty one she’d carried in Mariposa. Probably unnecessary, but she’d toted it with her around the world, so it was simply habit that she packed it.

She picked up the kit, shoved it into her bag, closed her book, and picked up the cup. Then she got up, shouldered her pack, and moved out into the narrow hallway of the train.

A glance out the window showed them winding through valleys, and ahead, she spotted the Wenatchee River in the valley below, a silvery ribbon that cut through the land.

Bumping her way down to the dining car, she found it nearly full, other patrons enjoying breakfast, the scents of bacon and croissants and coffee seasoning the air.

She spotted a couple finishing their meal and took their vacated spot. A waiter came by—a younger man, mid-twenties. Maybe this was his summer job. She ordered a latte. “And”—why not?—“one of those fluffy croissants.”

He smiled at her and went to fill her order.