Page 43 of North

SIX

Selah was going to die.

The logging road twisted down the mountain, each turn plummeting a thousand feet—okay, that might be an exaggeration, given the fact that the rain and fog hid the perilous drop. But in her wildest, darkest imagination, the concealed drop-off plunged to lethal depths, granite spires at the bottom ready to skewer her.

Yeah, she was tired. And cold. And wet. And hanging on to the four-wheeler behind a so-called businessman who navigated the ATV around mud-slicked hairpin turns, past fresh debris from the storm as if he were Ethan Hunt from Mission: Impossible.

She was bracing herself to sail off the top of the mountain and have him yank a parachute. It didn’t help her epic imagination that James still wore her backpack.

Sunset pierced the breaking clouds, turning the wet forest into a kaleidoscope of gold and shadow. Selah gripped the seat as they rounded another bend. Her clothes had dried stiff with mud, and her shoulder throbbed where she’d hit the windowsill during their escape.

“There.” James pointed ahead. Below them, the Wenatchee River curved through the valley, its waters brown and churning. A cluster of buildings huddled in the U-shaped small town with lights starting to wink on in the gathering dusk.

All she wanted was a shower. Okay, and some food. It felt like a thousand years since breakfast at the Paradise Café.

They slowed as they drove past farms and into the flatlands that led to the river. They crossed the railroad tracks—she felt like she’d seen this townscape before—and headed down cracked pavement past small ranch homes set back from the road, a park with mud under swing sets and slides, and then across a small river bridge. They followed the road as it turned into a more residential area, these houses with groomed lawns facing the highway, still another road away.

“Wait.” She grabbed his arm as they passed a narrow road. A yellow cottage glowed against the darkening sky, set back from the road in a grove of dripping pines. A hand-painted sign swung from a post: Josephine’s Bed & Breakfast.

James slowed the ATV. “We’re staying here tonight.” He killed the engine. “You need rest.”

“What I need is a phone charger and—” The words died as she tried to stand. Her legs had stiffened during the drive, and she had to brace her hand on the seat before they could decide to buckle.

If they did, she’d probably just lie there in a ball.

The cottage door opened, spilling warm light across the wet gravel. A woman appeared, light-brown hair caught in a loose bun, wearing a cardigan that matched her butter-yellow house. Her face had the kind of weathered beauty that came from years of genuine smiles.

“Oh my, you two look half drowned.” The voice carried a rural western hominess. “Please tell me you didn’t come in from the crash site.”

“We did, ma’am.” James. Turning friendly and charming again.

Maybe she’d imagined the darkness from before…

“We had some first responders stay last night—they said it was awful.”

“It was.” James’s hand settled on Selah’s lower back, steering her toward the porch. “Just passing through. You have rooms available?”

“You’re lucky—two people just checked out.” She eyed their mud-splattered clothes. “With all the emergency personnel coming through, it’s likely there will be more asking, so hurry in. Roads to Leavenworth are closed—the train took out part of the highway, and the storm didn’t help.”

“Perfect.” James guided Selah up creaking wooden steps.

“I’m Josephine.” The woman held the door wide. “Been running this place twenty years with my husband, Henry. Sweet man passed away last year, but in all our years, I’ve never seen anything like this. Half the county’s emergency services passed through here today.”

The heat inside wove through Selah, touched her bones. Yes, this was probably a good idea. The entryway opened into a living room with a river-rock fireplace, flames crackling behind an iron screen. Handmade quilts draped overstuffed furniture. Crystal prisms hung in windows, waiting for tomorrow’s sun.

“Up here, sugar.” Josephine led them up narrow stairs that creaked under the faded runner. Sepia photographs lined the walls—stern-faced families in their Sunday best, children on horses, a young Josephine with a tall man Selah assumed was Henry. “Watch that third step—it’s got a mind of its own.”

The upstairs hallway smelled of lemon polish and age. Vintage wallpaper—tiny pink roses on cream—and softly glowing wall sconces.

Selah could already breathe better.

“Here we are.” Josephine opened a door on the right. “Bathroom’s en suite, extra blankets in the chest. River view, if you’re interested.”

Not really. But the bed—oh yes, that brass bed called her name. It dominated one wall, piled with quilts in autumn colors. Lace curtains stirred in the draft from the window. A claw-foot tub stood visible through the bathroom door, its brass fixtures gleaming.

“Complimentary bathrobe is hanging on the hook,” Josephine said. She pointed to a fluffy white-velour robe.

James carried Selah’s backpack, and she retrieved it from him. He frowned, then said, “I’ll be downstairs.”