Page 3 of Wild Sanctuary

But happy? No way. Never that.

Hey, at least he’s consistent!

I put the car in drive and continue toward the cabin, my hands steady on the wheel and my pulse anything but. In the rearview mirror, I see he hasn’t moved.

And suddenly I remember why I almost didn’t come back.

The Christmas I turned twenty. A red dress I couldn’t afford and the courage to talk to him, to really talk to him, not just as Dad’s friend’s son. He’d taken one look at me, called me ‘Daisy-girl’ in a voice I’d never heard before, and disappeared to the barn for the rest of the night.

I’d spent the beginning of that night feeling beautiful and the end feeling like an idiot.

Message received.

So I stayed away. Let Dad come to me in Denver instead. Told myself I was too busy with internships and jobs and building a life, when really I was just too proud to sit across a dinner table from a man who couldn’t stand to be in the same room as me.

I park in front of the guest cabin and sit there for a long moment with the engine off and my hands still on the wheel. Through the windshield, I can see the cabin porch—the same one where my dad used to sit with his boots off and a beer going warm, telling me stories about Glacier Ridge’s history.

A screen door bangs somewhere across the yard and I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at that porch for a full minute.

Enough, Monroe.

I’m not here for nostalgia. And I’m absolutely not here to moon over a man who’s never said more than ten words to me in a row.

I’m here for answers. And I’m not leaving until I find them.

Wyatt Hartley is just another complication, and I am absolutely not stupid enough to make him the biggest one.

2

DAISY

The cabin hasn’t changed. It’s small and clean, smelling faintly of wood and old books. It contains precisely one bedroom with a brass bed frame that’s probably an antique, one bathroom with fixtures that predate my birth, and a kitchenette that’s never seen anything more complicated than reheated coffee. The walls are log, chinked with white plaster, and the floors are wide pine planks that creak under my feet as I step inside.

The quilt on the bed is new, all interlocking rings in shades of blue and cream. I run my hand over it. Someone put a lot of hours into this for a guest cabin that’s most likely been closed up since Dad died. My money’s on that someone being the youngest Hartley, June.

June.

Three years since the funeral, and she still sends birthday cards and emails with life updates, including photos from her fledgling event-planning business, June & Co.

I haven’t written back to a single one. And she made me this quilt anyway.

I drop my bags inside the door and stand there, breathing. The air tastes like wood smoke and pine, with an underlying hint of the mustiness of a cabin that’s been closed up too long. Dust particles drift through the sunlight slanting through the windows, and outside, I can hear birds calling to each other.

I’m here. I’m actually here.

I let that sit for a beat before my need for caffeine wins out over the moment. I find instant coffee in the kitchenette and boil the kettle. Black, no sugar. Dad always said cream was for people who didn’t really like coffee.

My phone vibrates again, but this time I look.

FELIX

Hey babe. Just got out of my meeting. How’s the drive? You make it to Bumfuck, Montana yet?

I stare at the message for a minute.

Felix Woods used to be my boyfriend of nine months, until two weeks ago, when I broke things off after realizing how vastly different our priorities are.

I told him we could still be friends. He smiled patiently and told me he had no doubt I’d “come around.” Then he casually mentioned that his father would be golfing with my editor on Saturday, same as every Saturday for the past twenty years.