Page 4 of Indigo Ridge (The Edens 1)

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Juniper Hill

Acknowledgments

About the Author

To Elizabeth Nover.

For all the books before.

And all the books to come.

Prologue

“Think you’ll fly, little bird?”

A voice, a nightmare, whispered across the wind.

The rocks at the base of this sable cliff glowed silver as they caught the moonlight. A darkness so black and infinite began to pull, its tether on my ankle, as I took one step toward the edge.

Would it hurt, flying?

“Let’s find out.”

Chapter One

Winslow

“Could I get another . . .”

The bartender didn’t slow as he passed by.

“Drink,” I muttered, slumping forward.

Pops had told me that this bar was where the locals hung out. Not only was it within walking distance of my new house in case I decided not to drive, but I was a local now. As of today, I lived in Quincy, Montana.

I’d told the bartender as much when I’d asked for his wine list. He’d raised one bushy white eyebrow above his narrowed gaze, and I’d abandoned my thirst for a glass of cabernet, ordering a vodka tonic instead. It had zapped every ounce of my willpower not to request a lemon twist.

The ice cubes in my glass clinked together as I swirled around my pink plastic straw. The bartender ignored that sound too.

Main Street had two bars—tourist traps this time of year, according to Pops. But I regretted not choosing one of those to celebrate my first night in Quincy. Given his attitude, the bartender, who must have thought I was a lost tourist, regretted my decision too.

Willie’s was a dive bar and not exactly my scene.

The bartenders downtown probably acknowledged their customers, and the prices were listed on a menu, not delivered using three fingers on one wrinkled hand.

He looked about as old as this dark, dingy building. Like most small-town Montana bars, the walls were teeming with beer signs and neon lights. Shelves stacked with liquor bottles lined the mirrored wall across from my seat. The room was cluttered with tables, every chair empty.

Willie’s was all but deserted this Sunday night at nine o’clock.

The locals must know of a better place to unwind.

The only other patron was a man sitting at the farthest end of the bar, in the last stool down the line. He’d come in ten minutes after I’d arrived and chosen the seat as far from me as possible. He and the bartender were nearly carbon copies of one another, with the same white hair and scraggly beards.