Chapter One
Ryann Ashcroft rolled onto her back, clinched her arms across her stomach, and surrendered her breath into the dreary, gray sky. The newspaper had predicted snowfall for the mid-May evening, and the morose clouds hovering over the Gallatin mountains seemed keen to obey. Soon, if there were any justice under heaven, the grave would swallow her whole. If not, in the morning, the groundskeeper would find her dusted in white, though certainly not pure.
A peregrine falcon soared overhead, gliding above the cemetery in a grand figure eight. Funny how gracefully predators moved about, as if God granted them a unique skill the prey lacked. Maybe a bit maddening as well. Either way, Ryann pitied the mouse or songbird who would lose its life so the falcon could live.
A cold breeze slithered over the hills. Shivers seized her bad shoulder so tightly she couldn't define where the physical pain ended and sorrow began. She swallowed down the sob threatening to choke her and gasped, but the thin air didn't satisfy her burning lungs. One tear, then another. They burned on release and quickly cooled as they rolled down her temples and into her hair. If only the tears that now salted the grass and dried leaves instead soaked into his shirt as she lay with him on their bed. Her chest constricted.
Lord. This simple yet honest prayer had wriggled into her nine long years ago, building a home in the spot between her spine and her stomach where guilt liked to forage. Lord, give me strength.
The breeze weakened, and a warmth overtook her. She sat up and brushed wisps of red hair from her tear-soaked eyes and cheeks. With a composed breath, she faced the marble stone. Her fingers traced the grooves, waltzing up and down in lines and curves: Beloved Husband.
"Happy Birthday, Tyler."
She stood and brushed off her jeans, longing for the comfort of her cabin. Tonight, within its cedar-planked walls, she would lay beneath their wedding portrait and drift between memories, focusing on the good ones, though there were few. This would be her last evening of rest. Tomorrow the preparations for the upcoming tourist season would shift into high gear, beginning with the arrival of the new cook. Hopefully, this one could fry an egg. With the resort's first guests arriving in nine days, she wouldn't have much time to train him.
Somewhere nearby a twig snapped, and she spun toward the sound. The only other figure in the field of headstones was the concrete angel in the cemetery's center. The peregrine falcon from before perched atop the angel's halo, watching Ryann. In folklore, falcons were said to be messengers from heaven. Ryann had never believed it. But now, accusations seemed to pool in its obsidian eyes.
She glanced back at the tombstone. "I'm so sorry, Tyler," she said, his name breaking in her throat. Then, she hurried toward the parking lot, careful not to step on the grass directly in front of each headstone. After all, these were her neighbors, her customers, her friends and family.
Daisies and a tiny yellow teddy bear leaned against the smallest headstone in the cemetery. Little Ella Lawrence.
The same water that flowed peacefully past her cabin had ripped away the toddler's life one mile downriver from the resort. She shuddered.
In high school, Ryann had shared a friend group with Ella's mother, but that was where the similarities ended. Ella's mother had done nothing to deserve her tragedy.
Out of sight, an engine roared to life.
Ryann stopped cold. Dread filled her stomach and spread through her body. She was a fool to think she was ever truly alone. Not in this town. Ryann wrenched open the door of her old Jeep. Before she climbed inside, the flapping of wings rushed over her. The falcon narrowly missed her head before ascending toward the clouds.
Oh, Lord.
Shane Olson glanced up from the sheet of directions, forcing his gaze back to the road just in time to see the mountain goat in the middle of the highway. He yanked the steering wheel to the left, and the tires screamed. The shoddy car skirted across the double yellow line and came to rest in the slush less than twelve inches from the mountainÕs unforgiving rock face. Shane gathered his lost breath. He shifted into reverse, and the wheels spun over the mud and melting snow. Why had he chosen the sensible, fuel-efficient sedan at the dealership the week prior? Not that heÕd had many options.
Five thousand couldn't do much on a car lot these days.
No wonder he hadn't seen another car like his for a hundred miles. The sedan had gasped for breath on every incline of the snow-slicked mountainous highway and slithered like a snake on the declines. Now this. He'd be late and miss his only chance.
Shane shifted the car into drive and pressed the gas pedal.
The car refused to move.
He shouldn't have stopped to sleep at the rest area in South Dakota. An early start could have allowed him to make it to West Yellowstone, Montana, by nine in the morning. Yet no matter how hard he pressed the gas pedal, the sunlight caught up to him. At least until he'd ducked behind the mountains, like a sinner hiding from God.
Ah, that sounded like a sermon from his prior life. Of course, he hadn't written any since last September 4.
The day he lost everything.
He reversed again, and the car finally broke loose from the mud. From the rearview mirror, the mountain goat watched him ease back onto the road. Strange world.
Five minutes later, he double-checked the printed directions-without nearly crashing this time-and turned onto a wet gravel road marked by a crooked metal mailbox and almost swallowed by a field of wildflowers. A decrepit wood sign towered overhead. With some imagination, he could connect the chips of red paint sprinkled across the wood to read River's Edge Resort. Shane drove between tall pine trees, gravel crackling beneath the car's wheels.
The first building that came into view was small but wide, with sun-faded paneling that had once been red, topped with a tin roof dusted by last night's snow. Shane steered the car toward the front door, pulling it to a stop near a dirty ice chest. A large cardboard sign rested inside a window. The words Office/Restaurant/Fly Shop were written in clean and precise script with a hint of femininity that looked out of place among the cobwebs.
With a turn of the key, he cut the radio. Early in the drive, he'd found a Christian station, but the songs could not have sounded more foreign if they had been played in Swedish. He changed it to a series of country stations, each one beginning and ending with static every hundred miles or so. He'd never liked the twang or style, but it added noise to the cross-country trek that had thankfully come to an end.
Now only the bugs on the windshield kept him company. Even they seemed confused about the late spring snow. A heaviness filled his chest, pulling down his shoulders and chin. He had the mind to pray, but . . . no. It was 9:07, and he had no time for self-pity.
He pushed open the car door. It squeaked loudly as he leaned on it while unfolding his tall frame from the cramped driver's seat. He stretched his arms over his head and sucked in a lungful of Montana air.
The sun crested the eastern mountains, and a warm, golden hue began to wash across the scenery, replacing the blue of morning. Down the stretch of gravel road leading away from his car, cabins ranged in size, all matching the restaurant with their red wood and tin and sheltered by the tall pines. Behind him, the gravel road disappeared behind trees, civilization fading into the wilderness and the seclusion he desperately craved.
He rapped on the Office/Restaurant/Fly Shop door, stopping after two knocks for fear that another would crack the rattling windowpane. He waited a minute before raising his hand to the glass and peering in.
A loud, sudden curse rang out. A flock of birds erupted from the tin roof.
Shane turned.
No one.
Another curse word cut through the peaceful air. He'd had to get used to foul language this past year, but these words were not threatening or angry. Instead, they were pained.
He walked around the side of the restaurant toward the growing sound of rushing water. Beyond the covered porch, the scenery opened into a living, breathing mural. Mountains rose into the sky. The river water glistened with the morning's sunlight as it rushed between the rock-strewn banks patched with snow. A faint yellow fog hovered above the water, slowly creeping downriver.
No, not fog. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of tiny insects bobbed up and down in a dance. And sitting on a picnic table ten yards away was a woman.
She faced away from him, toward the river. A veil of wild curls, brick-red with streaks of gold, grazed the middle of her back. The woman was so still and her color so warm that Shane had at first mistaken her for one more element of the picturesque landscape.
Another swear word, but this time it was spoken in quiet desperation-almost a prayer of sorts. Fingertips reached around her shoulder, kneading it gently. Her head fell in defeat to some unknown force.
Shane's heart lurched for the stranger in front of him. Yet he remained frozen in the shadow of the porch. He was no longer a pastor. It was not his job to care for the flock. Not anymore.
The woman sighed and raised her chin to the emerging sun. She lifted her hair off her neck and wound it into a bun on the crown of her head. Her left arm froze, and a small cry escaped her. Gingerly, she secured her bun and then carefully removed her flannel shirt to reveal a white tank top and strong arms. She stood, then gripped the end of the picnic table and lifted, balancing most of the weight on her right arm. With a small grunt, she dragged the table across the ground, leaving footprints and lines in the quickly melting snow.
"Let me help you with that," Shane called.
Her head whipped toward him as he jogged over.
Her face was flushed, and sweat dripped down the side of her neck, but she didn't put the table on the ground. "I've got it."
"No, really, let me do that for you." Shane moved closer.
She lowered the table but gave no ground as she turned square to face him. She placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head, studying him. "Who are you?"
"Shane Olson-the, uh, new cook." He focused on her eyes as they burned into his and retreated a step. "I was supposed to meet with Chuck Matthews at nine, but no one answered the door."
"You'll find that time is flexible here. My father's around somewhere." Her confidence was ablaze as she took a complete inventory of him from his head to his shoes and back. "The new cook, huh? You're certainly better to look at than Emil. Maybe we won't need to keep you shut up in the kitchen all summer. The female guests will like you."
"Thanks, I guess." He hoped the heat in his pale face was not noticeable in this light.
She, however, was unfazed. She closed the distance between them until she was less than a foot away.
It was the closest he'd been to a woman in a long time. He rocked back on his heels.
Her eyes finally left his, but only to study his mouth, his nose, and his hair. They narrowed, and her rosy lips lifted into a smirk. "I'm messing with you. You're my cousin's friend. The pastor . . . from Iowa?"
"I'm not a pastor anymore, and I'm from Ohio." He summoned his remaining confidence and steeled himself, imploring his feet to stay planted, even as she leaned toward him.
"Same difference."
Shane's eyes dropped to her bare left shoulder. A ribbon of scar tissue, still red from her massaging fingers, trailed out from the strap of her tank top. He stepped around her. "Actually, it's a whole nother state."
"But is it, really?" She swiveled to face him once again. "I'm Ryann. Did Sage tell you about me?"
"She did. I thought you were a man."
"Oh, right! Because Ryann is a boy's name! I've never heard that before. If you hadn't noticed, I'm a girl. It's a whole nother gender."
"Are you teasing me for how I talk now?"
"Nah. I've just always thought it was a funny phrase that you Midwesterners say. I hear it a lot from our guests."
They stared at each other for a long moment. How much had Sage shared with her cousin? Probably not very much. Ryann didn't seem to see him as the monster he'd become. Shane offered his hand. "It's nice to meet you."
"Ditto." She took his hand, gripping it assertively at first, then softening.
He recoiled, breaking the handshake. "So, where are we taking this?" Shane grabbed the edge of the table and lifted.
"Behind Cabin Four. Over there." She joined him in pulling it along the ground.
When her arm grazed his, he readjusted his grip, farther from her. "Wouldn't it be easier to carry this table? Less resistance?"
"Probably, but I can't support much weight with my left arm. Old injury never healed right."
Beneath the surgical scar, her skin was smooth and fair, dotted with small freckles. A series of more jagged scars, shining silver in the sunlight, laced her forearm. No. Forearms. Evidence of a story waiting to be told. One Shane determined never to get close enough to hear.
"Eyes up, Pastor."
Shane dropped his eyes to the table, his cheeks growing hot at her assumption. "No, I wasn't . . . I was noticing your scars." Noticing your scars? Smooth. Real Smooth.
"Sure, you were." She sounded pleased. From her fiery hair down to her slim-fitting blue jeans, she must cause a stir wherever she went.
Like Chloe. His beloved Chloe. Shane focused on the ground under his feet. Shouldn't they have reached Cabin Four by now?
She nudged his side. "Lighten up, Shane. I was kidding. Don't they have sarcasm in Iowa?"
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