Bitterroot Lake

“The edge of the roof is damaged on the middle cabin, and a couple of trees are leaning pretty badly,” Holly said. “There’s a tree down on the fence, though. Is that our responsibility or theirs? And why is there a fence, anyway? It looks new.”

Connor put his fork down and gestured with the big hands that reminded Sarah of their dad’s. “You know the rule. If the fence is on the property line, you find the halfway point. Everything on your right is your responsibility. Everything on their right is theirs.”

“Even if they built the fence and you thought it was a dumb idea?”

“Even if,” he agreed.

“I saw that fence earlier,” Sarah said, “and I meant to ask George about it.”

“When did you see George?” Connor sounded wary.

“Yesterday. He came down to check on the

place while I was out picking up shingles. Helped me drag a few branches off the road, then drove me around to check out the damage.”

“I don’t know what George is up to.” Connor stood. “I need to finish up here, then get back to the mill.”

Meaning they’d have that talk later. But one more thing, before he left.

“While you’re here,” Sarah said, “would you take a look at the phone box? The cell signal down here is totally iffy, so Mom called the phone company to turn the landline back on. I think she did, anyway. She’s kinda spacy right now. But we’re still not getting a signal.”

“Yeah, sure. Though I don’t know that I can help.”

A few minutes later, standing outside the lodge near the mudroom door, she peered over her brother’s shoulder as he crouched in front of the green phone box. Handed her a tiny bird’s nest that sat on top. Slipped a screwdriver blade underneath the door and pried it open.

Inside, in the bottom of the box, lay a bright, shiny copper penny.

* * *

They decided a mouse must have chewed through the wires. No other animal could have worked its way in. Why, what the pea-brain expected it could find to eat inside a plastic box filled with plastic-coated wires and metal switches, they could not imagine. The critter must have been sharp-toothed—the break was awfully neat—and he’d left nothing behind. But no other explanation made sense. Their search, in the carriage house and in the cellar, for wire to make a splice had come up empty. So Connor had gone to check on his young employee one more time, and she’d made the trek up to the highway in search of a phone signal, one more time.

She was getting tired of this.

It was time to go home. Time to get on with life, whatever that meant. She had board meetings and volunteer commitments and a house and friends. And the kids would be home soon. It wouldn’t be the same, of course, but it would be good. She pictured kayaking with them on Lake Washington and wandering the farmers’ market. Morning coffee in the bright kitchen, drinking in the wide-angle views, sleepy teenagers wrapping their arms around her neck, then sliding into the breakfast nook beside her and just hanging. Although Noah wasn’t a teenager anymore.

In the kitchen, she set the tiny nest on the window sill beside the nest she’d picked up on the lawn and the pine cone from the sewing room. Grabbed her keys and strode to the carriage house.

She backed the rig out, then paused at the end of the circular driveway to watch the two men remove a badly leaning fir that might threaten a cabin if the winds turned wrong. Both men wore white hard hats bearing the company logo. Her brother held out a hand to stop her, but she was already stopped. She was a lumberman’s daughter.

Matt made one last cut and Connor used the winch and cable in the back of the truck to land the tree softly without damaging the undergrowth or the soft earth. Then Connor waved her through. She waved back and slipped the rig in gear.

The rain had stopped, but water ran down the ruts in the road. Her tires slipped in the mud, sending the rear end sideways a few inches, and she shifted into low gear. Felt the front tires start to catch, then begin to slide backward. “Don’t let me down now, car,” she urged and the wheels spun, then caught solid ground. She fed the gas slowly and the wheels took hold, gliding forward.

At the top of the road, she stayed on McCaskill Lane but pulled over to the side. First call, her mother. No answer on the house line; voice mail on the cell. Peggy must be painting. She left a message saying Connor had been out and while the damage to the lodge was more extensive than she’d thought, he was sure it could be easily repaired. Not much of an exaggeration—he had been sure, calling Matt Kolsrud the elder a log home magician. Enough time and money, the man could do anything.

Next, the phone company, where a digitized voice told her to touch one for this and two for that and sent her in an endless loop until she finally touched zero and after a long silence in which she was sure the line had gone dead, she was told to wait. A small-town phone company should not need such a cumbersome system. When a human finally came on the line, Sarah gave her mother’s name, remembering that they wouldn’t talk to Holly, and answered the perfectly pleasant service rep’s perfectly reasonable questions: the number, the address, and what could Mrs. McCaskill tell her about the damage? No service call on record, meaning Peggy had forgotten, as Sarah had begun to suspect. They’d try to get someone out Friday, but couldn’t make any promises. Monday, more likely, or possibly Tuesday. Was there anything else she needed?

Oh, yes. There was so much more she needed than a working landline. A cell signal. A sister who didn’t keep secrets. A friend who wasn’t under suspicion for murder. A time turner so she could bring Jeremy back to life, get him to the doctor sooner so they could catch his cancer before it took off like the proverbial bat out of hell. Why were men so stubborn about going to the doctor? Would it have made any difference? The oncologist had been noncommittal on that point, not wanting, she supposed, to give them one more thing to beat themselves up about. Hadn’t they always known the cancer might come back? Yes, but not for years. Decades. Not until they’d spent a good long life together, finished raising their kids, spoiled grandchildren, taken a cruise down the Danube, all those milestones you assumed you’d live to see.

Why were there bats in hell anyway?

“Thank you, no,” she told the faceless woman in the phone company office. “You’ve been a big help.”

The car windows had begun to fog, so she punched buttons on the dashboard. The vents opened and cold air smacked her in the face. She pushed more buttons, until the air began to warm and the fog to recede. Her mother refused to get a new car because the new models were more like mobile computers than cars. She’d rolled her eyes, but now she had to agree. Why was life so stinking complicated?

She cracked the window open. In the distance, she heard Matt’s chainsaw. Glanced at the time. Her kids would be in class. Don’t call. Don’t become a stalker-mom. Texting was a godsend. Abby’s first few weeks at school, she’d texted at least once every day, and the hour before bed had often been a text-fest, with pictures and sometimes a call. Then Jeremy’s diagnosis had come and they hadn’t told the kids, but when it became apparent that this time the cancer wasn’t going to go away quietly like it had before, they’d shared the news. After that, both kids called and texted daily. The phone had been the glue that held her heart together.

And now? Now she was in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere with the bars on her screen flat as the proverbial pancakes.