Montana was magnificent this time of year. The trees surrounding my small hometown were a riot of color. The bold evergreen forests were infused with limes, yellows, oranges and reds. A layer of mist and fog clung to the mountaintops.
As I made my way along the winding road that led to my favorite hiking area, I cracked the window an inch, breathing in the crisp, cool air.
My shoulders relaxed deeper into the seat. My pulse calmed. Maybe after this hike, I’d feel more like myself.
Ever since my thirtieth birthday this spring, I’d struggled to feel . . . normal. Something was going on with me, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint it. Was it depression? Anxiety? Restlessness?
Quincy was home. It had always been home. The idea of moving to a new town made my stomach churn, but lately I’d been wondering . . .
What next?
I’d spent the better part of a decade establishing my business. From the day I’d graduated college and moved home, I’d poured everything into Eden Coffee. I’d proved to myself that I could be a successful entrepreneur. I wasn’t just the best pastry chef in a hundred-mile radius, but I also had the intelligence and savvy to manage a profitable business. I’d used my inheritance wisely and hadn’t squandered the gift from my parents.
I lived debt-free. Both the building downtown and my home were mine and mine alone. I’d made enough last year from the shop to buy this new car with cash. Beyond that financial stability, I was surrounded by family and friends. If I wanted a buzzing social life—which I didn’t—I could have one.
And men, well . . . I could date if I wanted to date. But I didn’t.
From the outside, my life was rock solid. So why couldn’t I shake this unease? This feeling that I was missing something. This feeling that somehow, I’d failed. That I was marching in the wrong direction.
I was off-kilter and didn’t know how to find steady.
It was easier to ignore those feelings at work. The shop was busy and kept my head from wandering. Was that my problem? I’d been ignoring myself for too long?
Was Eden Coffee my personality? Was I okay with that?
I didn’t have an answer. So instead, I concentrated on the road, driving to a small, familiar turnout off the highway.
There wasn’t an established trailhead along this particular section of the river. It was a secluded area mostly frequented by local, experienced hikers.
The tourists who flocked to Quincy every summer typically headed to Glacier to hike. Those who stayed close used the wider, maintained trails.
This spot was really nothing more than an access point to the Clark Fork River. The woods were dense, and unless you knew what to expect, it didn’t exactly scream Stop Here to Discover Montana!
In the spring, I preferred hiking trails that led to open meadows where I could pick wildflowers. But in the fall, when the river was low and the rocky banks dry, I could meander along the water as I took in the scenery.
It was my parents who’d taught me to love the outdoors. My dad had always said that breathing in Montana’s fresh air for an hour was a surefire way to cure any ailment. His preferred way to explore was on horseback. So was Talia’s and Griffin’s. And while I did love riding my horse, Mercury, there was something peaceful about walking through nature on my own two feet.
My hiking backpack had been sitting in the bottom of my closet for far, far too long. I zipped my keys in its front pocket, patting the side pouch that held my bear spray. Then with my empty water bottle stowed away, I donned my coat and hat before heading into the woods, breathing in the scent of earth and pine.
By the time I made it to the river, a weight had lifted off my shoulders.
I hadn’t even realized how much I’d needed to get away. To ignore the stress from work and just . . . breathe.
Okay, so maybe Eloise had a point. Tomorrow, I’d have to say thank you. She’d never let me live it down.
I tugged my phone from my pocket to check the time, and to make sure I hadn’t missed any calls. The screen was blank.
A few years ago, I would have been flooded with texts on a Friday afternoon. My sisters wanting to go out to dinner. My brothers wanting to meet at Willie’s for a drink. Mom and Dad inviting us all to some activity in town.
But lately, it seemed like everyone had their own life.
Was that what was bothering me? That I felt left behind?
With the exception of Mateo, my siblings were married. They were all having children, growing their own families. Mom and Dad were reveling in their retirement and grandkids.
I refused to be jealous of their happiness. Refused.
It was harder to refuse the loneliness.
On a sigh, I tucked my phone away and filled my lungs with the crisp mountain air, holding it in until it burned. Then I headed off my path, following the river as I made my way deeper into the forest.
Another reason I liked this area was because it kept cell service. I had my pepper spray in case I encountered an animal, but if I ever got lost, I had my phone and GPS to find my way home. So I walked in no hurry, with no destination in mind, breathing easier and easier as my muscles warmed and loosened.
A hawk’s scream pierced the sky, echoing through the river valley. The bird soared overhead, then disappeared past the treetops.
After an hour, sweat beaded at my temples and my throat was parched. I unstrapped my pack, pulling out my empty water bottle, then traversed the round, smooth rocks that bordered the river. The best part about this spot was the clean, cold water.
I twisted the lid from the bottle, crouching to fill it, but froze when a trickle of red washed past my feet like a crimson cloud floating in a stream.
Blood.
Every muscle in my body tensed, my heart climbing into my throat. Shit.
Slowly, I stretched an arm backward, lifting my can of pepper spray from its pocket. That blood had to be coming from a recent kill. A deer had probably come to the river for a drink, like me, and been ambushed by a predator.
Would I prefer a run-in with a mountain lion or a grizzly bear? Mountain lion. Probably. Damn it.
Please don’t be a grizzly bear or a mountain lion.
I rose to my feet, barely breathing as I moved an inch at a time. Maybe if I could sneak away, whatever predator was having a snack upstream wouldn’t even notice me. With a silent step, I turned, bracing as I scanned the riverbanks.
Not a grizzly bear or a mountain lion.
A hunter.
The air rushed from my lungs. Oh, thank God.
I returned my canister of pepper spray to its pocket, then twisted the lid on my water bottle.
The hunter was positioned with his back in my direction. He rested on his knees as he washed his bloody hands in the river.
Closer to the trees, I spotted his kill. Not a deer, but an elk. Its tan hide had been folded into a neat square. He must have quartered the animal already because there were hunks of meat in white game bags strapped to his pack. A bow and quiver of arrows were propped up against a nearby log. And about twenty feet from his pack was the gut pile—red and greenish gray and still steaming.
The hunter stood, shaking out his wet hands.
I opened my mouth, about to make a sound so he’d know he wasn’t alone, when he turned and spotted me.
He did a double take.
I waved. “Hi. Sorry to sneak up—”
He burst into long strides, moving toward me with such intensity that I glanced over my shoulder to make sure there wasn’t actually a grizzly bear behind me.
When I faced forward again, he was still marching toward me so fast that I stepped backward, stumbling on a rock. I righted myself and held up both hands, dropping my water bottle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ll leave.”
He kept coming, like a bullet intent on its target. He moved too fast for me to escape. Too fast for me to make any sense of this.
Run, Lyla.
He reached me before I could run. And before I could scream or make a sound, he wrapped his large, wet hands around my neck.
Pain exploded through my throat. I tried to drag in a breath but his grip was impossibly tight. My eyes burned and tears streamed down my cheeks.
“Stop.” My voice was barely a gurgle. My hands came to his wrists, tugging and pulling. Smacking and slapping.
He squeezed harder.
No. No, this wasn’t happening. This was just a nightmare. I’d tripped on a stick in the woods and hit my head. This was my imagination playing tricks on me. I was really at home, asleep on the couch and having a bad dream. Because why would this man want to kill me?
No, this wasn’t real.
I gasped for breath, desperate to fill my lungs. Balling my hands into fists, I bashed them against his forearms, but he was too strong. Too tall. Too big.
I kicked at his shins, but the edges of my vision were growing fuzzy. The lack of oxygen was already pulling darkness closer.
This man was going to kill me. This was where I’d die. Beside the river, in the middle of the Montana wilderness, strangled by a stranger.
Dad was on the expanded search and rescue team for the county. So was Griffin. So was Knox. So was Mateo.