Page 23 of The Lost Book of First Loves

The wind whispers through the crevices, carrying with it the stories of time—of glaciers that carved these peaks, of wildfires that roared through the underbrush, of the quiet persistence of life that clings to every inch of this sacred ground.

The words fromPurgatory Riverseemed all the more resonant as she sat on a porch swing that had been used by the man who had penned them.

She found it so strange to be here, to be sleeping on the bed he had sometimes used, sitting at the kitchen table where he wrote, gazing at the same scenery that had inspired him.

She had picked up a copy of his second book,Beneath the Dusty Sky, the night before and had read several pages. As always, she found something new to savor in his books each time she picked one up.

A literary masterpiece worked because a person could make new discoveries about the words, about themselves, about the world around her every time she read it. This time, June caught an undertone of sadness and loss as she read. Of loneliness.

She somehow didn’t feel lonely here in his writing retreat. She felt... comforted, surrounded by all of the books and the emotions and memories that seemed embedded in the log walls.

She was shaking her head at her own fanciful thoughts when she sensed movement out of the corner of her gaze. She turned to find an animal bounding down the path between the trees toward her.

After her initial surprise, she recognized the dog she had met the day before in the back seat of Beckett Hunter’s pickup truck.

“Oh. Hello, Hank,” she said as the Australian shepherd climbed the steps and greeted her eagerly, his entire hindquarters jiggling as his tail wagged with enthusiasm.

She petted him dutifully. “What are you doing here? Does your person know where you are?”

He didn’t answer, of course, only gave her a happy look that warmed her heart. Apparently, she had made a friend during that short ride from the airport.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around on your own. It’s not safe. Are you lost?”

Again, no answer. She looked toward the path, half expecting the dog’s owner to come striding through the trees.

Ali had told her that Beck Hunter’s house wasn’t far away, on the other side of the creek. The dog must have wandered away from home that morning.

Did Beck even know he was gone? How irresponsible to simply let his dog traipse through the forest on his own, where anything could happen to him.

Hank sniffed around her pockets with a hopeful kind of look. “I don’t have anything to feed you. I’m sorry,” she said. She had a feeling he wouldn’t be interested in any of the healthy offerings of her kitchen.Shewasn’t even interested in them.

The dog seemed to sigh and June had to smile.

“I should keep you here with me,” she said as she scratched between his ears. “If you don’t go home, maybe the man would learn not to be so careless.”

Hank rested his chin on her knee and gazed up at her with soulful, adoring eyes.

“I suppose it’s not your fault your owner is who he is,” she said after petting the dog. “Let’s go see if we can find him.”

She rose from the swing with a rattle of chains and opened the door wide enough for her to grab one of the walking sticks she had seen near the door in an umbrella stand that looked like a hollowed-out log. She had no idea what kind of terrain she would find between the cabin and Beckett Hunter’s place. Better to be prepared.

Plus, this way she would have a weapon if she needed to beat off any cougars or bears.

Or Beckett Hunter.

She headed off along the path in the direction the dog had come and where Ali had said Beckett lived.

The path was covered in pine needles that crunched under her feet. Wildflowers bloomed in patches of red and purple and it all smelled delicious.

How did someone ever get used to this kind of grandeur? Did they become inured to it?

Another line from one of Carson’s books ran through her mind.

Here, in the solitude of the mountains, one can feel the pulse of the earth, ancient and eternal, a reminder of the beauty and power that exists beyond the grasp of human hands.

She had always been drawn to the Rocky Mountain region. While she had visited Idaho before and went on a ski vacation once to Colorado, she had almost deliberately chosen not to come to Wyoming during any of her infrequent vacations.

Why was that?

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