Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(67)

I glance at the paper on the steering wheel and look up just in time to spot the final direction. “There’s the bakery she mentioned.” I point as we come upon it. Mrs. Iams, the owner of the cabin, said we’d know where to turn once we saw the bakery. I peer closer at the quaint store window. It’s painted with a coffee cup, steam rising from it, and a blueberry muffin.

Isaac follows the direction of my finger. “Mrs. Iams said we have to go there. And to get there early, because apparently these blueberry muffins are to die for, and they sell out every day.”

I don’t tell him how much I hate blueberry muffins. No need to ruin the mood.

We roll until we find the next left. Isaac takes it and follows the road until the only structure in the area comes into view.

The wildflowers are the first thing I notice. Lemon yellows, hot pinks, royal purples—they all shoot out from the grass that surrounds the cabin. Swinging from a post is a wooden sign. The Lost Place. Maybe that is what you would tell 9-1-1 if you had to call them.

I turn around to Claire. “Wake up, baby.” I say, my voice coaxing.

She blinks, her eyes heavy, and looks outside. “We’re here!” she yells.

Isaac laughs and gets out of the truck. I follow, opening the backdoor to get Claire. Behind me I hear clang of the tailgate as it’s lowered. As I unlatch Claire, I look back through the rear window. Isaac leans forward, his hips pressed to the edge of the tailgate, reaching for our bags. Suddenly my throat is dry. Memories of two nights ago flood me. His hands, his mouth, his caresses on my hot skin. And then when he left my room, he’d whispered, “Good night, Sixty.” I fell asleep smiling.

“Mommy, come on.” Claire’s complaint brings me back to the present.

“Sorry, sorry. Mommy was daydreaming.” I finish unbuckling her and tap her on the nose.

She’s in no mood for playfulness. She pushes against me, urging me out of the truck. I back out, keeping my hand on the door so she can climb down safely. Once her feet hit the ground, she’s off. In mere seconds she’s on her knees at the base of a pine tree, pawing through pinecones and brush. Watching her use both arms fills me happiness, enough to not care that by the end of the weekend, she’ll have dirt so far underneath her fingernails I’ll have no hope of digging it out.

Isaac comes from the cabin, drawing my attention away from Claire. He strides to where I stand at the back of the truck. Just when I think he’s going to reach for me, he slides his arms past me and pulls on the handle of an ice chest. It makes a dull scraping sound as it slides on the truck bed.

“The ice chest was a good idea,” he says, opening it and reaching in. He produces two bottles of beer and the dishtowel I used to wrap the bottle opener.

“When you said there was a kitchen, I thought it made sense to have food to go in the kitchen.” I smirk. Isaac hadn’t thought that far ahead, and when I suggested the ice chest he was confused. Leave everything to the girl who has spent more than her fair share of time hunting, camping, and scouting, I’d said. I didn’t know what this place had for grocery stores, and now I’m glad I insisted on the cooler. It’s a damn good thing I put steaks in a bag to marinate. I highly doubt Isaac planned to spend the first night of our celebratory weekend foraging for food.

Isaac laughs as he takes the tops off the beers. “I still can’t believe you went hunting with your dad.”

I grimace. “Not my favorite memories. It wasn’t my thing, but there wasn’t a lot he could do. No sitter, no second parent, and …” I shrug, “Aubrey goes hunting.”

“I bet he has some good stories.”

I shake my head. “Not gonna happen. And don’t even think of asking.”

Isaac tips his beer against mine. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Sixty.”

A shiver runs down me. I love that he has a nickname for me. Sixty… sixty whole minutes when I get to be open and free.

We sip, watching Claire, until she calls Isaac over and asks him to help her spell out her name in pinecones.

“You have to start with a C,” she intones as he approaches, her eyes serious.

“Thanks for telling me.” He bends down and begins gathering pinecones. “I was going to use a Z.”

“Da-ddy.” Claire gives him an admonishing look.

While they do that, I go inside. The place seems bigger inside than it did from the outside. It smells like the wood it’s made out of, but there’s another smell. Dust? Not bad, but not great either. To clear it out, I open the back doors. My eyebrows raise in surprise at the sound of running water. I follow it, down the three steps and out twenty feet until I’m at the edge of an embankment. Just a few yards out, a steady stream runs past. I sit, enjoying the fluidity of sound and the peace the water creates, until Claire calls for me.

Before I go back in, I pause on the top step and listen for the watery lyrics. Now the name of this place is starting to make sense. In the middle of nowhere lies a dwelling with no address, and a creek that sings.

If I wanted to get lost, this would be the place.





I’m back out at the stream. The second I woke up my first thought was of coming out here to experience it in the morning hours. The smell of water and dirt, of bark and leaves, for some reason, it calls to me. Maybe it’s because I live in a desert. Something about the lack of natural water in my everyday life makes me want to be near the flow, and the nature that inevitably goes with it.