Wild Man Creek (Virgin River #14)(6)

But she put on a brave face. “You bet,” she said to her sister. Then she smiled. “If you call, I’ll answer if I have a signal.”

Right after they said their goodbyes Kelly left for work and Jillian got in her car and immediately drove east. She was halfway to Lake Tahoe when she remembered the vacation she’d taken with Kelly and two girlfriends the previous autumn. They’d driven to Vancouver—which was an excellent option for right now—but on the way home they’d stopped off at some dinky little town in the mountains—she couldn’t even remember the name. While they were there they’d wandered into an estate sale and the old house where it was held reminded her of the house she and Kelly had grown up in with their great-grandmother. Nostalgia had flooded her and she’d become almost teary with remembering, even though the two houses had very little in common. The other image that came to mind were the little cabins along a river where they’d stayed for a couple of days—nice little cabins, remote yet comfortable. They had left the windows open at night and slept to the sounds of nature, the river rushing by, the wind whistling and humming through the huge pines, the quacks, caws, honks and calls of wildlife. They’d put their feet in the icy river last fall, watching trout jump and turning leaves flutter into the water. It had been lovely. Soothing.

With those thoughts in mind, Jill made a turn and headed north. She’d go up through Napa—that would point her in the right direction. Those little cabins weren’t like a motor lodge or Holiday Inn, not the kind of place you could show up at midnight asking for a room. It was owned and run by a guy named Luke and his young wife; they lived on the property.

Jill spent the second night on the road at a little roadside inn in Windsor, probably halfway to her destination. First thing in the morning, she headed north again. Even a phone call to Kelly hadn’t produced the exact name of the town, but Jillian knew roughly where it was.

A couple hundred miles and a few wrong turns led Jill to a remote intersection in Northern California where she saw a couple of guys had parked their pickups at odd angles. They were clearly just passing the time. She pulled up alongside. “Hi, guys,” she said. “There’s a little town back in here somewhere. I had dinner at a place called Jack’s—I think—and there are some cabins along a river run by a guy named—”

One of the men pulled his hat off his head and smoothed his thinning hair over his freckled scalp. “Luke Riordan owns those cabins in Virgin River. Luke and Shelby.”

“Yeah!” she said. “That’s it! Virgin River! I must’ve missed the turn, never saw the sign.”

The other guy laughed. “Ain’t no sign. You didn’t miss it by much,” he said. “Up 36 a quarter mile. It’s a left. But to get to Luke’s you’re gonna wanna go another left after ’bout another mile and a half up that hill. Then you’ll go down again, then around a curve at the bottom of the mountain. Your second left ain’t marked, but there’s a dead sequoia stretched out by the side of the road right where you turn. Big mother. Then you’ll prolly see the river. Take that road along the river to the cabins. Ain’t far.”

She laughed. It might’ve been one of her first belly laughs in a couple of weeks! Yeah, she remembered the dead tree, the up, down and around of the road. “I remember now—I remember the dead tree. Thanks. Thanks so much!”

Off she drove in the direction of the first left and then the dead tree, laughing as she went. She was laughing at how different it was! She might as well have traveled to a different country—these people were as removed from iPhones and iPads and daily stock reports and board of director meetings as she was from fly-fishing and camping. And now that she’d seized on this idea and spontaneously found herself in Virgin River, of all places, she realized hardly anything in her baggage was going to be right for this kind of break. Thinking she might end up at some hotel resort in a place like Sun Valley she’d packed her country club casual—clothes she had on hand for corporate events or company picnics. She had linen slacks, a couple of stylish but casual dresses, wraparound skirts, sweater sets, that sort of thing. Low heels; lots of low heels. She had exactly one pair of Nike walking shoes and two sweat suits, and they both had designer labels.

As she recalled, Virgin River was very rugged, not to mention cooler. And boy, was it wet! It was early March; it had been drizzling on and off all day. It was a little bleak—except for the new green growth on the trees and the eruptions of plant life all along the side of the road.

Also muddy! Her pretty little Lexus Hybrid was splattered and filthy.

Jill followed the road along the river and when she came into the cabin compound she saw that Luke was on top of one of the cabins doing a little roof repair. He turned toward her as she pulled in. She stopped the car, got out and waved at him.

He smiled before climbing down his ladder. “Hi,” he said when he got to the bottom. He grabbed a rag out of his back pocket to wipe off his hands.

“Any chance you remember me, Luke?” she asked him. “I came up here last fall with my sister and girlfriends. We spent a couple of days in one of your cabins. You invited us to the estate sale—that old woman’s house.”

He laughed. “Sure I remember you, but I don’t remember your name.”

“Oh—sorry. I’m Jill. Jillian Matlock. I apologize. I didn’t even call ahead. I just thought if you had a vacancy…”