Juniper Hill (The Edens #2)(2)

Now I was rambling to a cop. Fantastic.

The rambling was something I’d done as a kid whenever my nanny had busted me doing something wrong. I didn’t like to be in trouble and my go-to response was to talk my way through it.

Dad had always called it making excuses. But no matter how often he’d scolded me, the rambling had become a habit. A bad habit I’d correct later in life on a day that didn’t rank in the top ten worst days.

“Where are you going?” the woman asked, glancing at Drake, who was still yelling.

He didn’t care that we’d been pulled over. He was too busy telling her that I was a horrible mother.

I scrambled to find the sticky note I’d dropped, showing it to her through the open window. “Juniper Hill.”

“Juniper Hill?” Her forehead furrowed and she blinked, reading the sticky note twice.

My stomach dropped. Was that bad? Was it in a sketchy neighborhood or something?

When I’d tried to find a rental in Quincy, the pickings had been slim. The only options had been three-or four-bedroom homes, and not only did I not need so much space, they’d been outside of my budget. Considering this was the first time in my life I’d had a budget, I was determined to stick to it.

So I’d called Eloise Eden, the woman who’d hired me to work at her hotel, and told her that I wouldn’t be able to move to Quincy after all.

When she’d promised to find me an apartment, I’d thought maybe a guardian angel had been looking out for me. Except maybe this studio apartment on Juniper Hill was really a shanty in the mountains and I’d be shacked up next to meth dealers and criminals.

Whatever. Today, I’d take the crackheads and murderers if it meant spending twenty-four hours not in this car.

“Yes. Do you know where it is?” I tossed a hand toward the windshield. “My directions led me right here. But there isn’t a road marked Juniper Hill. Or any road marked, period.”

“Montana country roads rarely are marked. But I can show you.”

“Really?” My voice sounded so small as another wave of tears crashed open the dam.

It had been a while since anyone had helped me. The little gestures stood out when they were rare. In the past month, the only people who’d offered me help had been Quincy residents. Eloise. And now this beautiful stranger.

“Of course.” She held out a hand. “I’m Winslow.”

“Memphis.” I sniffled and shook her hand, blinking too fast as I tried to stop the tears. It was useless. I was exactly the train wreck I appeared to be.

“Welcome to Quincy, Memphis.”

I breathed and damn those tears just kept on falling. “Thank you.”

She gave me a sad smile, then hurried back to her car.

“We’ll be okay, baby.” There was a sliver of hope in my voice as I scrubbed at my face.

Drake continued to cry as we eased off the road and followed Winslow down to a cluster of trees. Between them was a narrow dirt road.

I’d passed this road. Three times. Except it wasn’t a real road. Certainly not a residential street. She slowed, her brake lights glowing red, and turned down the lane. Dust flew from beneath her tires as she followed the trail, driving farther and farther away from the highway.

My wheels found every bump and every hole but the bouncing seemed to help because Drake’s wailing simmered to a whimper as I followed a bend in the road toward a hill that rose above the tree line. Its face was covered in dark evergreen shrubs.

“Juniper Hill.”

Wow. I was an idiot. Had I stopped and looked at my surroundings, I probably would have figured this out.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’d pay attention to Montana. But not today.

The road went on for another mile, following the same line of trees, until finally we rounded one last corner, and there, in a meadow of golden grasses, was a stunning home.

No mountain shanty. No questionable neighbors. Whoever owned this property had plucked it straight out of a home decor magazine.

The house was a single story, stretched long and wide with the hill as its backdrop. The black siding was broken up by enormous sheets of crystal-clear glass. Where a normal house would have walls, this place had windows. Through them I could see the open kitchen and living room. On the far end, a bedroom with a white-covered bed.

The sight of its pillows made me yawn.

Detached from the house was a wide, three-stall garage with a staircase that ran to a door on a second story. Eloise had said she’d found me a loft.

That had to be it. Our temporary home.

Winslow parked in the circular gravel driveway. I eased in behind her, then hurried out of my seat to rescue my son. With Drake unstrapped, I lifted him to my shoulder, hugging him for a long moment. “We made it. Finally.”

“He was just sick of his car seat.” Winslow walked over with a kind smile. “I have a two-month-old. Sometimes he loves the car. Most times, not so much.”

“Drake’s two months too. And he’s been a trooper,” I breathed. Now that he’d finally stopped crying, I could breathe. “This has been a long trip.”

“From New York?” she asked, glancing at my license plates.

“Yep.”

“That is a long trip.”

I hoped it had been worth it. Because there was no way I was going back. Forward steps only, from now on. The city was a memory.