“So alone for a man with so much family,” I hummed, dragging a finger along the edge of a frame. I gasped when I realized what I was looking at. A photo framed in white pearls that said nuptials, a man that looked like a much younger version of Maverick was smiling with a beautiful brunette in a long white dress at his side.
They overlooked the ridge with the bay in the background.
Lily and Maverick - May 4
“504 Lovers Ridge,” I repeated the sign I’d read in the kitchen. A wedding day.
“It should be renamed Heartbreak Ridge,” I uttered to myself, a sudden chill sweeping through me as I backed away from the cold fireplace and into the warmth of the kitchen.
I went to the pantry, intent on making a dinner that would take all day and warm up the kitchen.
Anything to keep me busy.
And then I remembered I should call my father and let him know where I was and that I was okay.
I gathered a handful of ingredients to make a vegetable stock that I could turn into soup or a casserole later or tomorrow, depending how long I was destined to be landlocked on this ridge, and poured the base ingredients into a pot and turned the heat on the burner.
Fishing my phone out of my back pocket, I frowned when I realized I had no service. I couldn’t call if I wanted to from this ridge. I wondered if there was a fine line to all this privacy Maverick claimed to crave. At what point did the insulation become suffocating?
I had a feeling I was approaching my limit, especially when the man of the hour had run off down the mountain as fast and as far from me as his boots could take him.
* * *
Twelve hours and two tall mugs of hot cocoa later, I was too nervous to eat any of the chicken and dumplings I’d slow-simmered on the stove all day. My mind on one man, I curled up on the couch with the fuzzy blanket he’d used for sleeping last night, the silver moonlight stretching across the floor and slipping the cabin into deep shadow. Every angle felt like it hid new secrets and the sun set early on the ridge—half of the hours were spent shrouded in deep darkness.
The ridge was harsh and savage in its beauty by daylight, just like the man who called it home, but by night, it was downright scary.
Giant evergreen boughs swayed in the constant wind that whipped down the ridge, the soft needles brushing the windows like fingertips all night long. I curled into the corner of the couch, frowning when I heard the faint strings of violin music enter my mind again.
Teeth on edge, I stood, wrapping myself in the blanket that still smelled like Maverick, and cursed him for not coming home.
I then began to wonder if he’d been hurt, If I’d been stubborn and stupidly irresponsible letting him stay away all day. Maybe he’d gotten hurt fixing that drain ditch and now it was all my fault.
The slow bleeding strains of a haunting and romantic classical song I’d heard before grew louder, and I began to grow sure that I was conjuring the entire audible daydream.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs, certain it was coming from the same room as last night, the one he claimed had been locked.
The young face of the bride in the photo downstairs flirted with my vision, her long hair swaying in the wind as the notes of her violin carried into the air. I blinked, wondering if this was all some sort of waking daydream, the temptation to climb the stairs and follow the music was powerful.
I gripped the worn wooden rail, Maverick’s warning surging through me before the violin grew to a fevered pitch, a ravaged crescendo of a sound that caused a crack of pain to halve my mind like a lightning bolt.
“I need Maverick,” I said to myself, crushing my eyes closed and backing away from the stairs. The violin music grew louder in my mind, unbearably high pitched, only fading as I backed out of the house and down the main steps of the cabin.
The wind whipped my hair around my shoulders, a chill coursing down my spine as I turned, relieved when I found Maverick's truck still parked where he’d left it after rescuing me.
Wherever he’d gone, he was within walking distance.
I clung to the edges of the looming evergreen boughs, comfortable as I walked down the steep driveway. The rain had turned to a soft mist, milky clouds of fog hanging low to the ground and adding a sinister quiet to the ridge. I picked slowly down the path, coming to the corner that veered sharply to the right, where I’d lost control on loose gravel, washed away by the storm and taken out the ditch, causing more washout.
“Maverick?” I breathed into the night.
Only the salt-damp breeze off the bay answered me.
I followed the edge of the moonlight, walking carefully to avoid the slippery washed out edge of the road. When I came to the sunflower field, my car was parked just as I’d left it, along the edge with one wheel in the ditch.
Even in the darkness the sunflowers looked beautiful, the undersides of their petals silvered in the moonlight.
“Such a beautiful, sad place to live,” I hummed to myself, turning to take in the sparkling moonlit bay the sunflower field towered over. I walked across the gravel road, sneakers damp in the grass that ran along the shoulder. And then a dip in the grass nearly tripped me, and covered like a sunken grave, the body of a grown man in a sleeping bag sound asleep at its center.
“Maverick?” I bent, pushing the top of the sleeping bag down a fraction to reveal his dark hair. I shook him softly, hating to
