Bitterroot Lake by Alicia Beckman (i read a book .TXT) 📕

relished the days at the lodge with them and the rest of the family. But Jeremy’s business began to take more of his time, and though she and the kids sometimes stayed when he went back to Seattle, she hadn’t liked being apart. As the kids got older, their summers filled with soccer camp and music camp and time with their friends. They’d been lucky to squeeze in a week in Montana, and to visit every other Christmas. The kids hadn’t been here since her father died three years ago; last summer, she’d come alone. Her cousins didn’t use the place much. Holly stayed in town when she visited. That left Connor, too busy to use the place much.

Maybe it was time.

She sat on the giant rock outcropping, too spent to cry.

The landscape where you grew up shaped you. Maybe you didn’t need to own it, or visit often. Maybe it always lived inside you.

She had a friend in Seattle, the mother of one of Abby’s besties, whose dad had been in the army. Every two or three years, they’d moved. She’d lived in Seattle for twenty years, half of it in the same house, but still felt she didn’t truly belong anywhere. Because she wasn’t from anywhere.

Sarah dearly loved their house in Seattle. Their dream house, near Lake Washington, roomy but not crazy-big. She’d been careful to make sure it reflected Jeremy as much as her, with plenty of light and calming spaces. It was a true home, and she belonged to it as much as it belonged to them. Or to her, now.

But at the moment, she was like her friend. She belonged nowhere.

Get over yourself, girl. So your husband died. It’s not the end of the world. Even though it feels that way.

The world was still out there, spinning on its merry way. People were still going to work, to school, to lunch. Going about their daily lives.

Sending threatening letters and getting killed.

This endless rumination wasn’t getting her anywhere. Although that was the point of wandering in the woods, wasn’t it?

She pushed herself off the rock and continued up the trail. Soon it would fork, one branch heading toward the old horse barns, the other leading up to McCaskill Lane and the highway.

A few feet later, she stopped. Was someone watching her?

Ugh. Seeing things again. The woods were empty except for a handful of chattering squirrels and one young doe who’d sprinted away.

And a raven, who cawed. She raised her head, shielding her eyes as she searched, finally spotting the big black bird high in a lodgepole pine. “I suppose you’ve got an opinion, too. Everyone else does.”

He said nothing.

At the fork, she angled toward the highway, pulling her phone out of her pocket to check the signal. Two bars, bouncing up and down. Texts and voice mails landed in her inbox as she walked, their pings and chimes merging with the whiz of traffic, the sounds of so-called civilization.

Any other time, she might enjoy being unreachable, but not right now. She needed to be able to check on the kids. To respond to her friends. Call her therapist.

The trail dipped, then climbed back up. At the fork, she stopped, out of breath, her legs shaking. Was she that out of shape? She’d given up walking with the neighborhood women a couple of months ago, not wanting to leave Jeremy alone, though the home health aide would happily have adjusted her schedule to allow Sarah to get out. Mainly, she hadn’t wanted to answer questions about him every time she left the house. And she’d lost her ability to chat about insignificant things. Her walking buddies had all come to the service and reception, but she hadn’t tied on her walking shoes and rejoined them.

The white walking shoes that now bore dark smudges. What had she been thinking?

She leaned against a tree, grateful to see four bars on her phone. Grateful to see texts from both kids. Abby, on the way back to the dorm after turning in the paper that had been due the day of Jeremy’s funeral, the deadline extended. His exams are easy—I should get an A, the text read. Brownie sundae tonight!

The family tradition to celebrate wrapping up a big project.

Good job! Sarah replied. You’ve earned a treat! The reply was almost instant. Wish I could tell Dad. Miss you—love you! She choked back a sob, then thumbed Me, too. XO3. Love and kisses, to the power of three, another family tradition.

She scrolled past texts from friends and paused on one from her therapist. A single word: Breathe.

In, out, her breath uneven, gradually becoming steadier. Her head cleared, the dizziness lifting. The technique didn’t always work, but often enough to try.

Next, a text from Noah, with a quick update on a favorite class. His grades were as good as his sister’s, but he didn’t express the anxiety over them that she did. Then he wrote, Good to be home.

“Home,” she said out loud. “You went home? But I’m here. Why didn’t you tell me?”

And it hit her. He didn’t mean their house in Seattle. He meant school, on the other side of the country.

Had she lost him too?

Sarah had almost talked herself out of detouring down the trail to the horse barns and the old homestead when the glint of sunlight on metal caught her eye. The road, such as it was, ran only between the cluster of old buildings at the top of the Hoyt property and McCaskill Lane. No one should be up here.

She ducked into the woods, inside the tree line. A short distance ahead, she spotted a small blue car, an older model, parked just this side of the horse stalls, the driver’s door open. A thin, red-haired woman held a pair of binoculars to her eyes. Sarah glanced in the direction the woman was looking, expecting to see an owl or a pileated woodpecker. Nothing.

She took a step onto the road. “Are you lost? Can I help