Bitterroot Lake, Alicia Beckman [good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT] 📗

was just a dream, that it meant nothing. If I hadn’t kept you from warning her …”

“Holly, stop. I decided for myself not to say anything. It’s not your fault.”

“You stop,” Holly replied. “You feeling guilty is equally ridiculous. Neither of us is responsible for Lucas trying to force himself on her, or for racing off in Jeremy’s car. And we sure as hell aren’t responsible for his death now.”

Sarah wanted to believe her. Oh, dear God, how she wanted to believe her.

After dinner, Sarah grabbed her jacket and snuck out the front door. The skies were still light, that turquoise-y blue with a hint of gold that you didn’t see in Seattle. She could hear a power boat on the lake, a faint whirr of traffic up on the highway, and if she listened hard, birdsong. It wouldn’t be full dark for another hour or so.

In Seattle, it never got truly dark or truly silent, except when the power went out. If her children were home, the silence would have been almost immediately broken by one of them wondering what was up and when would the power be back on. They weren’t whiny kids. Just kids. They’d had fun on visits here, sure. They’d swum in the lake and gone sailing and canoeing, but they could do those things at home. Playing with the cousins and hiking the hillsides—that was fun, too. But not enough to draw them back to the lodge for more than a few days.

And with Connor immersed in work, Holly firmly entrenched in the city, their mother content in her studio in town, who was left to enjoy these evenings, when the birds were flitting from tree to tree, the colors turning to shadow?

Maybe it was time to turn Whitetail Lodge over to another family.

The gravel crunched under her feet as she started down the path. When she was a little girl on a sled, the gentle lawn had been scary-steep. Especially on the trek uphill.

“What do you think, Dad?” she said out loud. “Is it time to sell?”

Her father, God rest his soul, did not reply.

She’d reached the cabins, almost as ancient as the lodge. No doubt they needed repairs and updates, too—she hadn’t gotten more than a glimpse into the cabin on the end two nights ago when she’d arrived and found Janine holed up inside.

Two nights.

If they sold, it would have to be “as is.” It would take too much time and too much money to bring everything up to snuff. But they couldn’t begin to think about putting the place on the market until the roof and balcony were fixed. That meant soffits and gutters and who knew what else. She hadn’t come out here to spend hours with contractors and insurance adjusters. Log homes were great until they weren’t.

Thank God Janine had taken refuge here. Thank God one of the cabins had a broken lock. If she hadn’t … Sarah didn’t want to think about what would have happened. About what her friend might have done in her despair. Although it would have been better had she gone straight to the sheriff. Called for help, reported what she’d seen and heard, given no one any reason to doubt her.

Not that she blamed Janine, not when her friend had told the truth all those years ago and gotten the clear message that she’d be better off if she kept quiet. And Sarah had been part of the problem.

She had put that day out of her mind on purpose, determined to be grateful that despite everything, Jeremy had survived. Determined to be grateful for the life they had made together. But since coming back to the lodge, she’d thought of little else.

Past the turn in the path, past the last cabin, a fence ran along the property line. Cedar rail, the wood bright and fragrant. When had that gone up?

She dropped down to the edge of the lake and sank onto the grass, the water lapping rhythmically at the shore. Holly didn’t know everything. It wasn’t just the dream. They’d said, she and Jeremy, that they ought to get back to the lodge, keep an eye on Lucas, but they hadn’t meant it, too intent on each other. Sarah hadn’t known then, didn’t know now, if the old sheriff had truly believed Janine would be better off keeping quiet, or if he believed no harm, no foul, because Janine had fought Lucas off. He’d torn her clothes and forced his fingers inside her but she’d kept him from the rest. The sheriff hadn’t said “boys will be boys.” He hadn’t said “now, honey, you don’t want to ruin a man’s reputation when you got no proof, do you?”

But when Sarah replayed his words in her mind, that’s how it sounded.

The setting sun cast a soft, golden glow on the lake. She could hear the sheriff as clearly as if he were standing here right now. Could hear him telling Janine to think about it carefully. Take some time. Sleep on it—as if she’d be able to sleep. If she still wanted to press charges tomorrow, then come to his office and give a formal statement. Fill out a report. She’d have to see a doctor. She’d have to be prepared.

They’d known what that meant. The denials. The accusations that she’d led him on, then changed her mind. The local talk.

It was all inevitable.

Sarah closed her eyes. Do you really want to have to go over it again and again? the sheriff had asked. Think about it. You’ll have to testify. To relive every moment, and though he hadn’t said it, to be disbelieved.

In her mind, she heard shouts and laughter coming from the lake, from people who didn’t have a clue about the tragedy unfolding. She heard distant boat motors, the dying moose up on the road. She heard the warning in the sheriff’s words. Had he been a husband? A father? Had he known what he was asking? He’d been