Chapter
One
LACEY
Somewhere in the middle of Montana, Audible replays Michael Pollan’sThe Omnivore’s Dilemma. Only I’m no longer listening.
Instead, my eyes ache with the beauty of the place. The white and black trunks of aspens, leaves glowing like gold in the warm afternoon sunlight. The larches burnished and blazing against the infinite periwinkle sky where wisps of cloud drift lazily above.
I roll down the driver side window of my candy-apple-red Toyota Corolla, inhaling the fragrances of fall. Dry leaves—earthy, musky, slightly sweet. Warm soil, with a hint of petrichor from this afternoon’s light drizzle.
Then the sweet, fruity scent of woodsmoke, pungent and cozy, curling from some distant hearth. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear someone was burning applewood, my personal favorite. The aroma tugs at the hollow space in my chest, the part of me that longs for belonging as much as it longs for warmth.
It nudges me back to my grandparents’ orchards in New York’s Catskills—sprawling verdant acres filled with every kind of apple tree imaginable, grafted together with painstaking careby my grandfather and his farmhands. My summer haven and home during my parents’ painful, years-long divorce.
Besides using the apples for ciders of every flavor and shade, sauces, butters, pies, strudels, and more, they piled the wood high for fall bonfires and smoking meats. My mouth floods with anticipation at the memory.
A slight chill threads through the afternoon air. I ache to bury myself in feather down and flannel before a roaring fire. I can only hope the hotel I’m staying at will be as cozy as the feeling in the air.
In Forest Grove, I squint at my maps app, trying to get my bearings. Gruff Bear River runs to one side, the town itself no bigger in real life than the dot on the screen.
A small collection of buildings clustered around Main Street. A couple of dive bars hinting at eclectic folks and wild stories. A grocery, hardware store, and church. A few diners, a stoplight. It’s the kind of place you’d find on a winding road along the Eastern Seaboard, dappled with orange and red leaves and patches of sunlight.
Past Forest Grove, I see Off-Duty Rescue Ranch, where my contact for a new non-fiction book is located. Anson Baxter. Farm-to-table agriculturalist, permaculture pioneer, strawberry winemaker. Ancient as the soil he cultivates.
Although I’ve never seen him, the name conjures an image of an old man. So did his grumpy drawl the one time I got him on the phone.
My shoulders ache from hours behind the wheel. I pray this wizened Navy farmer is worth it. My editor, Cherise, insisted a profile on him forFarm-to-Table Montanawas non-negotiable.
I haven’t seen a photo of the man. Couldn’t find much about the ranch online, either. Just that they work with horses and run what you might call a collective, each resident contributing in their own way.
Local produce and ingredients for Anson. Ash who heads up the horse ranch—my most helpful contact so far. Eldon the chef, Miles the lumberjack. I strain to recall all the names Anson rattled off in that clipped, impatient voice of his, as if he only has so much breath, so many words to spend.
“Miss, you look lost. Can I help?” A gruff man asks, red hair and beard threaded with gray.
“Maybe. I’m looking for the Forest Grove Inn.”
He scowls, eyebrows darting into his hairline.
“Is there a problem?”
He blinks slowly a couple of times, like he’s deciding how much to say.
He shrugs. “Have to see for yourself. Some people might be fine with it.”
That sounds ominous. Still, this isn’t my first small town. Pretty sure I can handle rustic Montana.
“Could you point me in the right direction?”
“First right. Second left. The road’ll curve about a mile down toward the Dead Horse Gulch. Can’t miss it after the abandoned gas station.”
“Sounds charming,” I say, sarcasm lacing my words.
He clears his throat, tittering like there’s a joke I don’t get. “That’d be one way to put it. Best of luck to you.”
I frown, not ready to deal with that yet. I can’t call this day complete until I make contact with Anson, nail the guy down for our first interview. I have to make this happen—to prove to my family and friends that this writing career isn’t just a pipe dream. To prove to myself that the whole me I once was still exists.
With how difficult he’s been to reach by phone or email, I can only imagine it’ll be pulling teeth to line up a series of in-person interviews during my stay. But I’m armed with determination.
