I blinked and looked around. More than ten miles had rolled under our tires since the last time we’d spoken. Julia had probably zipped through three dozen different topics in her head. “About anything,” I said, laughing. “That’s what Aunt Frances would say.”

“Quite right.” Julia’s voice suddenly took on an upper-crust English accent. “There is no value to it. Worry brings no solutions and can only exacerbate problems.”

I gave her an admiring look. “Kudos for use of a big college word.”

“Four syllables, yes. I commend myself.”

“Mrr!”

“And so does Eddie,” I said. “Although if he wanted to play, he could beat both of us with just one long multisyllabic ‘mrr.’”

“Easily,” Julia agreed.

A few miles later, we crested a hill and were treated to a stunning view of the Mitchell River valley. I pulled in a deep breath of satisfaction at the sight. The maple leaves were just beginning their shift to the glorious reds, oranges, and yellows that would soon fill the valley with colors so intense you could almost see them in full darkness.

The leaves would fall, and then there’d be Halloween, and Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and New Year’s . . . and where would I be? In the house, headachey and cranky from the paint fumes of final projects? No, far better to be in temporary quarters. Once again.

I tried to reconcile myself to my pending future, telling myself that it would be for two or three months at most. But as the days were growing shorter and colder, the more I found myself wanting to be done with moving twice a year. Though relocating from boardinghouse to houseboat and back had been fun, I was ready for a permanent home. One with Rafe. Because what I wanted was to wake up next to him every morning and to fall sleep by his side every night. To make fun of his clothing choices and to have him make fun of my cooking. To be married. Forever and ever.

“All we need is a house,” I muttered.

“Did you say something?” Julia asked.

Not really. “Have you heard anything about the woman those hikers found in the state forest?” Due to my work with Tabitha, I’d been staying away from the sheriff’s office, because I was quite sure I wouldn’t be able to keep my mouth shut about what we’d learned.

“Only that they’re still trying to figure out who she is. They didn’t find any identification on her or her bicycle.”

Which seemed a bit odd, but I supposed there were reasonable explanations for that. She could have lost it on the trail. Or had it carried away by a critter. Or maybe she hadn’t carried any with her, something I’d done myself in the past—at least until my mother had found out and forced a vow that I’d always, always, always have ID on my person.