On a spring morning, after she believed nothing in her life would ever be the same, Gemma Wilde took the road less traveled. The sweet apple blossom fragrance filled the air as she walked along the path behind her cabin, dotted with pretty yellow glacier lilies and dew-kissed grass. The hem of her long skirt dampened every time she veered a little too far off the trail, where she bent to pick a lovely flower. Beyond the trees, mountains soared to snow-capped peaks.

The small bouquet she’d gathered would look lovely in the blue mason jar on her kitchen windowsill, a spot of brightness to match the tentative hope blooming deep within.

She paused, letting the sunshine warm her face. Six months ago, she couldn’t have imagined feeling anything but grief.

“You’re running away,” her sister had said when Gemma announced she’d bought the cabin. Perhaps she was right. But standing here now, birdsong overhead and the distant murmur of the creek, Gemma felt like she was running toward something instead.

She continued along the path until it opened to her favorite spot—a small clearing where an ancient oak spread its massive limbs. 

Beneath it sat the weathered bench her neighbor, Old Mr. Thatcher, helped her position there last autumn. She settled onto it, arranging her flowers beside her.

The letter in her pocket crinkled as she shifted. She’d read it three times already but pulled it out again, fingers tracing the letterhead of a small publishing house with a reputation for quality over quantity. They wanted her illustrations for a children’s book about mountain wildflowers. Her work—the delicate watercolors she’d started painting to fill endless, lonely evenings—appears to have value to someone besides herself.

A chickadee landed on a branch above, tilting its head as if curious about the woman smiling at a piece of paper. Gemma looked up at the tiny bird and whispered, “I think I’m going to be okay.”

The chickadee chirped in response before fluttering away, leaving Gemma alone with her thoughts and the gentle rustling of new leaves. She folded the letter carefully and tucked it back into her pocket. A commission. Her first real one. The thought sent a pleasant shiver down her spine.

When David died, she’d lost more than her husband—she’d lost her sense of purpose, her belief that life followed a predictable path. The watercolors had begun as therapy, suggested by the grief counselor she’d seen in those first dark months. “Find something that lets you express what you can’t say,” the counselor had advised.

Gemma gathered her flowers and stood, brushing a stray petal from her skirt. The walk back to the cabin seemed shorter somehow, her steps lighter. The small structure came into view—weathered cedar siding, the porch she’d swept clean that morning, the wind chimes David had made her for their second anniversary tinkling in the breeze.

“I’m doing it,” she whispered to his memory. “I’m finding my way.”

Excerpt © Autumn Cotter. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the publisher’s prior written permission, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.