The Trails We Leave Behind: Love, Loss, and the Shadows That Follow

For 22 and a half years, I was married. Then I wasn’t. Divorce has a way of forcing you to look at yourself in ways you never expected. It strips everything away—your identity as a partner, your sense of stability, and the life you thought you had figured out. Then, like a landslide, it leaves you standing alone in the rubble, wondering where to start rebuilding.

That’s where my latest novel, The Trails We Leave Behind, begins—not just in the wake of a failed marriage but in the journey that follows.

If you'd like to know more, check out this blog post for more in depth information.  

The Trails We Leave Behind: Sneak Peak

Twenty minutes into the fifty-minute yoga session, Lisa cursed herself for forgetting to turn off her phone. She sensed it before she heard it—the unmistakable vibration. Fighting the urge to escape downward dog and check her messages, she took a deep breath, stood as instructed, and felt her toes sink into the sweat-dampened mat atop the decades-old hardwood floor.

Annoyed by the slow creep of her leotard, she shifted out of vinyasa. As she adjusted, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye—then locked onto the only man in class, blatantly staring at her ass.

He smiled. Then Winked—As if he had just checked off his goal for the day.

Lisa watched his eyes flutter closed with the sluggishness of a filthy sloth. A nervous chuckle, edged with disdain, slipped from her lips, quickly followed by a wave of disgust. When his eyes reopened—locking onto her once more—she frowned, mouthed dream on, and turned her focus back to the instructor, who called for Eagle pose.

By the time class ended, it felt like hours passed. She unfolded herself from lotus position and smirked as the Neanderthal yoga-hunter scurried out of the room. Head down, avoiding eye contact, he vanished without a word.

Good. Hope the asshole doesn’t come back next week.

She wiped down her mat, rolled it up, and carried it to the storage cubicle on the side of the studio. Sliding the foam mat into its canvas case, she slipped on her flip-flops and grabbed her phone from her custom-made Timbuk2 backpack. A string of notifications lit up the screen:

—Debi wanted to grab a drink tonight.
—Her mom asked what she was doing this weekend.
—Her boss needed her in early Monday.
—Her sister, Daphne, sent: “Call me ASAP.”
—And from her boyfriend, Conner—possibly her soon-to-be fiancé (she hadn’t decided yet)—an alert from his Garmin mountain biking device.

“Help.”

Lisa’s stomach tightened. The instant pit unmistakable.

Ignoring the instructor approaching with an outstretched hand, she gave a quick nod and wink, signaling that now isn’t the time. She walked out of the studio, dialed 911, pressed the phone to her ear, and strode toward the parking lot—toward what she knew would be a hotter-than-hell car in the late Southern Oregon summer.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

Lisa swallowed hard. “I just got an alert from my boyfriend’s bike computer. He’s in trouble.”