For readers of Barbara Kingsolver and Mary Lawson, a literary novel, set in the desert wilderness of modern-day Arizona, that offers quiet beauty, emotional depth, and an exploration of loss, healing, and the wild places that change us.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Nomad by Cynthia Johnstone, which releases on October 13th 2026.
After the sudden death of her brother, Corey retreats to a remote ranch in Sedona, Arizona, hoping the silence of the desert can drown out the noise of her grief. But the quiet only deepens her isolation—until a mysterious stray dog appears, pulling her back into the world and forcing her to face what she’s been running from.
Set against the stunning red rock canyons, Nomad is a lyrical, emotionally charged debut about trauma, resilience, and the wild grit it takes to heal. As Corey grapples with loss and the ghosts of her past, she’s drawn into unexpected relationships that challenge her guarded heart and crack open the possibility of love.
For readers of Prodigal Summer and A Town Called Solace, this is the story of one woman’s return to herself through the rhythms of nature, the ache of memory, and the quiet, untamed beauty of connection. It’s a tender, tough meditation on the raw path to healing—and the fierce, fragile hope that blooms in its wake.
EXCERPT
I gather my leftover kitchen scraps and head out to feed the chickens. I collect their eggs, half a dozen today, then begin walking the dirt trail that leads to my greenhouse. The humidity slaps me the moment I open the door—my lush paradise, tucked within this parched desert.
Ten-foot-tall pitched ceilings offer breathing room while a long rectangular cedar frame, painted white, in need of another coat, surrounds me on all sides. I can almost taste the Roma tomatoes the moment I walk in, their sweetness filling the air, sugary, earthy. I nearly salivate thinking about the marinara I will soon be making with them. The floorboards let out gnarled moans as I walk past the lettuces, chard, kale, arugula, and butterhead, but I find these noises comforting and beautifully familiar by now, as if the earth has found its own way to greet me.
A potting station sits at the north end, overflowing with petri dishes teeming with seeds, vines, and propagating clippings in various stages of growth, as well as bags of soil, sand, and pumice. I have an arsenal of homemade fertilizers that I apply as needed, along with bottles of vinegar, baking soda, garlic, and neem to ward off viruses and disease. And anywhere there might be a shadow of space lie mounds of clay pots, awaiting their next seed. A collage of gardening tools hangs from hooks alongside an old battery-powered radio.
I check on my peppers, chilies, and melons. Inspect the potatoes and beans, then survey the onions, carrots, and herbs. I prune, pluck, snip, and clip, so thoroughly absorbed in my tasks, humming along to the staticky radio, that I nearly walk past the meandering crack in the windowpane in the southwest corner. I set down my basket of vegetables and step closer. A burgundy smear runs alongside the crack. How strange, I think, this looks like blood.
I step outside to inspect the crack, and as I crouch for a closer look, something catches my eye—a small tuft of saffron-colored hair. I roll it between my fingers, watching how it catches the bright morning light. When I bring it to my nose, the scent is unexpectedly primal—like desert soil after a storm. With a gentle toss, I release the strands into the wind and watch them scatter. The cactus wrens will find them, I think, picturing how they’ll weave this unexpected gift into their nests. Without a clear answer, I shrug off the mysterious crack and fetch my wheelbarrow. The metal joints creak in protest as I load it with empty water jugs and push it down the well-worn path through the manzanita grove. Suddenly, something flickers in my peripheral vision. I stop as a patch of sunflower stalks erupts into motion. My pulse quickens; out here, this kind of movement usually means rattlesnakes. I don’t want to take any chances. Keeping my eyes locked on the stalks, I inch backward, dragging the wheelbarrow along like a shield. Then—suddenly—a pointed ear pokes up through the tangle of gold flowers, followed by another. I exhale. It’s just a jackrabbit. I catch glimpses of its fur as it bounds away, disappearing into the thick brush.
Jackrabbits are common out here and certainly of no concern, so I continue down the path another few yards but pause when the rustling picks up again. It’s closer now, though still well-hidden. I turn toward the noise and make a short clicking sound with my tongue. Sure enough, the movement resumes. I watch curiously as the thick stalks slowly begin to part; it’s moving closer. I step back, unsure what to make of this unusual behavior, when suddenly, both ears emerge, followed by a snout and two large eyes. “What in the world?”
It’s a dog.
