Chapter 22
Noah
The park near the town square is packed, folks having shown up in droves for Darling’s first-ever treasure hunt. It’s only eight in the morning, but vendors are already set up along the sidewalks, selling donuts, coffee, and other easy to-go breakfast foods. My uncle stayed home today, but there are plenty of people in the crowd I recognize.
Including the Darlings.
Colton is standing beside his parents, Hank and Marigold. Remington is nearby, although he’s looking at his phone, seemingly preoccupied. I don’t spot Lawson or his daughter. But Jackson and his blonde boyfriend Ashley are talking to one another, Jackson with a small smile on his face I’m not used to seeing on the man.
Colton doesn’t notice me, not right away. I wish he’d look over here, if only so I could see that blush spread across his cheeks that’s been a near constant these past couple weeks. For going on nearly forty, the man is surprisingly…pure. Not in a sexual sense. There’s nothing innocent about the way he pleads with me to make him come with my hand, my cock on his, or even my mouth.
But as soon as the deed is done, he turns almost…bashful. Embarrassed, maybe? Is he still struggling with his sexuality?
Somehow, I don’t think that’s it. He’s only gotten bolder in that regard. If anything, he seems downright eager to get his hands on me every time he visits my barn, even as he assures me with breathily spoken words that he hates my very guts.
Message received.
Yet, for all the ways Colton claims to despise me, he still blushes when I tell him how good he feels. Or when I threaten to put him on his knees.
When I call him little Colt.
And that, well… I’m not sure I’ve ever felt anything as satisfying as making Colton Darling show his begrudging arousal.
Part of me says it’s because I’ve found a weakness of his to exploit. That’s all.
But the truth is—seeing Colton look at me with something other than contempt for once? It feels like a battle I’ve been fighting for years.
And finally, I’ve won.
Colton still doesn’t notice me, so I head over to a table with donuts, shedding my jacket as I go. It’s plenty warm today, even this early in the morning, and it’ll only get warmer as we move into summer. The maple trees in the park are fully leafed out now, their green foliage spanning out like stars.
I eat a custard donut as I wait for the contest to begin.
“Hi there, Noah.”
Wiping my mouth, I turn to find Marigold Darling appraising me. Her brunette hair, mixed heavily with silver these days, is loose, reaching just below her shoulders. Her eyes are a shrewd yet warm brown. I see a lot of Colton in her. The squared jawline. The shape of their noses. Even the crinkles at the corners of their eyes.
“Ma’am,” I reply, cleaning the sugar off my fingers with a napkin.
“Haven’t seen you around since the Shoein’,” she says.
I simply nod.
“It was quite the sight watching you and my son compete. I know he wishes the results would have swung in a different direction, but there’s no denying you did a fine job with that horse.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She snorts lightly, a small smile twisting the corner of her lips. “You can call me Marigold. Not that it matters one way or another, but are you self-taught or did you go to a farrier school?”
“I took courses back in Wyoming,” I tell her. “Horseshoeing, blacksmithing, animal husbandry, and the like. Got my business degree there, as well.”
She nods thoughtfully. “No wonder my son found such a worthy adversary in you. I hope you two keep pushing each other.”
I raise an eyebrow, but Mrs. Darling doesn’t give me a chance to respond.
“Glad to see you’re doing well, Noah. Good luck today.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Marigold walks back toward her family, and I lock eyes with Colton, who’s looking at me with a furrowed brow. There’s a question there, one I don’t have an answer to. I’m not sure why his mother came over to talk to me.
I pull out my phone, looking away only to type.
Me: Ready to lose?
Colton looks surprised as he grabs his phone from his pocket. He reads my text, and I swear the corner of his mouth twitches before he flips me off, attempting a scowl.
I snort.
Oh, it’s on.
After signing in for the event, I wait where the other couple hundred clue-finders are congregated, near the stone statue of a horse reared up, a rider on its back. There’s an actual padlocked chest near the foot of the statue, presumably holding the winner’s reward.
I’m guessing the final clue leads to a key.
Mr. Yadav from the board, the same man who called the Shoein’, introduces the event. There are twenty clues spread throughout town, he explains, each leading to the next in line. The winner must collect all the clues before opening the chest, so there’s no jumping ahead.
“Now,” Mr. Yadav continues, “the clues are placed such that it’s possible to finish the event in three hours. That being said, we suspect it may take longer. There will be plenty of refreshments offered for those who wish to stop back for lunch or a snack. If no one has come to collect the prize by six this evening, the event will come to a close and the individual who’s amassed the most clues will win the prize. All clear?”
There’s a bunch of nodding and excited murmuring from the crowd.
“All right, then,” Mr. Yadav says. “Let the Darling Treasure Hunt begin!”
Raising a bullhorn in his hand, he lets out an ear-splitting blast.
“Jesus,” I mutter, rushing to the basket where the first clues are waiting. My ears ring as I unfurl the small scroll, everyone around me doing the same.
The clue is printed in looping typeface, the entire thing no bigger than the palm of my hand. I hold the paper carefully as I read.
A head with no legs.
It hops but doesn’t jump.
What is it?
Hops. A head…of foam? Beer . The distillery.
People all around me are scattering, running every which way. A few take off down the street toward the Darling distillery, but many go in other directions. I hesitate for all of a second before trusting my gut.
I’m not the first one to reach the distillery, but I can’t tell if anyone has found the clues yet. A bunch of people are going through the front doors, so I head around back, hoping to get lucky. My pulse jumps when I see a barrel set beside the back door. A couple of folks run past me in the opposite direction. Did they already find the next clue?
I jog over to the barrel and lift the lid, a grin lighting my face when I spot the small scrolls. I snatch one up and take off before reading it, not wanting to lead anyone else to where they are.
The morning sun casts a hazy glow over my hands as I stop behind the bakery and unroll the paper.
It sees many but owns none.
Once broken now undone.
A mustang is just one.
What is it?
A slow smile curves my lips.
Cars. A mustang is a car. And who fixes broken cars but doesn’t own them? This clue must be for the mechanic’s shop.
Shit . Walter was right.
This is fun.
I make my way to my bike, tugging my jacket back on before strapping on my helmet. Daphne purrs to life, and with a twist of my wrist, we’re off.
Ratchet, the mechanic, lives near the border of Darling. His shop is on the same plot of land as his house. I’ve been there a time or two for my own vehicles. When I pull up now, a few other clue-finders are scattered around. I try not to worry too hard about all the people I see, knowing there’s plenty of time still to get ahead.
I pull Daphne to a stop and lean the bike’s weight against the kickstand. I don’t bother taking off my helmet, just look around for an object that might be holding clues. The folks here are all near their own vehicles or leaving, so it takes me a minute, but I finally find the little scrolls inside a massive wheel at the side of the building.
I head back to my bike and read.
Hard as a stone and soft as butter.
Bruise it, and it doesn’t change color.
Yet dry, it becomes another.
What is it?
This one takes me longer. Several minutes, in fact. But finally, I think I have it.
Plums are a stone fruit with soft, purple flesh, like a bruise. Dehydrated, they become prunes. It’s gotta be Plum’s Grocers.
And just like that, I’m off.
I do find the next clue at Plum’s, and after that, I head to the antiques market and then the community center. Everywhere I go, I see other teams working to solve their clues. And it’s always teams. Adults or adults with kids. I seem to be the only person working solo. If there are others, I haven’t run into them.
I don’t let it get to me, determined to see this thing through to the end, whether or not I win. Which, let’s face it, is a long shot with so many participants.
Around noon, I stop for a few minutes in town, eating a quick lunch before moving on. It’s past the three-hour mark at this point, but the chest is still sitting below the statue, locked tight.
I keep at it for another hour and a half and am at clue number fourteen when I spot a familiar truck.
Colton’s. He’s here with Jackson and Ashley.
They look up at me as I pull my bike into the parking lot of the alpaca farm. My engine cuts out, and they go back to discussing what’s on their clue, but Colton’s gaze holds mine for a good long moment.
I head past them toward the shop where wool items are sold and folks can buy tickets to see the animals. I’m not buying any tickets today, but I hit jackpot near a display of scarves. A thick rope basket is filled with scrolls, and I breathe out a sigh of relief at seeing so many.
I grab a clue before glancing at the scarves again, remembering Walter could use a new one for winter. I pick one out in a blue I know he’ll like and head to the register to pay.
“Enjoying the treasure hunt?” the owner, Ms. Bellevue, asks. She flips the handmade tag over, checking the price on the scarf before entering it into the register.
“I am,” I tell her, wondering briefly if she remembers me from the one time I visited her farm when I was seventeen. I don’t ask, knowing it was long ago and she has plenty of visitors come through. “Have many folks stopped in yet?”
Ms. Bellevue smiles, the outsides of her eyes wrinkling. “Well, now, I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tell you that. But since no one told me not to, no. There haven’t been many. That’ll be twenty-two dollars.”
“Thank you,” I say, passing over cash as she bags my purchase.
“Mhm. You have a good rest of your day now. And good luck.”
I thank the woman again before exiting the shop. Colton’s group is still near his truck, whispering amongst themselves. I stash the scarf in one of my saddlebags before unfurling the next clue.
Wings incapable of flight.
Hurry you must but gander you might.
Heed, five are waiting.
What is it?
Wings incapable of flight. A flightless bird?
Five are waiting. Does that mean the final five clues? But why would they warn us, unless…
Wings incapable of flight .
Which means walking. Where do you walk with the intention of looking around?
Holy fuck.
It’s the trails. The last five clues are near the mountain trails.
“But which one?” I hear hissed from nearby. Someone makes a shh sound, but that’s the question, isn’t it? Which trail?
Hawk Hollow? Or Eagle Back?
“We’ll split up,” Colton says, voice quiet. “It makes the most sense. Your truck is on the way there anyhow.”
“Yeah, all right,” Jackson agrees. “You’ll take west? We’ll go east?”
“Yeah,” Colton says. “Let’s go.”
I glance up as the men get into the truck, Colton’s eyes snagging on me for just a moment. West. He’s taking Hawk Hollow. The smart thing to do would be to go east to Eagle Back. Except, if I choose wrong, and Colton chooses right…
I get on my bike, taking to the road. I don’t bother speeding ahead of Colton’s group, knowing it’s not necessary. They split off before long for Jackson’s truck, and I get my head start.
I make it to Hawk Hollow trailhead fifteen minutes later, not a soul in sight, although there is a single vehicle parked in the lot. I pull off my helmet to search the area, guessing wherever the next clue is, it’ll be close, not down any number of diverging paths into the mountains. I find the metal barrel hidden away behind a tree.
My adrenaline is high as I head back to the parking lot. The clue this time is a picture. A map of the trails that loosely form the shape of a hawk. There’s a single blue dot at one wing tip, a spot just over two miles from here down accessible trails.
I look that way, the sun high overhead. The intention is to walk, I’m sure of it. But…
There’s an access point a few miles down the road. It’s closed to vehicles, but my motorcycle could manage. I’d get there quicker.
Making a snap decision, I hop back on my bike and head that way. I can feel the thrill of competition thrumming through my veins, the desire to win heavier now than it was in the beginning. It only takes a couple minutes to reach the access point, and I ease past the metal guard rail and onto the dirt path. Technically, there are no markers prohibiting motorcycles, so I pray like hell I’m not making a mistake.
I see the shape of a box a mile down the path. A smile forms on my lips.
And that’s when my back end fishtails roughly.
The loose stones underneath me make it impossible to correct my momentum in time, and my bike goes down, me with it. I grit my teeth as the metal frame rolls over my leg, but then it’s skidding past, the beautiful red body skating over dirt and stones as I watch on in dismay. I wasn’t going that fast. I’m not terribly hurt.
But fuck .
My bike.
With a wince, I push myself to my feet, wiping dust and stones off the side of my pant leg. Another wince has me checking my palm, which is scraped up but not bleeding all that badly. The cuts are shallow.
“Fuck,” I mutter aloud, stepping over to my motorcycle.
Daphne has a blown tire.
“Goddamn it,” I groan. Her scratched exterior is the least of my worries if I can’t even drive her out of here. The fuck am I going to do now? Walter can’t come get me. I could call a tow truck, but that would put me out of this race.
Of course, there is one person I know is close by. One who could help load up my bike without much time wasted for either of us.
I don’t expect him to answer, not right now, but Colton picks up on the second ring.
“Hello?” he asks slowly.
“Colt. Hey.”
“Uh, King?”
I nearly roll my eyes. “Yeah, it’s me. I need a favor.”
Colton is quiet, so I go on.
“I crashed my bike. Can you come get me?”
“Holy fuck,” he says, sounding far more alert. “Are you all right? What happened? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, brushing my fingers against my sore palm. “No big deal. But I’m a bit stranded.”
“Yeah, no, I…” A pause, and then, “Where are you?”
“Near the Hawk Hollow access point on Mason?”
“Yeah, I know it. I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you, Colt. I owe you.”
“Um, yeah,” he says quietly, and then he ends the call.
With a defeated sigh, I pick up my busted bike and walk it back toward the guard rail.
So much for my lead.