Chapter 8 #2
Water bottles crammed into bushes, candy wrappers, plastic bags—so far, Maisie had collected three pacifiers and one lone shoe. She held the shoe up for Frankie to see. “How does someone not notice they’re missing this?”
“They don’t,” Frankie said flatly, tossing an empty water bottle into the bag. “Because most people are idiots.”
Maisie flicked another candy wrapper into her trash bag. “Fun fact! These roads were built in the 1920s by J. D. Rockefeller. He wanted them wide enough for carriages to drive through the park without ruining the landscape.”
Frankie snorted. “Yeah? Well, guess what? People still ruin it.”
Maisie didn’t let that slow her down. “Fun fact! The roads are made of crushed stone and were specifically designed to blend in with the natural landscape, so they’d look like they were meant to be there all along. And another fun fact: There are forty-five miles of carriage roads in the park.”
Frankie let out a groan. “We’ve only cleaned up a mile of ’em.”
“Well, this is probably the messiest mile since it’s closest to the vendors.”
“I’m talking about horses.”
“Oh. Right.” But Maisie was pleased that Frankie was listening to her. “Yet another fun fact! The carriage roads have stone bridges that are handcrafted to match the park’s style, which is pretty amazing. And each bridge has its own unique design.”
Frankie scrunched up his face. “Where do you learn all this junk?”
“It’s not junk!” She put her hands on her hips. “I read a lot.”
Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Fun fact. Reading too much can make you go blind.”
Maisie blinked. “Wait. Is that true?”
Frankie tugged a plastic bag free from a tangle of branches. “It’s like people think their junk is just going to vanish on its own. I wish I could vanish and go look for that gold.”
Maisie shot him a sharp look. “Shh. Don’t say gold.”
“Fine. Moola. Smackers. Greenbacks. Clams. Rubles.” He glanced over his shoulder as if conspirators were lurking behind the bushes. “Big deal. It’s not like anyone’s listening. I just know when I get my share, I’m spending it on a kayak.”
Maisie shook her head, hiding a small smile. “You really think you’re getting some of it?”
“Sure do. Ever heard of the finders-keepers rule?” Frankie shrugged like that settled it, flicking another piece of trash into his bag.
Maisie raised an eyebrow. “Uh, Scout’s the finder and the keeper.”
Frankie frowned, turning to her. “She wouldn’t have found it without me. So, technically, we both found it. That counts.”
Maisie didn’t miss a beat. “Nope. She found it. Then you found her.”
She didn’t add the rest of what she knew from Pops. That Frankie had left the whale oil house door unlatched. That Scout had come back to close it up, spotted a loose brick, and found the envelope hidden behind it.
The envelope.
A shadow passed through Maisie’s thoughts, like a cloud blotting out the sun—except there wasn’t any sun, just cold drizzle and mud.
She still felt really guilty about that envelope.
If she’d just left it in Pops’s desk, Chase Fletcher wouldn’t have gotten involved.
There wouldn’t be this enormous pressure to hurry up and find the gold.
But then again, she wouldn’t be here, spending the day side by side with Frankie. Her true love.
So maybe things worked out after all.
And just like that, rain started to fall on them.
A light rain was coming down by the time Scout parked the jeep in the Sand Beach parking lot.
“Ah, Beehive Trail,” Chase said, tapping his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I should’ve known.”
“Beehive Mountain,” Naki said. “There was no trail in the mid-1800s. That’s one of the reasons these clues are difficult for modern ears to understand.”
“Right,” Chase said. “Of course. But we can’t go up there in the rain.”
“It’s just a passing shower,” Naki said. “No thunder or lightning.”
“Still, the rocks will be slippery. I’ve done this hike before. To me, it’s as challenging as Precipice Trail. There are places up there that are pure iron rungs and ladders.”
“You’re right on both counts,” Naki said. “It is challenging and you can’t do it when you’re wearing the wrong shoes.” He opened the car door. “But I can. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”
Scout watched him dart through the parking lot until he reached the trailhead. “Really? Just an hour?”
“No way will he be back in an hour,” Chase said. “It’s not a long hike, but it always takes me a good three hours.”
Scout sighed, watching the raindrops hit the windshield.
“Actually, Scout, I’m glad we have some time alone. I wanted to explain why I took the envelope from the girl.”
“Her name is Maisie.” She turned around in the car to face him. “I’m listening.”
“My newspaper. The Gazette has been in our family for six generations. Six! It’s our legacy.
And . . . it’s failing.” His voice cracked on the last word.
“Small-town newspapers matter. They’ve built towns, toppled corrupt governments, exposed scandals, and ignited revolutions.
They’ve given a voice to the unheard and held the powerful accountable.
And I’ve been watching my legacy collapse. ”
“Your newspaper has done all that?”
“Well, no, not exactly. But small-town newspapers, in general, have had a big impact on their communities.” He braced his elbows on the front seat, leaning forward. “Scout, you get how I feel, don’t you? You’re as devoted to the parks as I am to my paper.”
Oh, ouch. He’d found her Achilles’ heel. More than he could realize.
“But this story, Scout . . . it’s the lifeline I’ve been praying for. It’s given me hope.” In his eyes was a plea. He wanted things to be good between them again. “Surely you can understand a feeling of . . . utter desperation, can’t you?”
Could she?
She looked over at the path that led to Beehive Trail. The air in the jeep had grown stuffy. Stifling. The rain was hitting the roof of the jeep hard, like pebbles. All of a sudden, she felt weirdly teary.
Chase’s words circled in her head: Surely you can understand a feeling of utter desperation.
Surely she could. All too well.
She had to get out of this jeep, get away from Chase Fletcher. “I think I’m going to go help Naki find that gold.” She opened the door and dashed over to the trailhead.
Scout squinted at the Beehive Trail sign, rainwater streaming into her eyes. A low-flying plane rumbled a low growl as it passed overhead, as if to warn her to head back. Should she? Maybe she should.
But heading back meant sitting with Chase Fletcher in the car. If she just kept walking, she’d bump into Naki, hopefully on his return trip. Because she wasn’t quite ready for climbing up Beehive Trail.
Scout was deathly afraid of heights—not that anyone knew.
She’d never breathed a word. Instead, she forced herself through low-elevation climbs, signed up for indoor rock gyms, even earned a basic certification in rappelling, just to prove she could.
All of it carefully staged, never more than a few feet off the ground.
She’d mastered the art of looking confident while quietly panicking, all thanks to her simple, ironclad strategy: Don’t look down. It worked. Mostly.
The day she found out she’d been assigned to Baker Island had been a quiet victory. God’s gift! She could remain at sea level.
Her counselor, Elizabeth, hadn’t just nudged—she’d practically bulldozed Scout toward facing her irrational fear of heights. And where better than Acadia, she told Scout on their last Zoom, the very place where her acrophobia had taken root?
“You can’t go through life avoiding the view,” Elizabeth liked to remind her. “Especially for someone who chose to become a ranger.” As if Scout needed that pointed out. “The best views come after the hardest climbs.”
Annoyingly hard to argue with.
Honestly, Scout thought Elizabeth was blowing things out of proportion. Plenty of people were afraid of heights. It wasn’t some deep, unresolved issue—it was common sense, plain and simple. It was a healthy respect for gravity.
But Elizabeth was relentless, always going on about taking “small steps.”
Scout let out a breath. Fine. If she had to pick between taking this small step or sitting in a car with Chase—someone she was extremely disappointed in—then up Beehive Trail she would go.
It probably wasn’t as hard as Chase made it out to be.
Scout had heard that before—Elizabeth reminded her all the time.
Reality rarely lived up to the drama of imagination.
If Naki said it would only take him an hour to get up and back, then fine—Scout could handle an hour.
She’d handled worse. Besides, it would be good practice.
A controlled dose of discomfort. She could practically hear Elizabeth’s voice in her head: Small steps, Scout. That’s how you climb.
The first part was straightforward, winding through the woods on a clearly marked trail. Moving fast, it didn’t take long to reach Naki—though he was halfway up a stretch of steep granite steps, his movements deliberate and sure-footed despite the rain.
As if he sensed she was nearby, he paused to look down at her over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I am a ranger.” Scout gripped a step above her for balance.
Naki didn’t push back. “The trail gets harder from here on. Lots of rock scrambles. Watch your footing.”
As if she didn’t know that! But as the granite staircase gave way to a narrow ledge, Scout immediately understood what he meant. The rock face sloped downward at a sharp angle, slick with rain. She nearly slipped but caught herself with her hands against the wall. Don’t look down, don’t look down.
Naki reached the first iron rung ladder and paused to glance down at her. “Scout, it’s okay to turn back.”
“Not happening,” Scout said, already scrambling to keep up with him. And it was a scramble! The ladder rungs were cold and slippery under her hands.
“You’re okay with heights, right?” Naki said, climbing effortlessly.