Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
As Noah and I stepped out of the Aster Park veterinary clinic and into the late afternoon sun, I felt like someone had lifted the weight of a full-grown moose off my shoulders.
The osprey would make it. No broken bones, no permanent damage.
Just exhaustion and some minor scrapes that would heal over time.
In a couple of days, they planned to move her to a local bird of prey rehabilitation center. She’d be good as new in no time.
I named her Vera.
“Thank you for letting me come,” I said, falling into step beside Noah as we headed back toward the Jeep. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders relaxed.
“You helped save it,” said Noah, his voice missing its usual mountain-flavored grumpiness. “Couldn’t have done it alone.” He glanced at the sky, reading the sun like a clock. “Too late to climb Devil’s Ridge now. Guess I should get you back to the resort.”
“Guess so.”
Music drifted down the street, the lilting strains of a fiddle weaving through the mountain air.
The town square bustled with activity. Colorful banners stretched between lampposts.
Food trucks lined the street, windows open to release aromas of grilled BBQ and sweet corn.
Kids chased each other through the crowd, faces painted like woodland creatures, foxes, raccoons, and chipmunks.
“What’s going on over there?” I asked, drawn by the cheerful sounds of acoustic guitar and children’s laughter.
“Mountain Heritage Festival.” Noah pointed to a flyer taped to a lamppost. “There’s a new festival here every week. Locals try to make the most of the tourist season during the summer. Music. Food. Games. Whole town turns out for them.”
“I like music, food, and games.”
“Want to check it out?” Noah asked, a new bounce in his tone. “Authentic Colorado is more than just mountains and rivers.”
“Is it now?” I raised an eyebrow, trying not to show how intrigued I was by this version of Noah, the one who rescued birds and apparently enjoyed local festivals.
“Follow me.”
The festival transformed Aster Park’s town square into a labyrinth of stalls and tents, each one packed with local artisans showing off their crafts.
Quilts with intricate mountain patterns hung at one booth.
Another displayed hand-carved wooden animals.
Noah navigated through the crowd with easy familiarity while I trailed behind, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells.
“These guys make the best elk sausage in Colorado,” said Noah. “Ever try elk?”
I made a face. “No. I prefer my food not to contain my favorite Disney characters.”
Noah laughed. “They make a Disney character safe option too.” He steered me toward a food truck painted with mountain scenes in vibrant blues and greens. “Local mushrooms and herbs, wild rice, some secret ingredients they won’t tell anyone.”
The aroma of roasted garlic and caramelized onions wafted toward us, making my mouth water. “That actually sounds amazing. So you actually eat food that didn’t once have antlers?”
“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
Under a nearby tent, a local author set up shop. The book propped up on the table featured what looked like Bigfoot and a scantily clad mountain woman, bosom bursting from her blouse. Noah pointed to it. “Except that one. I read Charlene’s latest, and that pretty much sums it up.”
“Hey, Noah,” said the author, batting her eyes at him.
“Hey Charlene,” Noah replied.
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” I asked.
“What, that I enjoy a wide variety of fine literature?”
“No,” I said. “That you know how to read.”
“You might be surprised at some of the things I know how to do.”
Luckily, we hadn’t started eating our sausages yet because if we had, I definitely would have choked. A flood of heat blossomed inside me like I’d just submerged the lower half of my body in a thermal pool.
I followed Noah to the food truck, where he flashed two fingers at the bearded, flanneled man behind the counter. “All the fixings.”
The man placed two plump, herb-flecked sausages on a grill that hissed and popped.
The smell intensified, earthy and aromatic with hints of sage and thyme.
He nestled each sausage in a toasted pretzel bun, then piled on grilled peppers and onions before drizzling everything with a spicy maple aioli.
I reached for my wallet, but Noah waved me off.
“My treat.” He handed over the cash. “Consider it payment for your osprey rescue services.”
We found a spot at the edge of the square, sitting on a low stone wall beneath an aspen tree. Golden leaves fluttered in the breeze. I took a tentative bite of the sausage, flavor exploding across my tongue.
“This is amazing,” I admitted, taking another, bigger bite. A glob of maple aioli oozed onto my shirt. “Whoops.”
“Here.” Before I could even move, Noah reached over with a napkin, dabbing at the stain. Our eyes met, and he pulled back quickly, clearing his throat.
The silence stretched from uncomfortable to awkward.
I could tell Noah had something to say, but he wasn’t sure if he should say it. I had to remind myself to breathe.
“It really is good,” I said again, just to fill the void.
“You doubted me?” Noah’s eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Lately, I’ve been reviewing trendy fusion restaurants where they serve tiny portions on oversized plates and charge eighty dollars for the privilege.”
“Yeah, I bet,” said Noah. “You’ve come a long way from reviewing those tiny hole-in-the-wall taquerías.”
“Wait. What? How do you know about that? I haven’t posted one of those videos in years.”
Noah looked like I’d just caught him with his hand in the mountain trail mix jar. He spent a long time staring down at his half-eaten sausage. “So,” he began.
“So?”
He wadded up the napkin, avoiding my gaze. “I have a confession to make.”
“A confession?” My brain pin-balled through the possibilities. Noah actually hated flannel. Noah was actually allergic to mountains. Noah secretly liked to dress up in a Bigfoot costume and ravish scantily clad, big-bosomed mountain women.
“I looked you up before meeting you at the airport.”
“You did?”
“Well, since your flight was late, I had a lot of time to kill. Brie let me borrow her phone, and I scrolled through some of your posts.”
I was still holding my sausage up in front of my face, eyes wide, frozen mid-bite.
“Actually, a lot of your posts. Maybe … most of them.”
Slowly, I lowered my sausage. “Wow.” It was the best I could manage.
“I mean, I had a lot of time to kill. And I wanted to see what I was up against.”
“Up against? Noah, I didn’t come here to …”
He held up his hand, stopping me. “I know, I know. I mean, I know that now. But at the time …”
“No wonder you left me at the airport.”
Noah chewed his bottom lip, tilting his head slightly so he could look over at me without quite meeting my eyes. “Yeah. So I have a confession about that too.”
“Another confession?” I braced myself for the big Bigfoot reveal.
“I didn’t actually leave you at the airport.” Noah took another bite, redirecting all his focus to chewing.
“Um ... I’m pretty sure you did leave me at the airport. Remember? I was there. You drove off into the sunset.”
Noah shifted uncomfortably. “Actually, I drove around the corner, waited a bit, then came back. But you were gone. I figured you went back inside, so I parked and went inside myself. Searched everywhere. Brie’s coffee shop, the gift shop, even sweet-talked my way past security to check inside the terminal. ”
My stomach did a weird little flip, and not from the sausage.
“You really came back for me?” The circumstances of our first interaction had haunted me ever since.
Now, a wave of relief washed over me as powerful as the relief I felt when we found out Vera the Osprey was going to be okay.
Noah had misjudged me. But I had misjudged him too.
“I’m sorry, Sam. It was stupid, and I wasn’t thinking. I was pissed at LuxeLife and … doesn’t matter. It wasn’t my best moment, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“I did kinda provoke you,” I admitted.
“I guess a part of me just wanted to prove you weren’t the one in charge. Which, for the record, you still aren’t.”
“Oh, I’m totally in charge,” I said. “I just let you think you are.”
“Well, technically, I guess Victoria’s the one in charge. She’s the one holding the purse strings.”
“You can say that again.” We continued eating, with me reflecting on everything Noah had said. If he hadn’t actually left me … it sorta changed everything. Didn’t it?
“We must have just missed each other.” His expression softened. “How’d you get over to the resort, anyway?”
“I took a taxi.”
“You drove with Al?”
The taxi ride to the resort with Al would forever remain seared in memory. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Aster Park has limited transportation options.”
“That tracks.”
“Did he talk to you about flapjacks?”
“Yes. A lot. Like, really a lot.”
“Birch syrup?”
“That, too.”
“Damn. Now I’m really sorry.” Noah shook his head. “I might have to make you a batch of my birch syrup glazed pecan scones to make it up to you.”
“Might have to? Try definitely have to. In fact, maybe we should go straight back to your place and …” I stopped, realizing what I’d said. “I mean …”
“You still have a lot of authentic Colorado to see first,” said Noah, rescuing me from my tangle of words just as surely as he’d rescued me from the tangled ropes on the climbing wall. “Ready to see the rest of the festival?”
“After you.”
Noah helped me to my feet, and we strolled deeper into the festival. Under a striped tent, a teenage girl demonstrated how to make something called chokecherry syrup while her grandmother explained the traditional ways to use it.
I pulled out my phone to capture the scene. Kids with sticky faces eating kettle corn. Elderly couples holding hands.