Chapter 21 #2
“There’s Lewis,” Noah nodded toward a gray-haired man selling honey jars, each one labeled with the type of flower the bees made it from. “Best beekeeper in the valley. And over there’s Rita. She makes soap from goat’s milk.”
Across from us, a band started up on the gazebo stage, a fiddle, a banjo, and what looked like a washboard. The music they played defied categorization, bluegrass meets rap meets poetry, fused with classic rock. Couples spun across a makeshift dance floor to the hypnotic beat.
“There’s more to our small little mountain town than you thought, huh?” Noah asked, reading my expression.
“Yeah. A lot more,” I admitted, surprising myself with how much I meant it.
Noah led me past storefronts with hand-painted signs and window displays that belonged in a Hallmark movie. He greeted passersby by name, fist-bumped kids, and paused to scratch dogs behind their ears. Oddly, I found myself wishing Yeti were there with us.
As Noah stopped to introduce me to his former first grade school teacher, who he still called Mrs. Harrison, I thought to myself, this wasn’t the gruff mountain man who I thought abandoned me.
“And that …” said Noah, recapturing my attention. He pointed to a weathered wooden stand. “That is my berry supplier, Mrs. Miller.”
I grabbed his arm without thinking, his biceps firm beneath my hand. “We’re stopping. Immediately.” If I had to wait for birch syrup glazed pecan scones … back at Noah’s place … the least he could do was woo me with more muffins.
An older woman with silver hair lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight of Noah. “Noah Barrett, about time you showed up.”
“Hey, Mrs. Miller.” Noah leaned over to kiss her cheek. “This is Sam.”
Mrs. Miller’s eyes sparkled with suspicion. “So you’re the one he’s been baking for.”
Before I could respond, or process what that might mean, she plucked a fat berry from one of the wooden baskets on the counter and held it out to me. “Try this, dear.” The berry was almost the size of a ping-pong ball.
I popped the berry into my mouth, and it burst across my tongue. Sweet, tart, and complex in a way that made the imported berries I bought in LA taste like plastic imitations. “Oh, wow.”
“Different from the sad grocery store ones, aren’t they?
” Mrs. Miller picked up another basket. “These grow wild on the mountainside. The altitude, the soil, the way the morning sun hits. It all matters. Plus, I know exactly where and when to pick ‘em. Been in the berry business since this one was knee high.” She patted Noah’s arm with affection.
“You knew Noah when he was a little boy?” I asked, fascinated by this glimpse into his past.
“Know him?” Mrs. Miller’s laugh rang out across the festival grounds. “He spent almost as much time at my farm as he did in the woods. Should’ve seen him the first time I caught him raiding my berry supply. Must’ve been what, ten?” She nudged Noah with her elbow.
Noah crossed his arms, assuming his grumpy persona. “Raiding seems like a strong word.”
“Face and hands stained purple. Tried to tell me he hadn’t touched a thing, but that mouth of his gave him away.”
“Something tells me Noah’s mouth gets him in trouble a lot,” I said, unable to resist.
“Sam, my dear, you have no idea.” Mrs. Miller shook her head, still grinning.
“His daddy marched him right back up to my farm the next morning. Had Noah doing farm chores every Saturday all summer to make it up to me.” Mrs. Miller sorted through her baskets.
“Turned out to be the best helper I ever had. Worked harder than any of the farmhands on the actual payroll, so I hired him to work the next couple of summers after too.”
“We should probably keep moving if you want to see the rest of the festival,” said Noah. He’d clearly had enough talk about his backstory, even though I found it fascinating.
“You two go on,” Mrs. Miller said, handing me a small basket of berries. “On the house. Consider it payment for putting up with this grump.”
Beyond the berry stand, cheers erupted from a row of wooden targets. I stretched up on my toes, trying to see past the crowd.
“Want to check out the games?” Noah nodded toward the commotion.
“Sure,” I said, popping another berry in my mouth. The juice stained my fingers purple, but it matched my nail polish, so it was all good.
“Might want to get your camera ready.”
We wandered past kids tossing rings onto bottles and teens shooting BB guns at metal ducks. A group of burly men in flannel shirts hurled horseshoes with deadly accuracy, metal ringing against metal with sharp clangs.
“Well?” Noah arched an eyebrow.
“Pretty much what I expected,” I said, gesturing around us. “Except I don’t see any lumberjacks doing that log balancing thing.”
“Over there.” Noah pointed over my shoulder. Sure enough, there they were, two flannel-clad beefcakes dancing on a spinning log floating in a stock tank full of water. One lost his balance and plunged in, the resulting splash sending kids running for cover.
“You should try something,” Noah said. “For research purposes. Show your followers a authentic Colorado experience.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Your pick.” He swept an arm over the row of game stations. “Just try not to hurt yourself.”
“Fine.” I planted my hands on my hips. “But only if you play, too. It’s not authentic unless a local demonstrates.”
“Deal.” Noah smirked. “What’ll it be?”
My eyes landed on a station where contestants were throwing axes at wooden targets. Most of them were missing spectacularly, the axes clattering to the ground or bouncing off handle-first.
“That one.” I pointed.
Noah’s eyebrows shot up. “Axe throwing?”
“What’s wrong? Afraid I’ll show you up?” I grabbed his sleeve and tugged him toward the line. “Come on, mountain man. Show me how it’s done.”
Noah slapped a twenty on the wooden counter. “Two rounds.”
A bearded man in a red and black buffalo check shirt handed us each a gleaming axe. “Three throws per person. Blue ring’s one point, red’s three. Bullseye gets five points. Keep your feet behind the line, and for God’s sake, don’t let go on the backswing.”
I tested the weight of the axe in my hand. It was heavier than I expected, the wooden handle smooth from countless throws. The blade glinted in the early evening sun.
“We can always do that one if you prefer.” Noah bobbed his head toward the kid version, where the axes were made of foam and stuck to the target using Velcro.
“No, I think I’m good.” I hefted the axe onto my shoulder. “Want to make this more interesting?”
“What do you mean, interesting?”
“Winner picks what we do next.”
“And what exactly would you pick?”
I gave him my best mysterious smile. “Lose and find out.”