Chapter 19
19
C harlie Grace woke before dawn. She flipped on the bedside lamp, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before pulling herself from under the downy comforter and heading to the closet. What did one even wear to a television filming?
A mix of excitement and nerves pulsed through her as she rifled through her clothes, debating between casual and polished, finally settling on a fitted denim jacket over a soft, earth-toned blouse and dark jeans—put-together but still true to her ranch roots.
After slipping into her favorite pair of boots, she stood at the mirror, sweeping on a touch of mascara and blush, then smoothing a hint of gloss over her lips. Satisfied but still buzzing with anticipation, she pulled her hair into a loose braid and headed downstairs.
She barely made it to the landing before she stopped short. There, standing in the middle of the living room, was Jewel.
Charlie Grace blinked. “Oh. Oh no.”
Her eight-year-old daughter had clearly dressed herself, and the result was...a spectacle. She wore a sequined tutu over her jeans, a bright yellow T-shirt featuring a sparkly unicorn, cowboy boots—with bright pink knee-high stockings peeking over the top—and a red feather boa draped over her shoulders for added flair. Atop her head sat a tiara.
“Jewel.” Charlie Grace pressed her fingers to her temple. “Honey, what are you wearing?”
Jewel beamed. “My TV outfit! I want to sparkle for the cameras.”
“You look like a Vegas showgirl who got lost on a cattle drive.”
Her daughter grinned. “Isn’t it awesome?”
“No, ma’am.” Charlie Grace gently gripped her daughter’s shoulders and spun her around. “Upstairs. Aunt Mo will help you find something...less bedazzled.”
“Fine,” Jewel huffed, stomping up the stairs. “But if I don’t look amazing, I’m blaming you.”
Charlie Grace took a deep breath and turned toward the kitchen, only to be met with her father, Clancy, rolling in like he owned the place. He was wearing his Sunday best—a navy suit, bolo tie, and cowboy boots polished to a mirror shine. A custom Stetson sat perched on top of his graying head.
“Dad,” she sighed. “Why are you dressed like you’re meeting the president?”
Clancy puffed his chest. “Gotta look sharp for the cameras. Might get discovered. Never know when Hollywood’s looking for a silver fox.” He winked.
Charlie Grace pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re not being discovered. And you might want to tone it down just a little.”
“Too late. Already committed.”
Before she could argue, the distant sound of an engine caught her attention. Then another. And another.
Charlie Grace walked to the window and groaned. A line of cars snaked down the lane toward the ranch.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” She pressed her forehead to the cool glass. “The whole town is coming. Uninvited.”
The lead car, a sleek black Escalade, rolled to a stop, and Reva stepped out with Lila popping from the passenger side, camera in hand.
Charlie Grace met them in the yard, narrowed her eyes, and pointed. “I don’t think filming is allowed.” She glanced between her friends. “The contract clearly states?—”
Lila held up the camera, determined. “I’m not facing Capri without everything captured. She hopes to get released from the rehab facility next week. Until then, she expects me to bring her the full experience.”
Before Charlie Grace could protest, another car pulled up. The vehicle barely came to a stop before the door flung open and Nicola Cavendish poured out in all her nosy glory, with Wooster right behind, struggling with Sweetpea, the perpetually yappy Yorkie.
“Well, well, well!” Nicola said at full volume. “A national television crew, right here in Thunder Mountain. I thought the Bear Country show over in Jackson was a big deal—but this? Right here in our little town? Well, you know what this means, Charlie Grace?”
“That I’m about to develop a migraine?”
“No!” Nicola clapped her hands. “It means this ranch is about to become famous!”
The Knit Wits arrived in Dorothy Vaughn’s old sedan, spilling out like they’d just rolled in from a quilting bee—arms full of tote bags, each with a thermos in hand and tins of homemade goodies.
Chatter and laughter filled the air as they adjusted their sun hats, straightened their cardigans, and bustled toward the gathering, ready to dispense wisdom, opinions, and just the right amount of small-town nosiness.
“These are for Nick,” announced Betty, thrusting a goody box into Charlie Grace’s hands. “He loves lemon bars.”
Albie Barton hustled forward, notebook in hand, practically vibrating with excitement. “Most exciting news since—well, the earthquakes last fall! This is going to be front-page material!”
Charlie Grace barely had time to gather herself before Nick’s truck pulled up. Unlike the others, he unfolded from the driver’s seat, broad and unhurried, scanning the scene with the sharp-eyed calculation of someone who missed nothing. His eyes soon locked on hers in that way that always made her stomach flutter. Smiling, he strolled over and pulled her into a warm embrace.
“You ready for this?” he asked, voice low.
Charlie Grace sighed and handed him the goody box. “Do I have a choice?”
Before Nick could respond, Clancy gave him an approving nod and a firm pat on the arm. “Oh, she’s ready. Right, Jewel?”
Jewel, now dressed in a slightly more appropriate outfit—emphasis on slightly—grinned up at them. “Yeah! We’re gonna be on television!”
Charlie Grace leaned close and whispered. “I sure hope you’ve got this under control.”
Nick grinned. “Trying my best.”
Just then, the deep rumble of an approaching box truck echoed through the crisp morning air. The television crew had arrived. The vehicle rolled to a stop just beyond the barn, kicking up a swirl of dust. A second SUV followed, both emblazoned with the logo of the national Treasure Pickers show.
The truck doors flung open, and out spilled a flurry of activity. Crew members in well-worn jeans, branded jackets, and utility vests moved with precision, hauling cases of cameras, boom mics, and collapsible light stands. A man in his late forties, built like an old, retired football player but with a tech-savvy edge, adjusted his baseball cap and strode toward Nick. His name tag read Frank Ellis, the show’s lead producer and on-air host. His sun-lined face broke into a practiced, easygoing smile.
“Nick Thatcher?” he asked, extending a calloused hand.
“That’s me,” Nick said, shaking it firmly.
Frank glanced around at the gathering townspeople, noting how some had drifted a little too close, their curiosity getting the better of them. He exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Gotta love the enthusiasm, but we need some space to work.”
Nick caught the hint and sauntered over to the crowd, hands in his pockets, wearing his easygoing but authoritative expression. “Alright, folks, I know this is exciting, but we need to give the crew some room to do their thing. Step back a little, and I’m gonna need everyone to keep it quiet while they’re filming.”
There were a few murmurs and reluctant shuffles, but soon enough, the line of eager onlookers shifted back, settling into place just beyond where the crew was erecting a makeshift barrier.
Aunt Mo ushered Jewel back while grabbing the handles of Clancy’s wheelchair. “C’mon, Jewel, let’s let the professionals do their thing.”
Jewel, arms folded, let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine…but do you think they’ll give me their autograph?”
Mo patted her on the shoulder. “I’m sure they will—when they get finished. And you’ll still get to see everything, just from back here.”
As the townsfolk waited behind the rope barrier, another figure emerged from an SUV—a petite blonde with sharp green eyes and a clipboard clutched to her chest. The woman was introduced as Tess Harper, the field director. The woman exuded an air of crisp efficiency, her dark leggings and rugged boots paired with an oversized sweater and a chunky scarf. She tucked her pen behind her ear as she surveyed the property.
“This place is fantastic,” she said, turning to Nick. “You live here?”
Nick motioned toward Charlie Grace. “She does.” His face filled with pride as he explained she was the owner of Teton Trails Guest Ranch, a thriving retreat nestled in the foothills of the Tetons.
“She runs the whole operation,” he continued. “Guests come from all over for guided trail rides, cabin stays, and a real taste of ranch life. It’s one of the best spots in the region.”
Frank raised an impressed eyebrow. “That so?” He turned to Charlie Grace. “Sounds like you’ve built quite the place.”
Charlie Grace shrugged modestly, though a flicker of satisfaction shone in her eyes. “It’s been a labor of love. My dad started the ranch, and I’ve carried his dream forward.”
Tess, the field director, jotted something in her notebook. “A working guest ranch with history? That might make for some good footage, too.”
Charlie Grace chuckled. “Long as you don’t expect me to put on a show.”
Frank grinned. “No need. A place like this speaks for itself.”
Tess tucked her clipboard under her arm before turning to a cameraman who had just finished setting up a rig. Charlie Grace was introduced to Doug, a bearded giant in cargo pants and a flannel shirt, who hoisted a camera onto his shoulder and tested the lighting. Meanwhile, their sound tech, Milo, a lanky guy with glasses and a knit cap, fiddled with a boom mic.
Charlie Grace stepped forward, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “If you’re looking for hidden gems, there’s an attic in the barn full of stuff you might want to go through.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “Attic, huh?”
She nodded. “Dad said some of it might be valuable,” she shrugged, “but I’m not sure.”
Tess perked up, exchanging a glance with Frank. “Attics are gold mines,” she murmured, making another note.
Frank’s grin widened. “Alright, then. First order of business—let’s see what treasures you’ve got up there.”
Charlie Grace shot Nick a look, a flicker of anticipation in her eyes. He smirked. “Guess we’re about to find out if Clancy was right.”
With that, the crew grabbed their gear, and the whole production moved toward the barn, cameras rolling, ready to unearth whatever history had been tucked away for decades.