A cheer went up from the shoreline. I’d forgotten about our audience, hikers and fisherman, tourists and families enjoying the outdoors. Their applause echoed across the lake, genuine and immediate in a way that no number of heart emojis could ever match. No filters, no careful framing, no strategic hashtags. Just real people celebrating a real moment.
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, thelilting 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 optiontoo.” 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.
