“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.
