I startle awake, my skin feeling clammy, like the air has been vacuumed out of my lungs, and the pounding in my head returns. I should have unzipped the tent door before lying down. I raise my wrist, noting only twenty minutes have gone by. Jack is probably standing guard outside with an axe, ready to growl at anyone who passes too close. I’ll have to teach him how to see the brighter side of things. It’ll do him good to learn that not everything is a thriller with bad guys around every corner.
Sensing a little dehydration, I crawl out of my tent and immediately scowl at the sun. It’s still way too high for the number of hours I’ve been awake. Why is it not bedtime?
I shuffle into the flip-flops I doubted I’d need, grateful I brought them after all. Not having to shove my hot, tired feet into socks and dusty shoes is pretty close to heavenly.
My body feels like it’s aged ten years as I straighten, hobbling to peek inside Jack’s tent, only to find it empty. I smile at how he’s unpacked some of his things, arranging them neatly at the sides or hanging them from straps at the top of his tent. Total contrast to the chaos in mine.
Maybe he’s already come and gone somewhere else?
A rust-colored film of dust gathers, coating my feet as I shuffle to the picnic table. My movement halts, the sight of what’s pinned on a nearby tree squeezing my lungs. My arms go rigid, my fists curled in tight as I take measured steps forward.
Is this some kind of joke?
Every desaturated mauve shadow takes on a sinister hue as my eyes travel over the nearby rocky crevices. A bird squawks, and my eyes flinch back to the pocket knife ominously pinning my jacket and a torn scrap of paper to the tree.
The knife is sliced rudely through the beautiful coral fabric. I didn’t even get a chance to wear it.
“The hell?” Jack’s gravelly, fury-laced voice makes me jump. “Who did this?” He steps closer, ripping the note away, leaving a tiny corner of paper flapping under the blade.
I may not know him well, but I can tell this is a new level of anger for him.
“Leave the backpack, and nobody gets hurt,” he reads aloud before roughly dropping his hand, nostrils flaring.
Well, that answers my questions about Marigold’s weird little trinket being somehow involved in…whatever is going on. I grimace, biting my lip.
“So…there’s something I should probably tell you. But don’t freak out,” I begin, raising my hands placatingly when Jack’s eyes become saucers. “It’s all a misunderstanding, and you’ll see I’m completely innocent in this whole thing. But you may want to rethink your tactics.” A nervous laugh bubbles from my chest. I can’t tell if he’s two seconds from handcuffing me or if he wants to put me in a safe house. A lot is happening on his face, and I’m still learning the nuances of his different scowls.
Jack yanks the knife out of the tree, knuckles white as he grips my jacket. His eyes do that surveying-the-area thing before he ushers me to sit at the table.
“Explain.”
“Your one-word commands only make me want to snuggle up to you,” I say as I take a seat, dusting my hands before folding them in my lap, but he ignores the comment. “Before I say this, I’d like it on record that at no point have I committed any crime or intentionally taken part in nefarious activities.” I give him a pleased smile, and he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“That wordintentionallybeing important right now, I’m guessing?”
“Exactly.” I nod.
Jack hands me a brown paper bag and a cup of cold lemonade before sighing and folding his arms, feet wide, jaw pulsing. I greedily gulp down the lemonade, mumbling my thanks over and over again. When the slurpy sounds of an empty cup echo through the straw, I open the bag filled with snacks, pull out an apple and a granola bar, and then I tell him about everything—needing a new backpack, the creepy door handle turning, and finally the discovery I made at the bottom of Marigold.
He’s silent, growling at certain parts, and by the time I’m done, his hand is covering his mouth, the other tucked under his arm as he stares at me like he doesn’t know what to do with me.
He shakes his head, stomping to my tent and ungracefully unzipping it to yank Marigold out, all while grumbling something under his breath. The only words I make out aremagnet for trouble, and I can’t help but smile. Because I’m really just a magnet forhim.The trouble is all coincidental.
“Show it to me.” He drops Marigold onto the picnic table with a thud. “Then I’m getting you out of this canyon.”
“Wh—now hold on just a minute, sir.” I stand, folding my arms to match his stance. “The only way I’m leaving this canyon,” I huff, dragging Marigold back inside my tent, “is on my own time and on my own twofeet.”
“Willow, that thing you’ve found is worth tens of thousands of dollars,” he grinds out as a vein appears in his neck. “Someone stole an artifact from an archaeological site, and they want it back. And they’re not happy that you took it.”
Unfortunately for him, the grumpier he gets, the more appealing I find him.
“So muchglaring,” I protest, bugging my eyes out for emphasis.“And I didn’t take the weird spearhead thing. I unintentionally assumed guardianship.”
“Regardless, you’re a target now. And I?—”
“Then let me help you!” I interrupt him, my face lighting up like I’ve just solved world hunger. “You’re trying to catch these guys, right?”
It looks like it physically pains him to answer. “Yes.”
