This Fearless Girl (St. Clary's University #2) - E. M. Moore Page 0,49

lens part would’ve been attached to a cylindrical mechanism that held both water and calcium carbide. A valve controlled the flow of water into the carbide to produce gas that fed toward this center hole in the lamp, producing the flame. This part here,” I explain, pointing toward the edges of our find. “…It would’ve had a reflective, shiny surface to project light outward so the miners could see inside the caves. Wrong time period, but still cool. What we’re looking for was used before the 1900s.”

My neck tingles, and I glance up at Stone. He’s staring at me with an appreciation in his eyes that I’m not used to–especially coming from him.

I shrug. “We’ll have to keep looking.”

After we bag our lamp, tagging the Ziploc with today’s date and the GPS coordinates, we finish searching the rest of the sectioned-off area. With no other metal detector hits in those few hours, we decide it’s time to set up camp before dark. Stone gives a sharp whistle as we return to where we left our packs. A few minutes later, Wyatt and Lucas return, the day’s work clinging to them in a coat of brown dirt. Wyatt leans against his shovel, an adorable brown smudge lacing one cheek. “We found the perfect place to pitch the tent.”

Each of us grab our own packs. With the demands of a day of treasure hunting slowing me down, my bag feels like it weighs a ton. I suck it up and follow Wyatt toward a rocky slope. I watch him descend, searching for signs that we took him into the mountains too soon. He seems fine, though, and I’m instantly relieved.

Up ahead, I see exactly where they mean to take us, and they’re right—it’s the perfect spot to sleep for the night. Vegetation flanks one side of Fish Creek—the most colorful scenery up here. One tree and several small bushes follow the twists and turns of the babbling water as it moves down the mountain. This side of the creek boasts a flat area with few rocks, making it ideal to set up the tent. “You guys are getting better at picking your camps,” I tease.

“Oh, come on,” Wyatt says. “Are you going to bring up past shit every chance you get?”

“I mean, probably,” I admit. “You know those guides you hired were only following my dad and I around to see what we would do.”

“It’s been years since we hired guides,” Stone grumbles, skin pulling taut over his high cheekbones.

I practically snort at their past newbie status, but I admit they’ve grown a lot.

Stone and Wyatt start putting the tent together while Lucas and I get the fire going and set up the compact stove to make something for dinner. One of the most important—and often overlooked— aspects of treasure hunting is maintaining your calorie intake to offset all the physical labor. You gotta eat. A lot. Stone and I had granola bars while we were working, but it’s nice to have something with more substance, like a meal.

“It seems pretty quiet,” Wyatt observes as he brings out a box of Instant Rice. He looks out at the horizon, his cowboy hat pulled down, and it’s like I’m transported into an old Western. “Lucas and I didn’t see a soul while we were searching.”

“Neither did we,” I say, watching as Wyatt gathers water from the stream to boil. When he gets back, he winks at me. “I set up your sleeping bag between Lucas and me.”

I shake my head, smiling at his suggestion. Truthfully, I’ve been looking forward to seeing the guys in this element. In past years, they always sounded like they were having more fun than me. My father bitched about their laughter and said treasure hunting wasn’t a game. But to me, they were having fun. Couldn’t they do both? Treasure hunt and have a good time?

Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t give up those moments with my dad. They might be the only memories I’ll have of him if I can’t make anymore.

By the time we finish eating, the fire is roaring, and we have to move back a bit. Wyatt sets his finished bowl of rice and spices down and stands. “Well, it’s time.”

Stone shakes his head. “Jesus. I should’ve known that’s why you wanted this spot.”

“Oh, it’s happening,” he crows, stripping his shirt off and letting it land in the dirt. Smirking at me, he turns and struts his fine ass toward the creek where he