Page 45 of Knotting With A Stranger

“This symbol here,” I tap the glass, my reflection ghosting over the faded parchment. “Could be Devil’s Peak or Widow’s Crag. Both have that distinctive split.”

Hunter sprawls in the leather chair opposite me, boots propped on the edge of the desk. His massive frame dwarfs the furniture.

“Pop always said the treasure was hidden where the mountain holds its breath,” Hunter mumbles around the toothpick in his mouth.

I snort. “Poetic bullshit. The old man never gave a straight answer in his life.”

“Why start now, right?” Hunter grins. “Though I still think he left these riddles because he knew we’d lose our fucking minds trying to solve them.”

“You know what this reminds me of?” Hunter asks, leaning forward to tap the corner of the map.

“If you say that time in Aspen with the twins, I will end you.”

He barks out a laugh. “Jesus, Arch. I was going to say Grandpa’s scavenger hunts when we were kids.”

“The ones where the prize was always some obscure philosophy book?” I grin at the memory. “You bitched for weeks about the Nietzsche.”

“Because I was eighteen and wanted cash for beer, not existential dread.” Hunter rolls his eyes. “Still read it, though.”

“Because Grandpa would quiz you.” He grins softly.

The fire pops loudly, sending a cascade of sparks up the chimney. Thor barely twitches from his position on the hearthrug, his silver-gray coat glowing copper in the firelight.

“Twelve fucking months,” Hunter states. He traces a finger over what might be a river, might be a boundary line. “Over a year ago today, the stubborn bastard left us.”

I nod, knowing words aren’t needed. Hunter’s grandfather took me and James in—lost boys with nowhere to call home. Me, after my mother passed when I was twelve, and James a few years later. The old man gave us more than shelter; he gave us purpose, stories, brotherhood. Now, at thirty, I should feellike a man, but back at this cabin, with James at thirty-two and Hunter at thirty-four, we may as well still be those reckless kids, sneaking out past curfew, daring each other to jump from the highest branches, and laughing like we had nothing to lose.

“Remember when he used to tell us about his father burying Spanish gold?” I ask, grinning at the memory. “Said he traded moonshine for a chest of doubloons from a pirate who’d sailed up the Mississippi.”

“Then it was Confederate treasury the next time,” Hunter chuckles.

“And Blackbeard’s personal stash after that.” I shake my head, pouring two fingers of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the side table. The amber liquid blinks in the firelight as I slide a glass toward Hunter. “Crafty old son of a bitch couldn’t keep his own lies straight.”

Hunter raises his glass. “To Pop. May his treasure be worth all this bullshit.”

“To Grandpa.”

We drink in unison.

“This could be a creek bed,” I point to a thin, wavy line after setting my glass down. “Or a trail. Either way, it seems to lead to this structure here.” The crude drawing could be anything—a cabin, an outcropping, a tree.

“If this snow would let up, we could do another search on the grounds to try to find these landmarks,” Hunter mutters, glancing toward the window where white fury continues its assault. We only received the map from Grandpa’s will last month in December, and with it snowing every other day up in the mountains, we’ve had no luck trying to mark the map.

“What if we’re looking at it wrong?” I walk around the map to look at it upside down. “There’s no compass rose on the map. No indication of which way is north. So it could be this way.”

Hunter’s gaze narrows. “Sneaky motherfucker.”

“He always said we needed to change our perspective.” I drain my glass.

We spend the next hour making notations on a transparent overlay, marking possibilities and probabilities. Two grown men built like bears hunched over a treasure map like boys on an adventure. The irony isn’t lost on me.

Hunter stretches, his spine popping like gunshots in the quiet room. “I’m getting a caffeine IV before I go cross-eyed.” He rubs his face. “Fuck, we’ve been at this most of the early morning.”

“Time flies when you’re losing your shit over chicken scratch,” I mutter, not looking up from a particularly puzzling cluster of markings.

“I’m gonna check on James,” Hunter adds, collecting our empty glasses. “See if he’s managed to climb out of bed yet.”

“How’s that going? Him and the baker girl?” I ask, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension.

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