Page 23 of Summer Showdown
Once he was out of earshot, Lark turned to me. "I guess we should... mingle?"
"Probably for the best," I agreed, oddly relieved by the interruption. Whatever she'd been about to say about our kiss would have to wait. "Have you had a chance to look around yet?"
"Just arrived." She gestured to the market spread before us. "Lead the way?"
I offered my hand without thinking. After a brief hesitation, she took it, her fingers sliding naturally between mine. The simple contact sent warmth spreading up my arm.
We wandered through the market, stopping at various booths. I introduced her to artisans I'd known for years: Margie Thompson, whose intricate beadwork had won regional awards; Carlos Reyes, whose hand-tooled leather goods were sought after by collectors; Emma Blackfoot, whose traditional Blackfeet quillwork connected present-day Wintervale to its Indigenous roots.
Lark engaged with each of them with genuine interest, asking thoughtful questions about their techniques and materials. At Emma's booth, she purchased a small quilled medicine wheel ornament after listening intently to the story and symbolism behind it.
"This is incredible craftsmanship," she said as we moved on, carefully tucking her purchase into her purse. "I had no idea Wintervale had such a vibrant artistic community."
"Small towns often surprise people that way," I replied. "When you're not surrounded by endless entertainment options, you tend to create your own. Plus, long winters give people plenty of time to perfect their crafts."
We approached a booth displaying stunning wooden furniture pieces—tables with intricate inlays, chairs with perfectly curved backs, jewelry boxes with detailed marquetry designs, and live-edge coffee tables showcasing the natural beauty of Montana timber. Lark paused, admiring a cherry wood jewelry box with a hummingbird inlay.
"These are beautiful," she said. "Almost as nice as your work."
The compliment caught me off guard. "Actually, this is my students' booth."
She looked up, surprise brightening her expression. "Your students made these?"
I nodded, pride warming my chest. "The high school woodworking program. We have a special advanced section for students who show particular aptitude. All proceeds from the market go toward materials and tools for next year's classes."
"Wade!" A gangly teenage boy with shaggy dark hair hurried over from where he'd been helping an elderly couple with a rocking chair. "Didn't know you were coming by today."
"Wouldn't miss it, Alex." I turned to Lark. "This is Alex Reyes, one of my most talented students. Alex, this is Lark Hayes."
"The lawyer lady from the blog!" Alex blurted, then immediately flushed crimson. "I mean—nice to meet you, ma'am."
Lark laughed, the sound genuine and relaxed. "Nice to meet you too, Alex. Your work is incredible."
"Thanks." He shuffled his feet, clearly embarrassed. "Mr. Foster's a really good teacher."
"I can see that," she said, running her fingers over the grain of a small end table. "Who made this one?"
"That's mine," Alex admitted. "Cedar with walnut inlay."
"It’s beautiful," Lark observed, bending to examine the corner detail.
Before she could say more, a commotion broke out at a nearby booth.
"This is completely unacceptable!" A middle-aged woman with short gray hair was gesturing emphatically at a display of handwoven baskets. "We had a contract—twenty-five pieces, delivered before the festival. Now I'm left with half my inventory on opening day of the Artisan Market!"
The man she was addressing—Marcus Whitefeather, a skilled basket weaver from the reservation—stood with arms folded, his expression stoic but strained.
"Like I told you, Mrs. Fleming, the harvesting season was delayed by the late frost. The reeds weren't ready. I delivered what I could, and you'll have the rest by tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow! The regatta will be happening then, and most shoppers will be at the lake, not the market!" The woman's voice rose higher. "The contract specifically stated—"
"Excuse me," Lark said quietly to me. "I think I might be able to help."
Before I could respond, she crossed to the arguing pair, her entire demeanor shifting. Gone was the slightly cautious tourist; in her place stood a confident professional, her posture straightening and her voice taking on a calm authority.
"Pardon the interruption," she said, extending her hand to the woman. "Lark Hayes. I couldn't help overhearing your discussion about a contract dispute."
Mrs. Fleming blinked in surprise. "Sandra Fleming, Wintervale Gift Emporium. And yes, Mr. Whitefeather here has breached our agreement."
