“Oh, for crying out loud.” She pressed her forehead to the cool glass. “The whole town is coming. Uninvited.”
The lead car, a sleek black Escalade, rolled to a stop, and Reva stepped out with Lila popping from the passenger side, camera in hand.
Charlie Grace met them in the yard, narrowed her eyes, and pointed. “I don’t think filming is allowed.” She glanced between her friends. “The contract clearly states?—”
Lila held up the camera, determined. “I’m not facing Capri without everything captured. She hopes to get released from the rehab facility next week. Until then, she expects me to bring her the full experience.”
Before Charlie Grace could protest, another car pulled up. The vehicle barely came to a stop before the door flung open and Nicola Cavendish poured out in all her nosy glory, with Wooster right behind, struggling with Sweetpea, the perpetually yappy Yorkie.
“Well, well, well!” Nicola said at full volume. “A national television crew, right here in Thunder Mountain. I thought the Bear Country show over in Jackson was a big deal—but this? Right here in our little town? Well, you know what this means, Charlie Grace?”
“That I’m about to develop a migraine?”
“No!” Nicola clapped her hands. “It means this ranch is about to become famous!”
The Knit Wits arrived in Dorothy Vaughn’s old sedan, spilling out like they’d just rolled in from a quilting bee—arms full of tote bags, each with a thermos in hand and tins of homemade goodies.
Chatter and laughter filled the air as they adjusted their sun hats, straightened their cardigans, and bustled toward the gathering, ready to dispense wisdom, opinions, and just the right amount of small-town nosiness.
“These are for Nick,” announced Betty, thrusting a goody box into Charlie Grace’s hands. “He loves lemon bars.”
Albie Barton hustled forward, notebook in hand, practically vibrating with excitement. “Most exciting news since—well, the earthquakes last fall! This is going to be front-page material!”
Charlie Grace barely had time to gather herself before Nick’s truck pulled up. Unlike the others, he unfolded from the driver’s seat, broad and unhurried, scanning the scene with the sharp-eyed calculation of someone who missed nothing. His eyes soon locked on hers in that way that always made her stomach flutter. Smiling, he strolled over and pulled her into a warm embrace.
“You ready for this?” he asked, voice low.
Charlie Grace sighed and handed him the goody box. “Do I have a choice?”
Before Nick could respond, Clancy gave him an approving nod and a firm pat on the arm. “Oh, she’s ready. Right, Jewel?”
Jewel, now dressed in a slightly more appropriate outfit—emphasis on slightly—grinned up at them. “Yeah! We’re gonna be on television!”
Charlie Grace leaned close and whispered. “I sure hope you’ve got this under control.”
Nick grinned. “Trying my best.”
Just then, the deep rumble of an approaching box truck echoed through the crisp morning air. The television crew had arrived. The vehicle rolled to a stop just beyond the barn, kicking up a swirl of dust. A second SUV followed, both emblazoned with the logo of the national Treasure Pickers show.
The truck doors flung open, and out spilled a flurry of activity. Crew members in well-worn jeans, branded jackets, and utility vests moved with precision, hauling cases of cameras, boom mics, and collapsible light stands. A man in his late forties, built like an old, retired football player but with a tech-savvy edge, adjusted his baseball cap and strode toward Nick. His name tag read Frank Ellis, the show’s lead producer and on-air host. His sun-lined face broke into a practiced, easygoing smile.
“Nick Thatcher?” he asked, extending a calloused hand.
“That’s me,” Nick said, shaking it firmly.
Frank glanced around at the gathering townspeople, noting how some had drifted a little too close, their curiosity getting the better of them. He exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Gotta love the enthusiasm, but we need some space to work.”
Nick caught the hint and sauntered over to the crowd, hands in his pockets, wearing his easygoing but authoritative expression. “Alright, folks, I know this is exciting, but we need to give the crew some room to do their thing. Step back a little, and I’m gonna need everyone to keep it quiet while they’re filming.”
There were a few murmurs and reluctant shuffles, but soon enough, the line of eager onlookers shifted back, settling into place just beyond where the crew was erecting a makeshift barrier.
Aunt Mo ushered Jewel back while grabbing the handles of Clancy’s wheelchair. “C’mon, Jewel, let’s let the professionals do their thing.”
Jewel, arms folded, let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine…but do you think they’ll give me their autograph?”
Mo patted her on the shoulder. “I’m sure they will—when they get finished. And you’ll still get to see everything, just from back here.”
As the townsfolk waited behind the rope barrier, another figure emerged from an SUV—a petite blonde with sharp green eyes and a clipboard clutched to her chest. The woman was introduced as Tess Harper, the field director. The woman exuded an air of crisp efficiency, her dark leggings and rugged boots paired with an oversized sweater and a chunky scarf. She tucked her pen behind her ear as she surveyed the property.
