Chapter 6: Strangers in Silver Hollow

Near Quinn Foster’s camp was a big field.

The grass was waist-high, dotted with wildflowers. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the land.

Henry and I figured that once we crossed it and the next hill, we’d be in his territory.

We double-checked our maps, nerves jangling.

We had nothing to hide—just go openly and hope to arrive before dark.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my heart.

But before we saw Quinn Foster, we spotted a boy of seven or eight chasing a rabbit.

He darted through the grass, laughing as the rabbit zigzagged away.

"What’s going on?"

Henry frowned, called out, "Hey, kid!"

He waved his arms, trying to get the boy’s attention.

"What are you doing out here alone? Where are your folks?"

The rabbit darted into the woods, but the boy didn’t care. He eyed us warily. "Who are you? What do you want?"

He stood his ground, chin lifted. Brave kid.

Smart kid. Henry and I traded a look, and I said, "Can’t say who we are, but I can tell you why we’re here."

I smiled, hoping to put him at ease.

His accent was southern, and he was bold for his age. Showing up near Quinn Foster’s camp—he must be related.

I wondered if he was Foster’s nephew or maybe just a local kid who knew the lay of the land.

"Kid," I said from the truck window, smiling, "do you know where Mr. Foster is camped? We’re here to deliver a letter."

I held up the velvet pouch, letting it catch the light.

"A letter?" he repeated, then suddenly turned and shouted into the woods, "Uncle—Uncle!"

His voice carried, echoing through the trees.

In less than half a minute, a young man burst through the trees, left hand holding a pocketknife, right arm cradling a toddler.

He looked ready for a fight, but his eyes softened when he saw the boy.

He was as tall as Henry, and his looks—well, not as good as mine, but decent for Maple Heights.

He had that rough-around-the-edges charm. The kind you only get from working with your hands.

He immediately shielded the boy behind him, all suspicion.

His stance was protective, eyes darting between us and the woods.

This… was not Quinn Foster.

He was too young, too fresh-faced.

Quinn Foster was in his thirties—unless he’d found the fountain of youth, this wasn’t him.

I suppressed a laugh, not wanting to offend.

"Who are you?" the young man demanded, eyes full of scrutiny.

He gripped the pocketknife tighter, ready for trouble.

I didn’t answer, but asked, "Do you know Mr. Foster?"

I kept my voice calm, hoping to diffuse the tension.

He snorted. "So what if I do? So what if I don’t?"

He raised an eyebrow, testing us.

"Hey!" Henry bristled at his attitude, but I stopped him with a hand.

I shot Henry a look—now was not the time for bravado.

Everyone had their temperaments. I raised my voice and said, "If you know him, please lead the way. I have important business with him."

I tried to sound official, hoping he’d take the bait.

"If you don’t—" I smiled, "then please let us pass, and pretend we were never here."

I offered my best peace-offering grin.

The young man frowned, still wary. "How do I know you’re not spies sent by the mayor?"

His suspicion was understandable. Trust was hard to come by out here.

So he did know Quinn Foster.

Henry and I exchanged a quick glance—progress, at least.

I glanced at Henry, who caught on and said, "Why so much fuss? Mr. Foster commands hundreds—we’re just a dozen folks. Think we could take him down?"

He puffed out his chest, making us look less threatening.

For all his goofy looks, Henry was sharp. He’d just praised Quinn Foster to the skies.

The young man clearly cared about Foster—he relaxed a little, even looking a bit smug.

He grinned, pride shining in his eyes.

He snorted. "You have a point."

He lowered the knife, just a little.

After a bit more back-and-forth, he finally agreed to lead us to Foster.

He tucked the knife into his belt, still keeping a close eye on us.

"Ryan, Andy." He sheathed his knife, settled the toddler on the back seat, took the older boy’s hand, and called for his dog with a whistle. Then, with the two kids in the truck, he turned to us, knife in hand. "Follow me."

He climbed into his truck, the kids piling in after him.

Henry was still annoyed by his attitude.

He muttered under his breath, but didn’t argue.

I gave him a look—what mattered now was delivering the letter.

I mouthed, "Let it go."

We followed behind the young man’s truck.

The road was bumpy, but we kept pace.

In the back seat, the older boy suddenly called, "Uncle…"

His voice was hesitant, like he was confessing a secret.

"What is it?"

The young man’s voice was gentle with the kids.

He turned, his expression softening.

The boy sighed like a little adult, looking troubled. "Uncle, did you forget we snuck out?"

He glanced at the toddler, then back at his uncle.

"The teacher left us homework, and we haven’t written a word. If you take us back now, Dad will know we ran off to play, and he’ll scold us…"

He looked so serious, I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

The young man paused, and Henry and I grinned at his predicament.

Henry elbowed me, whispering, "Busted."

But he quickly recovered.

He ruffled the boy’s hair, trying to look stern.

"Ryan was wrong. We won’t get scolded."

The boy’s eyes lit up, hopeful.

"Really?" The boy hugged the toddler, surprised.

His relief was short-lived.

"Mm." The young man replied, but before the boy could be happy, he added, "We’ll get grounded."

The boy’s face fell, and the toddler started to pout.

"Uncle!"

The older boy groaned, while the toddler stuck out his lower lip.

So, with the boy sighing, we reached Quinn Foster’s camp before dark.

The sun dipped behind the hills as we pulled up, the camp buzzing with activity.

Henry and I couldn’t figure it out.

We exchanged a look—kids, right?

How could such a little kid have so much to sigh about?

Henry shrugged, and we both laughed.

Thirty-Six