“Oh right. Because looking like chained-up fugitives on the run is so much better.”

Eleven miles down Canary Road, we pull into a muddy clearing and park by the Ridge Burn.

“So how far away is this magic tree of yours?” I stare out at the wet forest.

The rain is more of a light drizzle now and less like a downpour so at least we can see relatively clearly.

“A hundred yards or so.” She shuts the engine off.

“Wonderful.”

We climb out of the car and I stretch my stiff limbs. She leads me by the wrist through the woods for fifteen minutes until we come to a large tree beside the river that looks exactly the same as every other tree we’ve passed.

“How do you know this is the one?” I gaze up at the thick trunk reaching into the low gray clouds.

She sighs quietly. “I just do.” She marches around the trunk. “Look for another clue.”

I search high and low for anything that might be a clue. My eyes catch on a small green pole sticking up out of the muddy ground at the base of the tree and I stop.

“Could that be it?” I point to the pole.

“Maybe.” She hurries to dig it up and, once the dirt is cleared away, there is a box. It’s no bigger than a shoebox, but it’s large enough to hold a few stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

“Bingo!” I smile.

She grins at me then opens the box.

Another piece of paper.

She pulls out the paper inside and reads, “ ‘I’m pleased you remember this tree, Kayla. It holds a special place in my heart, just like you. Lesson number four: The world is bigger than what you know. There is more to life than what you see and what you think. And if you ever reach a place where you think you know it all, then you are most definitely lost. Now go home to the place where winning is relative.’ ” She frowns. “What does that mean?”

“It means your dad had a fantastic memory.” I smile and shake my head, shocked that Turner remembered a conversation we had years ago. “It also means we’ve got a long drive back up and through Copper Springs.”

“What?” she says, dragging behind me as I start heading back to the car. “Why?”

“Because I’m pretty sure your dad wants us to go to Copper Field.”

“The baseball stadium?”

“Yep.”

As we drive back in the direction we just came from, I think back to when I was thirteen and had my baseball championship game out at Copper Field.

I was no good at sports. But I was a guy, and guys in small towns are expected not just to play sports, but to excel at them. So my father put me in baseball and forced me to stay in it for ten years. Ten long years of misery.

The championship game came and, unfortunately, I was up to bat right when we had two outs and the game was tied. If it had been a movie, that would have been the moment where I finally hit my first home run and scored the winning point, and we’d win the game and the crowd would go wild.

It wasn’t a movie.

I struck out and the other team came up to bat and hit a home run on their first swing. So essentially, I was blamed for our team losing. My father was sorely disappointed and my teammates were giving me shit about how lousy I was, but Marcella still believed in me.

She came to every one of my baseball games, rain or shine, and sat in the stands with a beaming smile like she wanted the whole world to know she was proud of me.

That was my favorite part of playing baseball—Marcella’s proud smile watching me from the stands. God, I miss her.

But at that particular game, even Marcella’s confidence in me wasn’t helping. I started thinking about how I really was lousy, and how I was always going to be a loser. I wasn’t a good student, I wasn’t good at sports, and I had no real talents… I was just lousy, in general. And maybe I always would be.

But Marcella wasn’t the only spectator rooting me on that day. Old Man Turner came to every single one of my baseball games too. We didn’t usually talk or say hi, but I always saw him in the stands, watching me and cheering for me.

After the game, while everyone else got into in their cars to go celebrate their win, I cut across the field to where my bike was stashed and Turner’s voice surprised me.

“Not your best game tonight,” he said.

I turned to him and glared. “Thanks for noticing.”

He shrugged. “Winning a baseball game isn’t everything.”

“Tell that to them.” I nodded over at my disgruntled teammates and their fans.

He shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong.” He walked up beside me. “Winning is relative. Winning in baseball isn’t the same as winning in life. And winning in life, well… that’s the only game that counts.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I nodded anyway. “Sure.”

He slapped me on the back and started to walk away. “Life is the only game that counts, Daren,” he called over his shoulder. “Remember that.” Then he disappeared into his car.

I didn’t understand why my boss at the time, and a man I barely knew, would bother to show up at all my games, let alone give me a pep talk after I bombed one terribly, but I was grateful nonetheless. It was nice that he cared enough to give me some advice—even if that advice was odd and cryptic.

Winning in baseball was the only kind of winning I was interested in at the time. Because my father saw me as such a huge disappointment in sports, my teenage ego was convinced that if I could win a baseball game—or at least not lose it completely—then I would earn his approval.

It wasn’t until years later that “winning in life” became something I understood, and then something I wanted. But here I am, almost a decade later, still striking out on that one.

The rain picks up once we reach Copper Field. We get out of the car and climb up a muddy slope to the plateau where the field is situated. Our shoes make sucking noises as we step through the thick, wet dirt and finally reach the top.

It’s a junior league field, but it still has stadium lights, three stories of bleachers, and an electric scoreboard.

Kayla looks around at the deserted field. “So why is this place where winning is relative?”

I hesitate for a moment. “Your dad saw me bomb one of my baseball games once and told me winning was relative. I think he was trying to encourage me or something.” I shrug.

“He came to your baseball games?” she says in surprise. “Wow. He must have really cared about you.”

I nod. “I think he did. I should have appreciated him more before he was gone.” I look at her. “I didn’t know he was sick either, you know. I guess he didn’t want anyone to know about his failing health.”

She inhales deeply. “So you didn’t get to say good-bye to him either?”

I shake my head. “That was probably the worst part of finding out he was gone. Not getting any real closure.”

She stares at the ground and slowly nods before bringing her blue eyes up to mine. “I’m sorry you lost him.”

I swallow. “We both lost him.”

Heartache fills the space between us, drifting up and around our linked arms and floating over the damp field. But locking eyes with Kayla eases the sadness and lets something else seep in. Something quiet and hopeful. Something that stretches out my lungs and pulls at my gut.

I suddenly want to pull Kayla close and wrap my arms around her. I want to kiss her and touch her, but the desire isn’t the same as it was at Latecomers the other night. That desire was heady and filled with lust. This is a wanting born from the same deep roots as the hot protectiveness I felt yesterday and the need to comfort I’ve felt every time Kayla’s let her guard down.

It’s steady and powerful and it leaves my throat dry as I stare into her eyes.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “We both lost him.” She blinks a few times then clears her throat. “We should keep looking.”

With our moment of heartbreak over, we walk around the field for a few minutes searching for anything that could be a clue. We check the field first then the bases. It’s silent, except for the patter of rain on the dirt and the light tingling sound of our handcuffs.

But there is absolutely nothing on the field. No notes. No keys. No green poles. Nothing.

I pull the clue out of my pocket and reread it.

“What?” Kayla leans over.

I point to where to clue reads go home to the place where winning is relative. “I think ‘go home’ means go to home plate.”

We walk over to the mud-covered home plate. Scraping the wet dirt aside with my shoe, I stare down to where it reads DONATED BY THE MYERS FAMILY and say, “Tallyho!”

She scrunches her face. “You think that’s the clue?”

“What else would ‘go home’ mean?”

Her eyes light up. “Don’t the Myerses own the bakery in Town Square? Maybe they know something about my dad’s will.”

I shrug. “It’s worth a shot.”

A crack of thunder booms around us, followed by a flash of lightning in the distance. The rain starts coming down in buckets so we begin to jog. With our wrists locked together, it’s hard for either of us to run with any kind of grace. We awkwardly maneuver back to the edge of the plateau.

We start down the muddy slope, both of us thrusting our free arms out to help keep our balance, but the soft dirt is too wet and pliable for us to find any traction. I start to slip and Kayla grabs my arm and pulls me back. I’m too heavy for her to hold, though, so we tumble backward into the mud and starting sliding down the hill.

I dig my feet into the mud, but it’s no use. It’s too slick and we’re too heavy to be stopped. We slide through the mud, Kayla still clutching my arm, until we reach the bottom and roll over each other. We land on our sides, facing each other through the muck as rain beats down on us.

Kayla looks pissed. “I hate these handcuffs.”

I share her frustration. “Me too.”

We carefully stand. I try to flick off as much mud as possible from my clothes and arms while Kayla tries to comb the mud from her hair with her fingers. The rain helps a little, washing away the dirt as it soaks us, but we’re still filthy as we climb back into her little green car.

We don’t speak during the drive. The scavenger hunt is kicking our ass and we know it. So the silence between us is more weary than anything else. I look down at our adjoined wrists and inhale.

Once we find the inheritance, Kayla and I won’t have handcuffs, or any other reason to spend time together. She’ll go back to Chicago and I might not see her again.

My stomach falls at the thought of Kayla leaving. I’ve kind of started to enjoy spending time with her. She’s different than I first thought. She’s… refreshing. The idea of her leaving, of me never seeing her again, brings a tightness to my chest similar to what I felt at Turner’s funeral and it’s all I can do not to cough it away.

Driving out to the Ridge Burn and Copper Field sucked up the entire day, so we arrive at the bakery shortly before closing. Now, here we are, standing on the sidewalk as the sun starts to set on this rainy day, and we still don’t have the inheritance.

We stop outside the glass double doors of the bakery and stare at our reflection. Kayla’s blonde hair is wet and matted with mud. My clothes are soaked and covered in mud. And smudges of dirt streak both our faces and arms, right down to our linked wrists. We look like we’ve been through war.

I open the bakery door and we walk inside, careful not to track in mud as we keep our feet on the entry mat. Mrs. Myers is by the counter, sweeping up some spilled sprinkles with her gray hair pulled into a bun and her round body covered in a chocolate-stained apron.

She looks up. “Daren? Oh my. You’re a mess.” Her eyes fall to our cuffed hands. “What happened?”

I lift our wrists. “Turner thought it would be hilarious to tie us up and send us on a scavenger hunt around town.”

Hearty laughter bubbles out from her. “Of course he did. That James. He was a hoot.” She comes over and leans up on her toes to gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I’d hug you, but you two look like you got in a fight with a swamp.” She turns her full attention to Kayla and gapes. “Good heavens. Is this little Kayla Turner, all grown up?”

Kayla smiles. “Hi, Mrs. Myers.”

“My goodness, child. I haven’t seen you since you were just a little girl.” She clucks her tongue. “And now look at you. Every bit as pretty as your mama was. You know, I fed Gia every day when she was pregnant with you.”