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He puts them on, and I couldn’t disagree more, hungrily eyeing him and licking my bottom lip. “I think they make you look like Clark Kent.”

Leaning forward to scrutinize the map and wrapping his arm back around me, he grumbles, “You can be my Lois Lane any time.” Squinting, face serious, he asks, “Could it be ‘Saint Croix stock’ maybe?” He draws even closer, his nose almost touching the fabric.

“Grandpa and I have tossed around so many ideas at this point …”

“Not Croix, Crispin. C-R-I-S-P-E-N. It’s spelled wrong, though. Look that up on your phone, Angel.”

“C-R-I-S-P-E-N,” I repeat.

“Saint Crispin, with an ‘i’ instead of an ‘e.’”

I Google it, and my eyes scan the results. Sure enough, he’s right. “How did you know the spelling was off?”

He shrugs. “I’m the backslider in a long line of devoted Catholics. They’ve got all their saints and stuff. So, believe me, I’ve seen the name before.”

“I’m impressed, Mr. Gunner,” I remark, eyeing him.

He chuckles. “There’s a lot you still have to learn about me, Angel. I’ll try to make sure it’s all good. Now, how about those results?”

I summarize them as I read out loud. “Saint Crispin and the Crispinians. That’s a mouthful. They were Christian martyrs and patron saints of leather workers, cobblers, and shoemakers. Huh.”

Reese’s head pops up. “Come again?”

“Christian martyrs?—”

“No, the last part. Did you say, shoemakers?”

“Yes, and there’s also a reference in here to Shakespeare’sHenry V,” I add, feeling like I’m grasping at straws.

“Nope, the shoe part. That’s it.” His eyes glow with an uncharacteristic excitement that makes my heart race.

“What is it, Reese?”

“Shoe stock. Shoe lumber. Shoe wood, maybe?”

My pulse increases, heartened by the progress.

“There’s something I have to show you.” He runs his hand over his beard, producing a scratchy masculine sound that makes me clench my legs together.Will I ever get enough of this rugged cowboy?

Surging to his feet, he paces back and forth. “Stock can be wood, right? And wood can be a tree?”

I shake my head, uncertain what he’s talking about. “What do you mean stock like a tree?”

“Like the stock of a gun made from the wood of a tree. Oh, Esmeralda, you’re going to love this. We have to go.Now.”

“What?”

He continues pacing, the dining area’s wood floor squeaking as his cowboy boots hammer to and fro. “This map keeps getting better and better. Motherfucker. To think generations of Gunners sat on a treasure without even knowing it. This is wild.”

In an instant, the exhausted-looking cowboy transforms into a revitalized man driven by a disease that’s long fueled grandpa and me—gold fever.

“We have to get a move on if we’re going to make it there before sunrise,” he mutters under his breath. “Angel, would you mind packing us some provisions and drinks for a little road trip?”

“Right now?”

He nods firmly. “Yes, I’ve got to show you this.” He beams, glancing at the map again. “Think camping-type stuff. I’ll work on all the tools we need: shovels, a pickaxe, a tent, sleeping bags, all of that.”

Elation thrills through me.Shovels?Grandpa and I only ever dreamed of being close enough to dig. My heart races, and I wish I could call him with an update, but a quick glance at the clock reveals it’s only a little after three a.m. West Coast time. Too early for the nursing home, apart from emergencies. Curious beyond measure about what Reese wants to show me, I open the fridge, grabbing things to pack.