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Dickie whistles as soon as Wyatt’s vehicle is out of sight. “Kid’s got balls. I’ll give him that.”
I take a step, testing my weight on the knee that slid over the dirt and gravel. It’s sore but I don’t think I did anything catastrophic to it.
Dickie looks me over. “You best come inside now. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Once we’re inside and Dickie puts his shotgun back in its resting place on the wall above his workbench, I tell him what happened. I don’t mention that I’m unsure if Wyatt was trying to hit me or not, but it really doesn’t matter. He should’ve known I would freak out at him trailing me like that.
My stomach twists. Getting involved with Lance Jacobs and his little errand boys, is a terrible idea. Is it possible Wyattwastrying to hit me? My mind rejects the thought now that I’m not in the middle of it. Though, Lance was going to hit me yesterday. I’m sure of it. He would’ve if Stone hadn’t stopped him, which tells me he, at least, might be okay with physical violence.
Dickie smacks his hand down on the stool next to his bench. I pull myself onto it as he hobbles over to the archaic First Aid Kit on top of the refrigerator. It’s grease stained, and he has to blow the dust off before setting it down in front of me. This is not making me feel all that safe, but I trust Dickie.
His still nimble fingers open the box and rummage through what he has. He takes an alcohol pad and swipes it down my scuffs and scrapes. Next, he puts a sterile pad over the wound on my shoulder before applying some tape to hold it there. I glance over to find the tape and pad littered with smudges but I’m fairly certain the scrapes and the other side of the pad are free from dirt.
He packs up his kit. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, why don’t you tell me why it looked like you were paler than Casper out there?”
I bite my lip. Dickie arches a brow at me when I don’t immediately answer. I don’t know how much to tell my dad’s friend because I don’t want him to be worried. Dickie has enough problems of his own, and I really don’t want to become one more. “It’s about the treasure,” I finally say, trying to choose my words wisely.
Dickie immediately looks interested. He’s a tried-and-true treasure believer. “How so?”
I blow out a breath. “That boy there was an associate of Lance Jacobs. They’re offering me a pretty sum for my family’s…information.”
Dickie rubs his stubbly beard. The hairs are so coarse, they audibly scrape against his calloused palms as he muses on what I’ve just told him. Even Dickie doesn’t know what we know. My dad and he were partners, but he never let him in on the most-trusted clues we had. That’s how serious we are about it. “You know what I think about that, Dakota Wilder. No need looking to me for my opinion.”
I close my eyes briefly. Dickie was always one hundred percent behind the lore that came with my family and searching for the treasure. He thinks it’s a curse, and considering how things turned out, I might have to agree with him now. The only thing is, he thinks it’s a curse we can win.
I’m not so sure about that.
Maybe the real curse is to have our family name ruined and impoverished and left to die with nothing to show for it. Dickie, though, likes the tales of old. He knows my family history about as well as I do, but instead of seeing a lost cause, he sees hope. He’s just been waiting for me to announce that I’m going back out there looking for treasure instead of my dad because that’s what Wilder’s do.
He has more faith in me than I do.
“Your father never liked those Jacobs.”
I nod, my mind forcing the images of Stone, Wyatt, and Lucas to the forefront. If I hand them over what I know, coupled with their thousands spent on high-tech tools, they might just find that treasure. A Jacobs. Not a Wilder. “There are a few here in town,” I tell him. “They’re watching me until I decide what to do.” I busy myself by looking at the bandage on my shoulder. “I don’t think they’re going to give up. They don’t seem the type.”
“I don’t need to tell you my thoughts,” Dickie reiterates again. “If it weren’t for my eyesight, I’d be out there looking for the gold myself.”
It’s more than just his eyesight that’s off. It’s his balance, his old limbs, and his health. There’s no way he’d be able to cross the rough terrain anymore. Plus, there’s the liability factor. What if he had a heart attack up in the mountains? It could be a days’ hike back. Or a helicopter ride, if you were in a place that could accommodate one. No, Dickie’s treasure hunting days are long over. “I just don’t know,” I say.
“I know that your Pops wanted to find that treasure more than anything.”
His words aren’t meant to hurt, but they do all the same. There were too many times when I felt those words to be a simple fact....more than anything.Meaning more important than me. More than his sanity. More than our well-being. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my father, but obsessed is an understatement. It’s lonely living with a recluse with a one-track mind. “Yeah, he sure did,” I say on a sigh.
“The terms?”
“Generous,” I admit, but leave out the gut-wrenching feeling that I’m giving up a lot. Sure, I’d be securing my future with college and a sum of money that means I won’t have to worry about anything that comes up but putting myself in league with the Jacobs’ just seems wrong...and possibly extremely dangerous.
“You know what it’s like out there,” Dickie says, turning toward the opening of his bay garage. From where we are, you can just see the peak of one of the mountains. Even though I doubt Dickie can actually see it, his eyes glaze over like he can, like he’s staring at a long-lost love just returned. “Sponsors hand money over like water just for a slice of the pie. We’re the real winners. The adventurists. The researchers. The hunters. The boots on the ground to get shit done while they sit in their city high rises demanding updates. Cooped up in their steel cages, wishing they were like us.”
I try to picture Lance Jacobs back in Phoenix, and that picture is so easy. The only thing I can’t picture is the cage part. Nor the part where he actually cares that we’re the ones putting our lives on the line to find the treasure. Guys like Lance Jacobs think they’re entitled to the treasure because they can throw money at it. They don’t understand the blood, sweat, and tears my family has put into finding it over generations. They think cash solves problems. And maybe it does. I’ve heard countless stories about backers and hunters actually finding their sought-after horde, both parting ways happily, living their lives like kings.
“Why did Pops think he was close?” I ask Dickie. I’m ashamed I don’t know the answer to this question. Marilyn created a gap between us a mile wide. I didn’t make time to listen to Dad go on and on about the treasure because... Well, because I’m a shitty daughter. I scuff my feet against the footrests of the stool. I threw myself into schoolwork instead.
Dickie cocks his head at me. “You don’t know?”
I shake my head.
His gaze narrows to beady slits, but then he turns toward the Superstitions again. “I guess that information is lost with your father then. He didn’t tell ol’ Dickie. I know that.”