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Charlie had a hunch the guide who greeted them at the trailhead the next morning had spent more hours on a military base than a ranch, and not just because he kept referring to the time of day as “oh-seven-hundred hours.” There was also the buzz cut, and the warning not to let their horses go “AWOL,” and the way he kept pointing two fingers at his eyeballs and then at Smithson.

“I want this to go smooth and by the numbers,” the man who’d introduced himself as Ranger Mitch informed them. “No tricks and no screwing around. Let’s move out.”

The horses, who clearly had a better idea of what was going on than their riders, ambled into a neat single-file line.

“So no reverse cowgirl?” Smithson joked, presumably for Emma’s benefit, since none of his cronies had gotten out of bed for this outing.

Charlie suspected they were still sleeping off the effects of last night.

It was mostly the older crowd today, plus himself and Smithson, looking a little worse for wear, as well as Mugsy, Emma, and Jean.

No one laughed at Smithson’s off-color remark, though Ranger Mitch, who apparently had supersonic hearing, winged a pine cone at him.

“I have eyes on you,” their guide said, somewhat redundantly given the jabby fingers.

Charlie would have enjoyed the moment more if he wasn’t deep in a memory of Jean explaining that particular position.

She was a good teacher, offering a quick conceptual overview followed by plenty of hands-on learning.

He still preferred the regular cowgirl, because he liked seeing Jean’s face, and Charlie had always had simple tastes, but the variation was also fun.

It was never not fun, being with Jean.

And there was so much more he could have learned.

She’d promised to show him something called the flying Pamchenko once he was ready for more advanced curriculum.

Only they’d never gotten a chance, because apparently it required a running start and two days later, he was on a plane, separated from Jean by an ocean.

Now that she was here, a different kind of barrier stretched between them. Plus you probably couldn’t do something like the flying Pamchenko in a covered wagon, even if he did manage to win back Jean’s favor.

The odds of that seemed slim right now. It felt like he’d lost ground since yesterday, and it wasn’t hard to guess that it had something to do with last night’s big announcement.

Unless it was because Jean hated it here, or he’d missed a cue and wasn’t playing the game right, and now she was bored and wanted to leave.

The problem was that he couldn’t ask about the game without forfeiting, because the whole point seemed to be not acknowledging they were playing.

And since Charlie wasn’t sure how long Jean would stick around if she wasn’t entertained, he needed to find a clever way to let her know the truth without letting her know that he was letting her know.

The first step would be getting her to acknowledge his existence.

So far, he might as well be a tree as far as Jean was concerned.

No, that wasn’t fair. She was looking at the trees, and the rocks, and the sky overhead.

The scenery interested her; it was Charlie she was blanking out.

Every time he so much as thought about moving closer, Jean drifted away.

“What are you doing?” Mugsy asked, pulling up alongside him.

“Nothing! How did it go last night?”

“Fine.” She stared straight ahead.

Apparently neither of them was in a sharing mood. That saved Charlie from admitting he’d been speculating about the logistics of the flying Pamchenko, which would have been awkward for them both. He was pretty sure Mugsy still thought of him as a teenager half the time.

“I wanted to talk to you about that girl.”

Charlie glanced at her sharply. If Mugsy meant Adriana, she would have said her name. Same for Emma Koenig. “What about her?” He tried not to sound too eager, even though he’d been dying to talk to someone about Jean.

“I think I recognize her. From the resort.”

If he hadn’t been clutching the reins, Charlie would have fallen out of the saddle. “You saw her?”

“I’m not one hundred percent. I kept thinking there was something about her—”

“Her clothes, maybe. They’re very interesting, aren’t they? Or her face? Since she’s so, you know.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “ Pretty .”

Mugsy frowned at him. “I mean she looked familiar. But it was dark the first time I saw her, and I was a little distracted, so I don’t want to go off on one of your guests if I’m wrong.”

“When exactly was it? That you saw her.” It killed Charlie to think he’d missed a last glimpse of Jean on his way to the car.

“She came to the door. For turndown service.”

“Turndown—” He caught himself before it turned into a question.

“Right. That.” Charlie swallowed. All this time he’d thought Jean stood him up that night, when in fact she did come to the cottage.

Which made Mugsy’s claim that Jean sold him out and did a runner once she had what she wanted a lot less convincing.

“Only I don’t see why the niece of the Schnapps King would be working at a hotel,” Mugsy continued, oblivious to the rearrangement of Charlie’s brain, “so either it’s not the same girl or there’s something shady going on.”

“Like what?”

“She’s a spy.”

“Here to steal… beer secrets?”

That earned him an eye roll. “Your privacy, Charlie. And Adriana’s. That’s what I’m afraid she’s after. Somebody could have planted her here to spy on you .”

“Wouldn’t she be trying to talk to me?” he pointed out. “Instead of ignoring me?”

Mugsy huffed at that, probably because she couldn’t argue. “I couldn’t find much about her online. Either she scrubbed all her content, or she’s got dummy accounts.”

“That doesn’t have to mean anything sinister, Mugsy. Maybe she was applying for jobs.”

“I bet.”

“Or—graduate school.” Charlie stared at the pommel of his saddle, in case Mugsy was giving him a pitying look. “She could have hidden ambitions.”

“Maybe.” It wasn’t quite a sigh, but Charlie could tell she was humoring him. “I’ve got my eye on her. You watch your step too.”

He nodded, fully intending to pay extremely close attention to Jean, even if it wasn’t the way Mugsy had in mind.

The trail passed out of sight as they rounded a bend, so it felt like an ambush when Charlie saw his dad waiting ahead. His hand tightened on the reins, an unconscious movement that had his mount nickering softly as if to say, get ahold of yourself .

“Ride with me, son.” As far as Charlie knew, this was his father’s first time on horseback, but you’d never guess from his confident handling of his mount. Anything athletic came easily to him. Too bad those genes had skipped Charlie. “You don’t mind, do you, Mugsy?”

“Maybe Mugsy should be in on this,” Charlie said. “If it’s business talk.”

“This is more of a father-son discussion.” Charlie’s dad nodded at Mugsy, who slowed her horse to let Charlie and his father pull ahead. Several long minutes passed before his father spoke again.

“Your mother said I should talk to you.” That answered Charlie’s first question: why are you hanging out with me instead of someone more important? “Thank you for not hiding in your room last night.”

“Sure.” Guilt mixed with the weak coffee in Charlie’s stomach. It wasn’t loyalty to the business that had drawn him to the campfire. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

They didn’t chat often enough for this to feel like a casual conversation, even without the lurking-in-wait aspect.

“You know, Charles, there’s nothing more important to your mother and I than passing on the legacy of Pike’s Brewing to the next generation.”

Charlie waited for his father to go on, but he seemed to expect a response. As if there could be any doubt what point he was making. “Meaning me.”

“That’s right. Knowing that you’re provided for, and the Pike’s tradition will carry on, is all we ask from this life.”

That wasn’t strictly true. His dad had a dozen hobbies, and his mom had always wanted to travel. Charlie nodded anyway. It was the accepted storyline of their family.

“It’s really something to think back on your great-great-grandfather brewing the first batch of Pike’s. The hills were crawling with prospectors, everyone itching to make their fortune in gold, but did Great-Gramps spend his days with a pickax and a pan?”

“No.” Charlie did his best to sound interested in a story he’d heard a million times. Although he suspected it had been embellished over the years. The first Pike had probably been a moonshiner, but this version sounded better. Or, at least, more legal.

“That’s right. Our forefathers spotted an opportunity, and they went for it. What does a prospector want at the end of a hard day’s work? Pike’s Pale, the real gold in them thar hills.”

Charlie made an appreciative noise, like he hadn’t seen that coming. On some level he understood that his father preferred to tell stories with a high probability of success, even if that meant repeating the same ones over and over. But this particular tale carried extra weight.

“You know who likes working at the brewery?” Charlie ventured. “Mugsy.”

“Yes, she’ll be a great help to you when you take over. Few things are as important as selecting the right team. Mugsy can be your fixer. She’s good at that.”

“Actually, I think Mugsy might want to do something more creative. Take things in a new direction—”

“Plenty of time to talk about that later,” his father interrupted. “If we’re still in business.”

Charlie started to nod before the substance of the words hit. “What do you mean?” His father wasn’t above occasional dramatics, but this time he sounded serious.

Mr. Pike glanced over his shoulder, where Philip and Emma Koenig were arguing about a bird, taking it in turns to mimic its call.

“Why do you think they’re here, Charlie?”

“For the centennial?” Even as he said it, Charlie knew that wasn’t the answer.

His father huffed a laugh. “We survived Zima, wine coolers, hard lemonade. Made a tentative peace with Red Bull. But I tell you this: I have nightmares about those alcoholic seltzers.”

“I didn’t know that.” He thought of sharing a nightmare of his own, like the one where he had gills but was stuck on dry land, except his father wasn’t finished.

“Tough times, Charlie. That’s what the last five years have been. We put a good face on it, but I don’t know how much longer we can go it alone. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“Not… exactly,” he admitted.

“The Koenigs run a multinational operation. With their backing, we could expand our brand instead of watching it shrink down to nothing.”

“What about all the other people?” He tried to surreptitiously indicate the Canadians in their sun hats, flanked by the cider makers from France.

“Consolation prizes. We need deep pockets and global reach. Anything else is a Band-Aid. Might stave off the inevitable for a few years, but eventually it’s goodbye to generations of blood, sweat, and beers. And then what happens to you?”

Charlie couldn’t suppress a flicker of curiosity. What would happen to him if the shadow of Pike’s Pale Ale wasn’t looming on the horizon, as it had been his entire life? He shoved that thought aside, not wanting to buy his freedom at the cost of his dad’s beloved business.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You weren’t there, Charlie.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, because you’re here now. And together, we can turn this ship around.”

He made it sound like they’d done this kind of thing before—as if Charlie and his dad were an established team with an impressive record of wins, as opposed to two people who awkwardly coexisted when they couldn’t use Charlie’s mom as a go-between.

Sometimes Charlie worried his father confused the uplifting movies he watched on cable with real life.

“I’ll try my best,” Charlie said, because that much was true. “How can I help?”

“I need you to be here, playing the part of my son and heir.”

“I am your son.”

“Then it should be easy. Philip Koenig is a family-first kind of guy. He’ll respect that we’re keeping the Pike legacy alive. With Smithson’s help.”

“About that, Dad—”

“Look alive,” his father said, cutting him off.

“You want to help? Go talk to your girl.” Like most of Mr. Pike’s suggestions, it was an order in disguise.

Rather than waiting for Charlie to comply, he smacked Charlie’s horse on the rump, sending mount and rider trotting ahead—on a collision course with Adriana Asebedo.