Page 90 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

"Then wear your rings as a permanent reminder of this solemn vow you have made today."

At this, she opens the box, and we each reach in to take our rings and place them on our fingers. There's already a band on Lennon's ring finger, but that's okay. We all want him to leave it there and simply add this new one beside it. He doesn't have to stop loving Georgia's memory simply because he loves us, too.

We close the ceremony in a group hug—Grace in the middle, getting squeezed the hardest, but she doesn't seem to mind.

And then Reed—of course it would be Reed—can contain himself no longer. With a whoop of laughter, he scoops me up and tosses me shrieking into the lake.

The next few minutes are chaos: five children—three huge ones, one fairly large one, and one regular-sized one—laughing, shouting, splashing, and kicking water at each other until we're all soaked to the skin.

Eventually, we clamber back to the shore. It's a warm night, and thankfully, I brought plenty of towels. We huddle together around the bonfire and roast sausages over the flames, the fat dripping down and hissing in the fire.

And then, without intending to… we sleep.

Ding-a-ding, ding-a-ding, ding-a-ding…

I stir in my slumber.

What is that annoying noise?

A fly?

A wasp?

Why won't it go away?

Ding-a-ding, ding-a-ding, ding-a-ding…

I try to ignore it, but something's tugging at the edge of my mind. Something important.

Something about my mom and dad…

Something about the summer solstice…

Ding-a-ding, ding-a-ding, ding-a-ding…

Oh my God!

"Wake up! Wake up! Everyone, wake up! It's nearly sunrise!"

Thank goodness I thought to set my alarm.

It's half past five in the morning—and sunrise here is at precisely five-forty-two.

Twelve minutes.

After reading my mom's third letter, I'd shown it to the boys, and we'd discussed it at length.

The vase was clearly buried somewhere nearby.

And—or so I was certain—we'd be able to discover exactly where if we watched the shadows climb the third pine tree when the drum stops.

Which, I'm convinced, means sunrise on summer solstice.

Right now.

As the boys and Grace slowly wake up, yawning and stretching, I picture the scene as it must have looked more than twenty years ago.The Ute, gathered along the shoreline, their wickiups nestled near the trees, bonfires blazing. The great pole erected at the center. Drummers encircling it. Dancers weaving in and out of the firelight.

And there—my mom and dad, standing side by side, part of the sacred ceremony.

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