Page 33 of Trick or Tease

I walked closer to examine one of the trebuchets. The craftsmanship was solid. Whoever built these knew what they were doing. The wood was properly treated, the joints looked secure, and there were actual safety mechanisms in place.

“Who built these?”

“Tommy Mitchell,” Sabrina said. “Remember him? He’s got his own carpentry business now.”

“And you think people will actually pay for this?”

“They already are,” Billy said. “We did a test run last weekend and sold out completely. Had to turn people away.”

That got my attention. “Sold out?”

“Could have been more if we’d had the capacity,” Sabrina said. “That’s why we added the extra launchers. And we’re streamlining things to keep it all flowing smoothly.”

My lawyer brain immediately started calculating. Low overhead, seasonal labor, minimal ongoing costs once the initial investment was made. The profit margins could actually be respectable, especially if they could drive volume.

But it was still just a pumpkin-launching operation in the middle of nowhere. How much could it really scale?

“I think he needs a refresher course,” Billy said with a big grin.

“No thanks.”

“Chicken?” Sabrina teased.

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not five.”

“He’s definitely chicken,” Lucy said.

I sighed and walked over to the nearest trebuchet, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. The truth was, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually launched a pumpkin. Had to be at least twelve years, maybe more. Back then it was just Dad’s rickety contraption and a lot of trial and error.

“Need some help there, city boy?”

I turned to find a lanky teenager with a cocky grin watching me fumble with what I assumed was the loading mechanism. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, wearing ripped jeans and a flannel shirt that had seen better days.

He reminded me a lot of me at that age.

“I’m fine,” I said, though I clearly wasn’t. The damn thing had more moving parts than I remembered.

“Uh-huh.” The kid exchanged glances with a girl about his age, who was setting up another launcher. “You sure? Because you’re holding that backwards.”

I looked down at the wooden lever in my hands. Shit. He was right.

“Jake, be nice,” the girl called over. “Not everyone grew up chunkin’ pumpkins.”

“But he did,” Jake shot back. “This is Billy’s brother. The famous Garrett Hogan who used to hold the distance record.”

Great. Now I had an audience of teenagers who remembered my childhood achievements better than I did.

“That was a long time ago,” I muttered, trying to figure out which end of this contraption was which.

“Here, let me show you.” Jake stepped up beside me and demonstrated the proper loading technique with practiced ease. “See, you want to put the pumpkin in the cup like this, make sure it’s seated properly. Then you pull this back until it clicks. Hear that? That’s your safety catch. We believe in safety first at Hogan Farms.”

I nodded, trying not to look as foolish as I felt. “Got it.”

“Now you aim by adjusting this wheel here for elevation, and this one for direction. Start with Dracula over there. He’s the easiest target.”

I followed his instructions, cranking the wheels and trying to line up what I hoped was a decent shot.

“Ready when you are,” Billy called out from the launcher next to mine. He’d loaded his pumpkin like someone who actually knew what he was doing.