Chapter 10 Colton

CHAPTER 10

Colton

DINNER THE FIRST night on the trail is always poultry, and tonight it's Dutch oven chicken and biscuits with a side of bacon, because the pioneers ate bacon at just about every meal. While we try to keep the excursion as authentic as possible, crabby, ill-fed passengers are not much fun. All the recipes are made with the same ingredients the pioneers would have had available to them, with the same cooking techniques, but the portions are larger and the selection remains varied, no matter how far west we travel.

The campfire crackles when Ty throws on another log, a luxury to have with so few trees around. I've spent hours chopping and stacking cords of wood, so it's nice to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Buffalo patties would be a more bona fide fuel source, but for some reason, overlanders don't appreciate food cooked over prairie coals.

Once my tin plate is heaped with a generous helping of food, I make my way over to where most of the party has congregated. With the portable picnic table full, some of the passengers sit on their bedding rolls while others lounge on small boulders or patches of grass. Barnaby has his folding stool with him and has centered himself with the other adults. I pull up a patch of earth near the other trail guides and dig in.

"Excellent first day," Dad says before taking a swig of water from his tin cup. It clinks dully against his plate when he sets it on the ground.

"It's a quiet group," Wild Wanda remarks, studying the passengers who haven't really started to mingle yet. Barnaby is doing an excellent job of keeping the conversation flowing, and it won't be long before there's more interaction between the groups.

"For now," Felix agrees, but then he glances at the middle-school boys and gives a knowing chuckle. "This time tomorrow, I bet you'll be singing a different tune."

Wild Wanda gives a wheezy laugh. "Them boys bound to be rascals, sure enough."

"Keep an eye on 'em," Dad says to all of us, "and let me know if they start to get out of hand."

Plate clean, I rise to drop it in the dish tub when Barnaby calls my name.

"Evenin', Longspur," he says, giving me a short nod.

If Barnaby likes you, you get a bird nickname, and I count myself in the rare few who have earned that privilege. No one else on the wagon train has one, which is a sore subject for Dad, who's taken Barnaby on our Oregon Trail adventures for at least fifteen years. Only a few of our vacationers have ever been lucky enough to leave an excursion with a nickname.

"Evenin'," I reply, tipping my hat in greeting.

We take a moment to gaze out at the open prairie before us.

"How's the birdwatching?" I ask.

"So far, so good. Though I'm still holding out hope for the elusive Centronyx bairdii. "

For the sake of Barnaby's Nebraska bird bucket list, I hope he'll spot a Baird's sparrow in the Great Plains, too.

"Seems like a good mix of passengers this run," he comments, turning back toward the campfire to study the rest of the passengers. "Kids might be a bit rowdy, but you've had worse."

My gaze goes to the group of boys huddled in a circle around their tin plates. Riley's brother is the center of attention, his hands whipping around as he tells a story that leaves everyone cracking up. He's loving every minute in the spotlight.

Riley watches him from across the campfire, where she still sits alone. Light flickers over her face as she chases her food around her plate with her fork, the twilight shadows highlighting her forlorn expression as she takes a somber bite. She's definitely not having a good time. I ignore a dull ache in my chest—must be indigestion—and drag my focus back to Barnaby.

"The adults seem to be a decent sort, though the McCreadys might be a bit high-maintenance," he says. Sometimes I think Barnaby missed his calling. He would have made a better cowboy than a CPA. Although "high-maintenance" to Barnaby means preferring a daily shower out on the trail, which is not even close to the level of maintenance someone like…

I look at Riley but can't make myself finish the thought.

I watch as she sets her empty plate down on the ground beside her. She leans forward, elbows propped on her knees, and stares into the fire like it holds all the answers.

"Sad sparrow."

I must have zoned out and missed what Barnaby said, because I thought he said sad sparrow. "What?"

"Not a what. A who." He pulls a microfiber cloth from his pocket and starts wiping the lenses on his binoculars.

"Okay. Who?" I ask.

"If you don't know who I'm talking about, you're a lot less observant than I thought you were, Longspur."

I shrug. He can't mean Riley, can he? I survey the passengers but can't find anyone else who looks so dejected.

"I might be old, but I was young once. And I have the eyes of a hawk. There's no way she slipped your notice," he says.

"The Prairie Princess?" I ask, shaking my head. "She's definitely hard to miss, that one."

Barnaby gives a small tsk . He folds the cloth into a pristine square and slides it back into its pouch. "Looks can be deceiving. I feel for her, poor thing."

Poor thing? She looks like a walking credit card, with her brand-new clothes, sun-kissed highlights, and snotty attitude. I try to convince myself that it's only a matter of time before she's whining about lack of cell service, a broken nail, or too many carbs. Sure, she's good-looking and smells like sweet peas and summer rain, but…

Seated beside the fire in a flannel shirt and dusty jeans, this Riley is a far cry from the put-together Prairie Princess back in Darby.

A glimmer of doubt seeps in.

"She's a sad sparrow, that one," Barnaby continues. "A sad, sad sparrow."

How the hell did Riley already get a nickname from Barnaby? It took me years. "I'm sure she'll be fine once she gets back to her skyscraper city," I say with a huff.

"A gilded cage," Barnaby says. "But even I can tell she doesn't belong there."

"She doesn't belong here," I say, my jaw going tight.

He gives a short hum. "Are you sure about that?"

Of course, I'm not sure, but I can hardly admit it now. Doubling down, I say, "I know you've seen her, but have you actually seen her?"

I glance in Riley's direction to find her gazing out at the prairie, the end of a pencil now tucked between her teeth. She's shifted away so that the fire casts light on her lap. After a moment, Riley looks down at a notebook balanced on her knee and makes a few scribbles before she returns her attention to the horizon. A hawk swoops overhead, and as she watches it catch a thermal to rise higher, her face softens.

Barnaby smirks. "Well, I'm looking at her right now. And she sure looks like she belongs, Longspur."

I'm vexed to admit he has a point.