Chapter 12 Colton

CHAPTER 12

Colton

MORNING ON THE prairie, before everyone else is awake, is my favorite time on the trail. The sun comes up over the fields, casting an orange haze over the grass that makes it look like fire if you catch it just right. With a tin cup of Felix's cowboy coffee and a handful of biscuits, I settle down on a rock to try to clear my mind for the day. But first: caffeine. I definitely need a hearty helping to get me through to nooning.

As I sip my coffee, everything feels off-kilter. Usually I have no problem watching the prairie awaken, but I can't focus. I try to forget the memory of my run-in with Riley at the crack of dawn, when I found her wielding a flashlight and not enough common sense. She almost scared the living daylights out of me, with that ridiculous pajama top of hers, so stark white it practically glowed in the dark. I would have thought she was the ghost of an unfortunate pioneer, if I believed in stuff like that. Who the hell leaves the safety of their tent in the Great Plains in the middle of the night, anyhow?

Inexperienced tourists who don't belong here, that's who.

My shin still smarts from when she threw herself at me. My pride still smarts from how much I liked the feel of her pressed up against me, her warm breath on my collarbone and her hands on my biceps. And her eyes, chocolate brown with a hint of gold, peering up at me with a mix of fear and trust, her hair smelling like sweet peas and summer rain—easy enough to get lost in on a moonlit night if you aren't careful.

The tin cup buckles slightly under my grip and I force my fingers to relax. Since the moment we first set out, I'd known Riley would irritate me like a burr caught in my shirtsleeve, rubbing my skin raw until pulled free. But there was no way I could have anticipated how much she'd irritate me with her glistening, dark eyes, her witty comebacks, or her ability to wield a rubber mallet.

I gnaw on a hunk of dry, day-old biscuit, working my jaw to try to get her out of my thoughts. I can't afford to be distracted by a pretty face. Out here on the trail, there are always risks, and losing focus can land you in a heap of trouble.

Washed out roads.

Inquisitive wildlife.

Unpredictable storms.

"Riley," I mumble, taking a swig of coffee so strong you could probably stand a spoon up in it. The bitter liquid burns all the way down.

Felix wakes the camp with a few sharp raps of the cowbell a short while after sunrise. I was so distracted in my thoughts, I completely missed the moment the fields are aglow, which pisses me off more than it should. I could blame it on the lack of sleep or not enough cowboy coffee, but really, it's that I can't shake Riley from my thoughts. Given all the wagon trains I've been on, I know better than almost anyone else that no good can come from "fraternizing with the clientele," as Dad likes to say. Not only does it go against corporate policy, but I'm also not a player. Unlike Jake, I'm not cut out for a fling.

But now that I've spent some time with her…

Damn.

Wild Wanda helps Felix pass out a historically accurate meal of biscuits, bacon, beans, and cowboy coffee. I snag a strip of crispy bacon on my way past the cook fire, planning to avoid the din of breakfast by getting Chance saddled up and ready to hit the trail. Today we'll stop along the banks of Bow Brook, where we'll set up camp early and then give a fishing demonstration before sending the passengers off to catch their dinner. If the brook trout are biting, we'll have Dutch oven fried fish. If not, Wild Wanda will whip up her famous fish soup or potato soup, depending on how few fish we end up with.

Just as I'm about to pull my saddle from a sawhorse, a blur of movement catches my eye. Riley's hiking northwest into the grassland toward a nearby hill, a backpack slung over her shoulders and a baseball cap pulled down over her dark hair. Her strides are measured and sure, like she's accustomed to hiking. But for a city girl, this is unfamiliar territory. She could get lost. Bit by a snake. Twist her ankle. There's no way I can, in good conscience, just let her wander off on her own.

"Son of a bitch," I grumble, dropping the saddle. This Prairie Princess is becoming a real pain in the ass.

"You really shouldn't wander away from the campsite," I say.

Riley's a fast hiker, I'll give her that. By the time I've caught up to her, she's already seated on a newspaper with her boots off and art supplies spilling from her bag.

"Not all who wander are lost. Or are doomed to get lost," she says. Her shoulders stiffen as she flips her notebook closed. I barely catch the sketch of a blade of switchgrass on the page. "I can see the wagons perfectly from here."

"There are other dangers out here," I say.

"Oh, so you're worried I might have another run-in with the local wildlife?" She shoves her sketchbook and art supplies back in her bag.

"Something like that." I reach out a hand to help her up but she ignores me.

"Believe it or not, I'm not a damsel in distress. The raccoons last night caught me by surprise, is all. I was perfectly safe."

Riley stands and I catch a trace of her flowery scent. I clear my throat, remembering how it wasn't exactly torture to have her clinging to me last night.

Her eyes narrow at me, as if clearing my throat was a personal attack. "I would have been completely fine last night without you."

"That's not…I wasn't…" What is even happening here?

Last night, there was a moment when it felt like maybe we could call a truce. The way she'd looked up at me when I'd held her close, her lips parted. I'd almost convinced myself she might have kissed me. Wishful thinking, I guess.

Not that I should be thinking anything like that.

Riley slides her feet into her boots and bends down to tie them. Her fingers wrap the laces around the hooks like she's done this many times before. I suppose there's hiking in California.

"Why'd you come up here, anyhow?" I ask, hoping to save this runaway conversation from driving right over the edge of a cliff.

Riley straightens with an arched brow and waves an arm around regally in front of me like she's on a float in the Rose Parade. "I was surveying my kingdom. Isn't that what Prairie Princesses do?"

Man, she knows just how to press my buttons. "If the brand-new shoe fits," I say, glancing down at her feet.

"Seriously?" Her face twists into a scowl. She grabs her backpack and swipes the newspaper off the ground. Her eyes are cold and piercing when she looks back at me. "Get off your high horse, cowboy. You don't know shit about me."

I don't know why Barnaby thinks Riley's a sad sparrow. As far as I can tell, she's more of a cranky crow.

Or maybe a moody magpie?

Tempestuous tern?

A trail of dust swirls in her wake as she stomps back to camp. She's favoring her right foot, so I bet those fancy new hiking boots are giving her one heck of a blister. Why she wouldn't at least try to break them in before wearing them out here is beyond me.

This stuff happens all the time. People come out to the Great Plains and pretend to be pioneers for a few days, completely unprepared. Greenhorns. City slickers. Prairie Princesses. We've seen and dealt with them all. In fact, given my experience with other passengers like her, I'm kinda surprised she even bothered buying hiking boots. Most opt for flip-flops or strappy sandals.

Except, if I'm being honest, those other passengers were nothing like her. Deep down, I know Riley's not really the person I thought she was—or need her to be, if I have any chance of keeping this invisible wall between us. I need that wall, because it's starting to feel like it's the only thing that's standing between me and a future full of regrets.

After the dust has settled, I head back to camp. Dad and the rest of the crew have already packed up supplies and the tents have come down. While the oxen are yoked, I saddle Chance and prepare the mules.

It takes the wagon train a little more than four hours to reach Bow Brook, a winding creek with a rocky shore with a few decent pools that are perfect for fishing. After we take care of the animals, the rest of the crew and our passengers set up camp, while I head out to find bait. The soil is still a bit loose from the recent rain, so it doesn't take me long to get a decent container full of wigglers.

As I make my way back to the campsite, I predict how Riley will react to having to hook the worm. Will she do some version of "ew, gross" complete with a shudder and hair toss? If her brother is like most of the younger siblings out here, he'll do his best to up the ick factor for her by either dropping a worm down the back of her shirt or eating it.

Or will she duck my expectations again?

"Now we're going to spread out along the banks of the creek. We don't have enough fishing rods for everyone, so you'll need to team up in groups of twos and take turns. Try to find an area away from other pairs," Dad says, waving me over. "Colton, here, has bait. If you need help or you're a bit squeamish, ask one of the crew members for assistance." He points to Ty. "Grab yourself a rod and a net. Oh, and limit yourself to one fish per pair. Out here, we only take what we need."

Everyone pairs up, and soon it's just me, Dad, Riley, and a handful of worms.

Dad nods. "You two should head on down to the switchback," he says, pointing to a section of the creek I know well. It's a great fishing spot, with an embankment right over a deep pool, but it's also a bit of a hike from where we are now. "I'm going to check on the rest of the gang."

I glance at Riley's new boots and shake my head. "We can find a closer spot so you don't have to walk so far."

Riley sets her hands on her hips, a fishing rod in one hand and a net in the other. "I am perfectly capable of walking."

"With those new boots, you're apt to get blisters."

"Blisters, schmlisters. Just try to keep up," she says, shoving the net at me.

I'll give it to her; she sets a brisk pace. By the time I'm done fumbling with the net and earthworms, I have to jog to catch up to her. When we finally reach the bend in the creek, I'm breathing hard. She barely looks like she's broken a sweat. Instead of letting myself get soft, I double down. Must be all those spin classes or hot yoga or whatever the latest West Coast fitness trend is this month, I think in an effort to force myself not to be too impressed by her.

I'm definitely not impressed with her.

Not in the slightest.

Nope.