Chapter 15 Riley

CHAPTER 15

Riley

WE DECIDE TO make our way back up from the muddy creek bed by using broken branches as pitons. Thankfully there's a whole heap of freshwater driftwood stuck in the mud. We dig through the stack until we find the thickest branches and then break them into foot-long segments. Colton pounds the thick sticks into the banking with a fist-sized stone until only six or so inches stick out, providing grips we can use to climb to the top. He tosses the fishing rod up ahead and then volunteers to go first, insisting that if the branches can support his weight, they'll support mine, too.

Colton's progress is slow and steady. As he works his way up, he pulls sticks from his back pocket, jams them into the mud wall as far as they'll go, and then hammers them most of the way in. Eventually, he reaches the ledge and pulls himself over, boots disappearing as a few clods of damp soil roll down the embankment. A moment later, his grime-streaked face appears above me. "Good news. The fishing rod made it up okay."

Lot of good it does us right this second.

"Your turn," he says. "Take it nice and slow."

"It's just like climbing a tree," I say to myself. A slippery, muddy, unpredictable tree.

My hands wrap around the protruding sticks and the treads of my hiking boots grip the holds below me as I propel myself higher. Just as I'm about to give a final push, the stick beneath my right foot pulls free. My leg slips out from beneath me and I battle against gravity, clinging tightly to the other sticks as I press myself into the mud. My arms tremble and my pulse pounds.

The stick beneath my left foot starts to wobble. My right foot scrapes along the slick muddy wall without finding a toehold. It's only a few yards, but the distance between me and the creek feels like a mile. Unable to use my legs for leverage, I have no idea how I'm going to make it over the few remaining feet ahead of me.

Then Colton reaches down. "Grab my hand."

The tips of my fingers graze his but I just can't reach. My left foot slips and I cling to the two handholds with shaky arms. "I can't." My voice warbles with panic.

"Hold on," Colton says. He stretches down and wraps his hands around my forearms. "I've got you," he says. "You're almost done. I'll lift while you push. On the count of three, okay?" Our eyes lock and I nod. "One. Two."

"Three," I grunt, pressing down with my left leg and heaving with my aching arms.

Colton hauls backward, his weight an efficient counterbalance. With my elbows digging into soil, I scramble up over the edge.

"Thanks," I say, before collapsing next to him to catch my breath.

Colton hasn't said a word to me since I reeled in a sizable brook trout, deposited it into the net, and handed him the fishing rod, proclaiming, "And that's how it's done." I'm pretty sure the look that flickered across his face was reluctant admiration but I don't know him well enough to be certain.

We fall into step along the path, his stride slightly longer than mine thanks to his height and my developing blisters. Every once in a while, I catch him sneaking glances at me out of the corner of his eye. But doing that means I have to sneak glances at him, and I don't want him to think I'm checking himout.

I wish I could say there's nothing appealing about Tall, Dark, and Irksome—but even covered in grime, with a huge smear of mud along his brow line and the way his flannel shirt is plastered to his abdomen—he's got this magnetic appeal about him. Thankfully, a particularly loud flock of grackles interrupts my thoughts before I get too carried away. He might be good-looking, but he's still annoying as hell. Even if he did save me back there.

Blisters are the bane of my existence. I have plenty of them by the time we make it back to the wagons, coated in cracked mud and bits of vegetation, and chilled to the bone just as the sun passes below the horizon. The wind kicks up a bit in the twilight and I shiver, wrapping my arms around my waist to preserve what little body heat I have left. I probably shouldn't have insisted we make another attempt to fish once we reached the top of the embankment, but after everything, I wasn't about to return to camp empty-handed.

I'm startled by a loud, ear-piercing whistle. "Well, look what the cat dragged in," Wild Wanda exclaims as she steps out from behind the supply wagon. She lifts a lantern and takes us in. "You two are a sight! Do I even wanna know?"

Colton shrugs as I push a scraggly strand of hair out of my face.

"Cap'n Walker was about to send out a search party." Behind her, the campfires send shadows dancing over the wagons and the low murmur of voices echoes. Wild Wanda pulls a walkie-talkie from her belt and says, "Colton and Riley are back at base. Over."

The crackly response of "Ten-four" blares from the speaker as she returns the unit to her hip.

"You missed dinner," Wild Wanda says.

"We brought dinner." Colton holds up the brook trout.

"Good thing, since all that's left is a bit of watery potato soup. Only had three tiny fish to work with tonight." She shakes her head and leans over the net. "Well, that one there's a beaut."

"Riley caught it."

Wild Wanda grins and slaps me on the shoulder, knocking me off balance. My hip bumps into Colton's and his arm goes behind my back to steady me. Somehow, he's warm and his clothes are not nearly as damp as mine, and I soak in the heat he's emanating like a turtle on a log. He drops his arm but he doesn't step back. We aren't touching, but he's still close enough that I can feel his warmth.

Before I do something stupid like lean back into him and sigh, Wild Wanda lifts the lantern to get another look at the fish. "You two have the makings of a fine meal there."

My stomach grumbles in agreement.

After significantly downplaying the incident with my parents, I head off to clean up. Thankfully, there's enough water in the solar shower for me to rinse off the mud. Unfortunately, it's far from being warm and, at this point, I'm not sure I'll ever stop shivering. Given my limited clothing options, my only hope at this point is bundling up in layers and standing as close to the fire as possible without charring myself like a marshmallow.

It's almost nine by the time I hobble to the cook fire in my flip-flops, the skin at the back of my ankles and on the pads of my feet raw from blisters and pressure. I tried to squeeze them into my canvas sneakers, but that wasn't happening. The camp is quiet now that most of the others are already in bed.

Colton's got a cast-iron frying pan bubbling away on a grate over the coals, his freshly washed hair combed neatly back in barely tamed waves. He leans forward to poke at whatever's in the pan and a lock of hair falls over his brow. The golden glow of the fire softens the lines on his face, making him appear more thoughtful than judgmental. My heart does a little backflip when he glances up and tosses the hair out of his face like a rugged movie star. I'm pinned to the spot when our eyes meet, the reflection of the flames dancing across his dark irises. Heat courses over my skin—not from the fire but from the intensity of his look.

"Wild Wanda was right. You caught a good one. It'll fry up real nice."

We break eye contact and he turns his attention back to the frying pan. I step closer to the fire and see he's got the whole fish—head to tail—breaded and cooking in oil. Grandpa Bob used to cook our catches like this when we were camping, and a sharp pang slices through my chest. Another thing to miss about California. No more spur-of-the-moment camping trips with Grandpa Bob.

Suddenly weary, I look for a spot to sit but find that the only elevated option is to share a log with Colton. I ease down on the other end, as far away from him as possible, and tuck my hands under my legs to keep them warm.

"Were your parents worried when they saw you?" he asks, breaking the silence.

"Meh. They're so used to seeing me in mud masks, they just assumed it was part of my daily facial care routine."

"Uh?" Colton gives me side-eye.

"Kidding. They had questions but I managed to reassure them. What about your dad? Would he have really sent out a search party?"

"Not on my account." Colton shakes his head and flips the fish with a wooden spatula. The oil pops and hisses as the other side begins to cook. "But maybe to ease your parents' minds."

"He wouldn't worry about you?"

"He does, but I'm out here on my own so often, he trusts that I can take care of myself. Sometimes I'm off the grid a few days at a time, just me and my horse, Chance."

"Sounds nice."

As upset as I am about moving to Nebraska and being stuck out here on this Oregon Trail adventure, I can see how waking up alone in a wide-open space like this—with the birds and insects chirping their morning salutations, and the wind and sun kissing your face—can be good for the soul. Just thinking of it has my fingers twitching for a pencil and my sketchbook so I can get down a few quick sketches while the images are fresh in my mind.

"I thought you said this was the last place on earth you wanted to be," Colton says.

"It is. It was." I sigh. "Maybe not the last place on earth."

"Just wait. Nebraska will grow on you," he says with a smirk.