Chapter 17 Riley

CHAPTER 17

Riley

COLTON HANDS ME the spoons and some weird-looking four-legged metal cooking implement, and the air around us seems to crackle when our fingers touch. It's not the fire, and he must feel it, too, from the way he slowly pulls his arm back. Or maybe that's just the flickering firelight playing tricks on me. I blink and the moment's gone as fast as it came.

Colton clears his throat and turns away.

I shouldn't be surprised or disappointed—not with the amount of disdain he has for me—and it's not like I was expecting some giant apology or profession of feelings from him. And yet…

I didn't exactly mind the way his arms wrapped around me when Mama Raccoon attacked. The way his face hovered over mine as we sank into the mud. The way his hands gripped me securely to pull me up over the ledge. Or how he regarded me with a heady mixture of respect and sheepishness when I reeled in dinner.

Things between us have certainly changed, but how, exactly?

The back of his shirt pulls tight over his shoulders as he tends to the fire. When he glances over, the flickering light accentuates his strong jawline and dark eyes. He belongs out here in the middle of the prairie, with his rugged good looks. For a moment, I wonder if I could belong out here, too.

My gaze moves to his mouth. To his lips pressed together in concentration as he adjusts the lid on the Dutch oven. My skin warms and I force myself to look away into the cool darkness that surrounds us.

I don't want to be attracted to him, nope. Not with all his tall, dark, and irksome ways. What's even the point of wanting to kiss someone who's not interested? Never mind how tempting that quirk of his lips might be.

Colton kneels down in front of the fire and nestles the Dutch oven right into the coals. He grabs the shovel lying next to the emergency water bucket, stands, and scoops glowing embers over the top of the pot until the lid is completely hidden beneath. "Should be ready in about a half hour or so," he says, setting the shovel aside.

Wiping his hands on the back of his pants, he glances over at me. The wind tosses my hair and I tuck it behind my ears in a futile attempt to keep it out of my face. Even though the fire is keeping my front side warm and toasty, my back is exposed to the cold night air. I stifle a shiver and run my hands over my arms, the spoons chattering together like they're colder than I am.

"You got anything warmer to wear?"

I glance down at my flannel shirt and jeans, which are the warmest things I purchased at Ranch & Rustler. "Not really, but I'll survive." It's hardly close to freezing.

Colton tosses another piece of wood on the fire, sending up a cascade of sparks. They flicker into the night sky before disappearing like mini-fireworks. "It can get chilly out here when the sun goes down."

"Same for the SoCal desert," I say.

My pulse jumps when Colton sinks down on the log next to me, his knee bumping mine. He tilts his face to me and says, "I figured it would be completely different in California."

"It is. And it isn't." I've spent most of my time thinking about how horrible Nebraska is since the Great Upheaval, but I haven't stopped to consider any of the positives. "I actually thought I'd hate it here more than I do. No offense."

Colton clears his throat and glances at me out of the corner of his eye. "Is that a backhanded compliment?"

"Maybe?" I look up at the clear, midnight blue sky. "I'll admit, it's beautiful out here, with all the rolling hills and wide-open vistas. I love how you can see so many stars from dusk to dawn. And how the air is always fresh and clean. There's no traffic, no congestion. How can there be, with so few roads? It's so quiet, with only the hum of the insects and the chirps of the birds."

I turn my attention back to the fire and study the vibrant oranges and yellows flickering over the occasional blue and green hot spots that remind me of the early evening Nebraskan sky. "I wish I had my watercolors with me so I could capture the brilliance of the sunset behind tufts of switchgrass…" My hand curls as if holding a paintbrush, and I force my palm flat on my thigh. Hopefully I can remember every detail so I can get it down on a sheet of hot pressed paper once I'm reunited with my good art supplies, packed in one of the myriad boxes of my things. My fingers twitch at the thought.

When I look up, Colton's studying me with an amused expression.

"What?" I ask, suddenly unsure if all that babbling was too much.

"You don't hate Nebraska at all." He smirks.

"I hate the idea of Nebraska," I amend. "Mostly I hate that it's not California."

Colton uses a poker to rearrange the coals. "Is California really that great?"

"It's not terrible."

His laugh comes out as a low rumble that sends a trail of warmth down my spine. "Not exactly the glowing recommendation I was expecting."

"Yeah, well." I sigh. "I never expected this." I wave my hand around.

"It's not terrible," Colton says with a grin.

"Not exactly the glowing recommendation I was expecting." It's been so long since I've laughed—weeks at least—and it feels unexpectedly good. Maybe there's a chance I could find a bit of happiness here. Do I even dare to hope? "So, what's the best thing about living in Nebraska?"

Colton narrows his eyes in thought. "I love that I can just saddle up my horse and disappear into the prairie whenever I want to get away. Just me, Chance, and the open range."

The campfire pops and crackles in the silence that settles between us. After a few minutes, Colton stands. "Can you hand me the lid lifter?"

"That's what this is?" I ask, holding up the four-legged contraption for him to take.

"Technically, it's a multi-tool." He splays the legs so that they all form right angles. "You can use it as a cook stand or a lid stand, or"—he pushes the legs together—"you can use the curved ends to lift the lid or the bail."

"Bail?"

"That's what the handle on the Dutch oven is called."

His tone is softer than it was earlier when he tried to mansplain fishing to me. Instead of showing off like a know-it-all, he's honestly trying to teach me something I don't know.

Colton uses the multi-tool to lift the Dutch oven's lid. He peers inside and then turns to me with a grimace. "Damn. I must've lost track of the time. It looks a bit overdone."

"Is it still edible?" My stomach growls.

"Probably." He sets the lid back down and uses the multi-tool to brush off the coal and ash and then hooks it under the bail. "If you're feeling adventurous."

"Adventure is my middle name," I say, holding up the spoons.