Chapter 18 Colton

CHAPTER 18

Colton

"IT LOOKS WORSE than it tastes," Riley says, reaching her spoon in for a second bite. She pulls it out and holds it up to her mouth to blow on the piping hot fruit.

I haven't ever burned Dutch oven peach cobbler before. Until tonight, I wasn't even sure it was possible to overbake it. But sure enough, there is a thick mass adhering to the bottom of the pot that's not quite a charcoal brick, but not exactly cooked perfectly golden, either.

It's impossible to look away as she slides the spoon out of her mouth. The way her lips press together has me wanting to lean forward and steal a kiss. I shouldn't do it, let alone think about doing it, but what I should do and what I want to do are two very different things.

Dad would have my head if he found out I was messing around with her instead of doing my job. Plus, she's heading back to California when this is over. What's the point of starting something I can't finish? And that's assuming she's even interested, which is doubtful given the whole Prairie Princess comment, which I should go ahead and apologize for but it seems too late now and—

"You really should try it."

Every nerve ending in my body seconds the idea, but I'm pretty sure she's talking about the peach cobbler while I'm thinking about a kiss. I swipe my spoon into the pot and shove it into my mouth.

Mistake.

"Hot, hot, hot," I sputter around molten peaches. I open my mouth to try to cool it off, but the damage is done. I've seared off the roof of my mouth and most of my pride.

"Oh no," Riley says, placing a hand on my arm. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," I mumble, looking away so she can't see me blinking back the tears in my eyes. Holy hell, that was hot.

"I always burn my mouth on pizza," she says, wrinkling her nose. "It's like I think the tomato sauce won't be the same temperature as the sun. Every. Single. Time. I never learn."

She peers up at me with those wide, dark eyes of hers. Her lips part. As if I need any more temptation. Somehow, we've shifted even closer. Close enough that I can count every eyelash in the firelight. Close enough that I can feel her warm breath on my cheek. Her tongue darts out to swipe over her bottom lip. If I leaned forward a few inches, I could close the gap between us.

I could.

But I don't.

"I owe you an apology," I say.

Riley blinks and leans back. "Just one?"

"Not gonna make this easy on me, are you?"

"Should I?" Her eyebrows quirk.

"Suppose not." I dip my spoon back into the peach cobbler and hold it out to cool. "I made a snap judgment when we met, and it wasn't fair and it wasn't even close to being right."

"Guess I'm not your typical run-of-the-mill Prairie Princess, then?"

"Not even close."

"Well, you're not as irksome as I thought, so I guess we're even."

I'm not sure what she means by that exactly, but I'll take it. "Friends?"

There's a long pause as she studies me. Her face remains blank but I catch a short flash of disappointment in her eyes before she nods. "Friends," she says, and bumps her shoulder with mine.

I thought clearing the air would help, but as we finish the rest of the peach cobbler, I keep thinking I made the wrong move.

Even if it was the only move I could make.

Morning comes at me fast. I feel like I've only just pulled the wool blanket up to my chin when I'm awoken by someone shaking me awake. When I open my eyes, Riley's standing over me, her hair tucked into a baseball cap and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The world is colorless in the breaking dawn.

I must be dreaming.

I close my eyes and sink back into my sleeping bag, the thin pad beneath me providing just enough comfort that I won't wake up stiff and sore from a night on the ground.

She shakes my arm again but doesn't let go this time. The warmth of her fingers seeps through my thermal. "Grab your boots," she whispers. "And hurry or we'll miss it."

"Miss what?" I mumble, but she's already on the move.

I pull my blanket around me like a cape and slide my feet into my boots. Even with her blisters, she hustles around the wagons and up a hill to the northeast of camp. I plod along behind her, my eyes bleary, catching up to her just as we reach the crest. Before us, the plain stretches for miles, waves of grass lapping at the scrub brush that dots the prairie. The horizon is tinged in a yellow so pale, I wonder if I'm imagining it.

Riley tosses her blanket on the ground and spreads it out like she's preparing a picnic. But instead of pulling food from the backpack she had hidden beneath it, she pulls out two pads of paper and a rectangular box. "Sit," she says, patting a spot next to her.

"What are we doing?" I ask, my voice dry and raspy from our late night.

"I wanted to come up here before we roll out and you've expressed concerns about me being out here alone. You're my…trail guide." She doesn't quite answer my question, but I don't know her well enough to tell if she's being deliberately evasive or if she thinks wanting to come up here at the butt crack of dawn is a good enough answer.

"Okay," I say, settling down beside her. "But why did you want to come up here?"

She flips open one of the sketch pads to a blank sheet of paper and balances it horizontally on her knee. "I haven't seen a proper Nebraskan sunrise yet."

Riley pulls open the box and runs her fingers over the crayon-shaped pieces inside as she gazes up at the skyline. Her hand stills over the pale yellow piece and she pulls it out. She runs it over the paper, adding different shades and layers. As the sunrise builds, so does her artwork. Slowly, the field before us comes into focus. The sun's rays highlight the few clouds dotting the sky. Her fingers smudge and blend the reds and oranges until it almost looks like she's captured the sunrise on paper.

"That's amazing," I say when she pauses. "You created that with a bunch of crayons."

"Thanks," she says. "These are actually pastels. I found them in my bag with this old sketchbook the other day. I thought I'd packed them in my luggage."

"You're really into art, huh?"

"I want to be a scientific illustrator someday." She glances over at me. "You know those sketches and diagrams in textbooks and magazines? I want to do that." She blinks and looks away.

"Can I see some more of your sketches?"

She flips the book open to the first page and shows me studies of various plants, animals, and the occasional person. "This is a sagebrush lizard," she says. "Their underbellies are this amazing shade of bright blue."

"I think we have them in Nebraska."

She grins. "I love watching them do push-ups. And here's a desert tortoise. He was rescued by a local wildlife preserve."

"These are amazing."

"Thanks. I'm trying to put together a portfolio," she says.

"The only thing I can draw is water from a well," I joke.

Riley's eyes sparkle when she turns to a blank sheet of paper and hands me a gray pastel. "Show me."

I shake my head. "I wasn't talking about art. I was being literal."

"I know," she says, tapping her foot against the side of my leg. "I was just teasing. Although…" Scooting over until she's kneeling right beside me, she wraps my fingers around the pastel and then places her hand over mine. "Relax your arm. The trick is to stay loose. Let it flow onto the page."

A bit of her hair tickles my cheek when she leans forward to guide my hand across the paper. My pulse skyrockets at her touch, and I hope to hell she can't feel it. Or hear it, based on the heartbeat stampede ringing in my ears.

I swallow and try to concentrate on the pastel and the page and the lines and whatever it is she's trying to explain to me, but all I can seem to focus on is the soft curve of her cheek, the way her lips press together in concentration, and her pastel-smudged fingertips.

"All done," she says, dropping my hand.

Riley's shoulder presses against mine and I resist the urge to wrap my arm around her and pull her into my side. When I look down at the paper, I see that we've created a rough sketch of an old stone well with a water-filled wooden bucket sitting on the edge.

"Now you can draw water from a well, both literally and figuratively." She glances up at me with warm smile.

Our eyes lock and it feels a lot like the time I accidentally grabbed ahold of the Marshalls' electrified fence. All my nerves are rattled and tingly. "Thanks," I manage. "I definitely couldn't have done it without you."

Riley blinks and pulls away. "That's what…friends are for." She clears her throat.

The way she says friends feels more like a weapon than a reassurance. I can't help but wonder if some rules—like not getting involved with the passengers—are meant to be broken.