Chapter 19 Riley

CHAPTER 19

Riley

THE CASCADING HILLS grow more pronounced as we make our way westward. In the front of the wagon, Mom and Dad continue to chat with the McCreadys and the Stones. How can they possibly have so much to talk about with a group of strangers? I'd complain about it to Caleb, but I can't, since he bailed on our wagon and stowed away with the other group so he could hang out with his new friends.

Colton's dark, focused eyes stare up at me from a page in my sketchbook. I've captured them perfectly, with his lashes reflected in the lenses, the lines of the cheekbones below softened in the sunrise. A lock of his hair falls across his brow in soft waves, just like it did at the campfire when he was frying up the brook trout. But no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to get his mouth right.

Worried I would ruin the page by over-erasing, I begin sketching his lips on a piece of scratch paper. His mouth pursed in a grimace after he ate the piping hot peach cobbler. His lips curved up at the edges when he talks about life out here on the prairie. The small part between his top and bottom lips that opens just before I think, Finally, he's going to kiss me. But of course, he doesn't, because we've established that we're friends.

I flip the sketchbook closed and tuck it away into the safety of my backpack, determined to do something other than moon over Colton. I've practically convinced myself that the only way I'll ever be able to render an accurate likeness of his lips is if we kiss. I pull the zipper shut with a quick flick of my wrist, as if I could lock away my thoughts as well. I've already spent way too much time today thinking about his mouth and lips and kisses, and definitely not in the artistic sense.

The wagon train slows to a stop for nooning. There's a thick mass of dark clouds building to the west and I really hope this doesn't mean we're in for inclement weather. Rain is a rare treat in Southern California, so a light Nebraskan shower might be nice to experience, but I'd rather not deal with high winds, hail, lightning, or a twister.

It feels good to stretch my legs after being cooped up in the wagon all morning. I've swapped out my hiking boots for the pair of cheap canvas sneakers I'm dying to customize as soon as I can get my art supplies unpacked. It would be a perfect project to distract me from dissecting every interaction I've had with Colton so far. If only I had a permanent marker.

When I round the supply cart, I come across Ty and Felix. Maybe they can help me out. "You wouldn't happen to have a Sharpie, would you?"

Felix shakes his head. "Ain't got much use for them out here."

Ty shifts around a few crates. "I bet Barnaby's got one you can borrow. He's always using one to mark off his bird sightings in that book of his."

"Thanks." A flicker of hope sends my fingertips tingling.

When I finally locate Barnaby, he's got his binoculars pressed to his face and his sights set on a clump of bushes a few hundred yards away. "Hello, Sparrow," he says, giving me a nod. "Enjoying the trail so far?"

"I guess. It's not quite what I expected."

"It never is," he says with a sage smile. "But I generally find that the trail always serves up exactly what you need."

"If what I need is a healthy dose of confusion, frustration, and uncertainty, then you're spot on," I mumble.

"You're a skeptical sparrow today, I see." He regards me out of the corner of his eye. "Give it time."

"How long does it usually take?"

Barnaby shrugs.

I pull a blade of grass from a tuft of switchgrass and press it flat between my thumbs before blowing across it to make it whistle.

"I haven't done that in ages."

I twist around to find Colton standing a few feet behind me, spinning his Stetson in his hands. His hair is matted down with a few stray wisps doing their own thing. His jeans are dusty and the tips of his boots are coated in mud. With his cotton shirt unbuttoned at the collar, he looks like he belongs on the front page of a Ranch & Rustler ad—the perfect combination of rugged cowboy and Prince Charming. I don't hate it.

My pulse flutters and I look away quickly.

"I have those maps you asked for," Colton says, handing Barnaby a slim stack of folded yellowed papers.

"Captain Walker never disappoints." He takes the bundle from Colton and slips them into his back pocket. "Thank your dad for me, will ya?"

"Sure thing." Colton slides his hat back on. "Got a minute?" he asks me.

Out here, I have nothing but time and a burgeoning crush.

Colton leads me past the covered wagons and the cook fire. Past the adults who are having a typical "kids these days" conversation. Past the kids (including Caleb) who are the root cause of the conversation.

We pause at the supply wagon so Colton can grab a large canvas sack. He tosses it over his shoulder and leads me away from our rest stop.

"Where are we going?" I ask, glancing up at the sky to see if it still looks like rain. Thankfully, the clouds coming in from the west are now white and puffy, surrounded by plenty of blue sky.

"One of my favorite places along the trail," he says.

We wade through prairie grass and hike up two hills that are deceptively steep before we come to a sloping valley covered with white and orange blossoms. For a moment, it looks like some of the blossoms are floating, but then I realize the field is full of butterflies.

"Are those monarchs?"

Colton nods as he works to unknot the canvas sack. "Practically the whole field is milkweed." He sets a section of a newspaper down on the ground for both of us to sit on and then passes me a bottle of Felix's famous lemonade.

"It's incredible." I settle onto my square of newspaper and watch a butterfly zigzag past us, darting over the tops of the flowers until it stops for a sip of nectar. "How did you find this place?"

Colton unlatches a mess tin to reveal bacon, biscuits, two small red apples, and the most adorable container of honey I've ever seen. "A few years ago, lightning sparked a wildfire here. It wiped out most of the meadow. Chance and I discovered it on a ride one day." He pauses to gnaw on a strip of bacon. "Some of the local conservation groups have been working to restore native plants to the prairie. I thought this might be a good place to plant some milkweed, so they supplied the seed and I sowed it."

"You did this?"

He looks almost bashful as he studies the last bit of bacon in his hand. "Mother Nature did most of the work."

"But still, it had to have taken you hours to spread the seed."

"A few sowing sessions," he says, gazing over the field. "Chance and I would ride up here on the weekends and I'd strap a bucket over my shoulder and walk back and forth, tossing handfuls of seed mixed with rice hulls and sand. I can't tell you how disappointed I was the following spring. Hardly any milkweed germinated."

"But look at it now."

His eyes sweep over the meadow. "Some things are worth the wait."