Chapter 2 Colton

CHAPTER 2

Colton

THERE'S NOTHING LIKE the tranquility of a morning on the prairie. I roll onto my back and stretch, the scent of last night's campfire carrying on the damp morning air.

Chance whinnies at me as if to say, "You're finally awake." He swishes his tail and chomps on a giant mouthful of prairie June grass.

The trail I know like the back of my hand snakes east to west. Heading west, it goes past Devil's Gate Rock and Jack Rabbit Falls, all the way to Fort Bellows. East, the trail is a straight shot to Darby. For my family, this land is the pay dirt that puts bread on the table and grain in the stables, though I don't know how much longer the excursion business will be profitable. Operating costs continue to rise, and I worry we'll be forced to sell the land to tract developers and big-box enterprises before long.

"Let's get you a drink," I say, unlooping Chance's lead from a tree branch.

We head down to a bubbling brook, an offshoot of Tin Can Creek, and I let him drink his fill. When he's done, I splash my face with the cool, crisp water and shake off the droplets with a flick of my head.

Chance snorts like he's laughing at me.

"Easy there, big guy," I say, giving him a gentle pat on the rump.

We're on the trail by seven, traveling eastward at a leisurely pace. I tug the brim of my hat down over my eyes to block the penetrating glare of the rising sun. "Whoa," I say when we arrive at Donovan's Pass. If we continue on the same dusty road, we'll arrive in Darby by lunch. But the path here is uneven and Chance can't get up into a canter. If we take the scenic route that runs along the south edge of Broken Yoke Mesa, he might get in a good gallop.

"What do you think, boy? Want to feel the wind in your mane?"

Chance swishes his tail and tilts his head toward the wide-open plains. I cluck and tug slightly on the reins to chart our own course back to Darby.

When we ride into the stables behind the Darby Grand Hotel, windburned and invigorated, most of the crew is hard at work. Silas, our farrier, reshoes one of the oxen. Brett and Joe load rations into the supply wagon, which will follow the prairie schooner replicas—large covered wagons that feature a modern suspension system to make the ride more comfortable since few tourists want to walk alongside like the pioneers did.

After giving Chance a good brush-down and leaving him to his feed and water, I make my way across the yard to the main office with my pack slung over my shoulder. I drop it with a thud in the corner of Dad's office and grab an oatmeal chocolate chip granola bar from the snack stash on top of his filing cabinet.

"How was your ride?" he asks, setting his pen on the desk and leaning back in his office chair.

"Uneventful." I sink into the chair across from him. "We'll have to get a team over to the Cottonwood Creek area for repairs. Won't take more than a day to shore up, but I don't think we should risk it with the oxen and wagons tomorrow."

Dad nods. "Anything else to report?"

I shake my head as I chew. "Nope."

Dad presses a key on his laptop. "Final count for tomorrow is eleven adults and eight youngsters. The Stones, the McCreadys, and Barnaby have already made their selections for Fort Bellows. You can get the rest of the parties' info when we make camp tomorrow."

"Good old Barnaby," I say, grinning. An avid birdwatcher, Barnaby usually takes at least one or two wagon excursions with us every summer. He's great to have along because he's personable, easygoing, and has plenty of corny jokes and wise advice to go around.

"Double-check we have enough saddle blankets, sleeping bags, and mats for everyone, and check with Joe on the TP situation. Last I heard, our shipment was delayed. Oh, and could you restock the first-aid kits in the wagons?"

"On it." I tip my hat in a salute and head back into the yard. It's time to get to work.

I've just finished with the first-aid kits when Dad finds me. "Can you run these welcome packets over to the front desk?" he asks, handing me a stack of manila folders.

"Sure thing."

Dad tosses me the keys to the truck. "There's some chicken feed in the back." He doesn't ask, but I know he expects me to unload it when I get home.

I slip the keys into my pocket. "See you in a few."

I make my way across the wagon yard to the front entrance of the Darby Grand Hotel. A girl about my age is sitting on the front steps, hunched over her phone. The wind lifts her dark hair, blowing wispy strands across her face. She thumbs in a message, sighs, and glances up at me. With her messy bun and wide eyes, she's cute, I'll give her that, but she's definitely not my type. Tourists never are.

Not that having a type matters much out here, with so few dating options. While it wasn't a one-room schoolhouse, Darby Public School often felt like it, with only two classrooms for each grade, kindergarten through eighth. Asa Porter Memorial High is slightly better, with students from six neighboring towns. But with a school population just shy of five hundred, it's not exactly teeming with relationship opportunities.

With her perfectly manicured nails and glittery shoes, this girl stands out. But I've been on plenty of excursions with girls like her, and they're nothing but a headache no matter how good-looking they are. The last time we had a high-maintenance passenger, Chance and I had to ride thirty miles from our campsite to Fort Bellows because some fourteen-year-old brat couldn't live without an eye shadow palette she had overnighted from Paris. What the hell good is makeup on the Oregon Trail? There isn't a bison in the entire state of Nebraska that would be impressed.

Even low-maintenance tourists are off-limits for me. Aside from the "no fraternizing with the passengers" policy the crew usually abides by, I'm not looking for a quick hookup. I learned the hard way my first summer on the trail that relationships with expiration dates are doomed from the start. Flings might be fine for some, but I want a deeper, more lasting connection than you can get in one week. Plus, as the son of the wagon train leader, I'm expected to toe the line in all things. Dad would have my hide if I did anything to jeopardize crew morale.

The phone in the girl's hand vibrates. "You have got to be kidding me." She stands and lifts it, twisting it this way and that. "One bar." Her eyes lock on mine. "How does anyone send messages around here?" she asks.

"Postcards," I say.

It's supposed to be a joke, but she doesn't laugh at my dry humor. She doesn't even crack a smile.

"Right," she says with an eye roll.

I'm about to tell her the signal is much better if she stands closer to the boxwood at the end of the walkway, but a woman who must be her mother comes striding out the front door.

"There you are," she says. "Let's get going."

The girl frowns and slides her phone into her back pocket. She offers me a smile that's more of a grimace as they breeze past me on the sidewalk.

I nod and continue on. With an attitude like that, she's definitely not my type at all.

By the time I've stowed an extra sleeping bag in the supply wagon, my shirt is drenched with sweat and my throat's parched. I have just enough time to make it home to freshen up and unpack my saddlebags before heading to Frank's for the staff meeting.

When I push open the front door, Mom rushes from the kitchen to wrap me in a huge hug. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes." She pulls back and screws up her face. "And a scent for sore nostrils. My goodness. I thought the prairie would air you out."

"I missed you, too, Mom." I press a soft kiss to the top of her head. "Something smells good."

"It ain't you," she says with a teasing smile.

"All right, all right. I get the picture." I slide my dusty boots off and set them on the shoe rack between Mom's gardening boots and a pair of my worn-out gym shoes.

Mom's wearing a pair of dark pants and a flowery blouse under a blue-and-white striped apron. Usually she dresses more casually in jeans and a work shirt for farmette chores: gardening, beekeeping, egg gathering, and canning.

"Book club night?" I ask.

"We had to move it because Linda and Bobby joined the Wednesday night bowling league over in Duvall. It's easier for Rachel, too, now that she's helping out with her grandkids."

Who knew book club scheduling could be so complicated?

The kitchen timer beeps and Mom jumps into action. She has oven mitts on her hands and a tray of snickerdoodles out of the oven before I have a chance to blink. When I reach for a soft, warm cookie, she smacks my hand away. "Hands off, buster. These aren't for you."

Even my best puppy dog eyes won't get her to budge. "Still nope. And as long as you're standing in my kitchen, smelling to high heaven, my answer won't change. But you come back cleaned up and smelling fresh, and I just might give you this." She slides a cookie tin in my direction but keeps it just out of reach.

"Did you?" I ask, my mouth already watering at the prospect.

"I did," she says, waggling her eyebrows.

Mom's peanut butter chocolate chews are the stuff of legend. And they're great to have along on the trail when I'm in need of a quick bite. There's not a pantry out on the prairie, so sneaking a tin or two of Mom's treats into my saddlebag is a must.

Twenty minutes later, I'm showered, shaved, and set for the all-hands dinner. The first of Mom's book club members arrives just as I'm pulling on my boots.

"Mrs. Martinez," I say, standing to greet her.

"You get taller and handsomer every time I see you," she says, wrapping me in a warm hug.

Almost everyone's taller than Mrs. Martinez, so that's not saying much, but the ten-inch difference between us always makes me feel like the Jolly Green Giant.

"So handsome," she says again with a gleam in her eye.

Oh no. Here we go again. Mrs. Martinez's Matchmaking and Meddling Service is open for business. I glance helplessly at the kitchen, trying to send Mom an ESP message. Unfortunately, she's not answering my Mayday call.

"A young lady would be lucky to have you to herself. You aren't dating anyone, are you?" She pats my arm. "Of course not. Danielle would have told us if you were."

Mom's not the type to gossip about my personal life with her book club, so Mrs. Martinez is on a fishing expedition. I'm tempted to tell her I'm seeing someone to get her off my case, even if it's a lie, but then she'll want to know details and I don't have the time to sit here casting tales to see if she'll bite. But if I tell her I'm single, she'll try to set me up with someone, like usual.

"It's…uhh—"

"Time for you to head out, sweetheart," Mom says, saving the day. "Dad texted. He wants you to meet the crew at the office so you can head to Frank's together."

"Thanks, Mom." I press a short kiss to her soft cheek and grab my hat from the hook by the door. Settling it on my head, I give her a quick nod. "Good night, Mrs. Martinez."

As I make my way across the wraparound porch to the old F-150 pickup in the drive, I can hear Mrs. Martinez through the screen door saying, "That boy of yours is a heartbreaker, Danielle. I have a friend whose daughter would be perfect forhim…"