Chapter 23 Riley

CHAPTER 23

Riley

LAST NIGHT HAS left me full of impossible-to-answer questions like:

Was Colton actually going to kiss me?

Why did I have to get stranded in a tent with a self-obsessed narcissist like Jake?

Why is thunder so loud/why is rain so wet/why are storms so stormy?

Colton was going to kiss me, right?

You'd think that being stuck in a small tent with rain pouring down and only a hot boy and a cot for company would be a good thing. And maybe it is 99.9 percent of the time. But I drew the short 0.1 percent straw, and being trapped with Jake and his long monologues about how wonderful he is in a leaky tent is far from romantic.

The whole time, I endured lectures on how Jake charms girls to write papers for him for his college courses, how great an equestrian he is and how many awards he's won, how fantastic his sense of humor is, and how lucky I am that he arrived to save me from the boredom that's certain to plague me on the trail.

To add to the torture, the whole time he was droning on and on, I was thinking of the moment—the possible almost-kiss—Colton and I might have shared at the end of our lasso lesson, if Jake, the self-proclaimed God's gift to girls, hadn't shown up when he did.

Thunder booms in the distance.

Lightning flickers across the sky.

And I continuously correct Jake's unyielding attempts to lecture me with incorrect information about thunderstorms. (Sorry, Jake, lightning can strike the same place twice. And, yes, if you can hear the thunder, you're within the strike zone.)

Thank goodness he was only obnoxiously conceited and not handsy.

Eventually, I was able to emerge/escape from his tent. My first thought as I crawled into my own cot was that I hoped Colton was warm and dry. The damp air sank into my pores and I tucked my blankets tightly under my chin. My next thought? That I would've much rather spent the past few hours in his company, even if we'd ended up soaking wet. Again.

I love Colton's slow smile. His restrained sense of humor. The way the calluses on his fingertips feel on my skin. Being around Colton almost makes up for not being in California. I don't hate it here nearly as much as I did when we first arrived and I no longer feel like I'm missing out on something better back home.

It might not be what I'd hoped for or imagined, but I'm starting to think I could…like?…being here. Nebraska would be a whole lot more palatable with Colton in my life. Which is a big ask, especially since we've known each other for all of three days.

The rainstorm freshened everything up overnight. The prairie seems to stand taller, with raindrops glistening on the tufts of grass in the rising sun. The air is crisper without all the dust motes, and the big puffy clouds look as soft as cotton balls.

It might be a shiny new day, but I'm full of just as many questions—if not more—as I was when I fell asleep last night.

Felix cooks breakfast this morning, flipping golden yellow pancakes and whistling "Wild Mountain Thyme." The fire crackles beneath the cast-iron skillet and hot oil sizzles and snaps as it cooks the batter inside.

"Mornin', sunshine," he says, sliding a steaming cake onto a tin plate for me. "Johnny cakes this morning, made from a secret family recipe passed down from my mother's side of the family. Now, will you be wantin' moh-lasses or gravy with it?"

"Um…"

Felix looks left and right before whispering, "Wanda'll tell you that moh-lasses is the way to go, and as far as you, me, and the rest of the world are concerned, she is one hundred percent correct. But between just the two of us? I recommend the gravy. I'm not one for sugary breakfasts and it sticks to your ribs better."

"Your secret's safe with me." I mime zipping my lips. "I think I'll try the gravy, please."

Felix gives an appreciative nod and ladles thick brown gravy over the johnny cake.

"A rasher of bacon?" he asks.

"Yes, please." He's cooked it just the way I like it, crispy but not brittle.

Felix sets a few strips of bacon and a fork on the plate before handing it over. "There you go."

"I'll have what she's having." Colton sidles up beside me, hair mussed and sporting a faint shadow of facial hair on his jaw. He's adorable with his just-rolled-out-of-bed look.

"Hey," I say, resisting the urge to reach over and adjust the collar of his flannel shirt to make it sit right at the nape of his neck.

He scratches at the stubble on his chin. "Hey," he says gruffly, not even looking my way. Felix hands him his plate and Colton steps away with no more than a terse, "Thanks."

Before I can talk myself out of it, I fall into step beside him. "Thanks for the lasso lesson yesterday."

Colton nods and sits at the portable picnic table that Ty assembles and disassembles at every campsite. I slide onto the bench across from him and take a deep breath to steady my nerves, which are suddenly jangling beneath my skin. Maybe if he wasn't acting so cold and rigid, this would be easier, but he practically has rejection written all over him and I haven't even asked my question yet. "So, anyhow. I thought roping—er, lassoing—that stuff you taught me yesterday was kind of fun. And I thought, well, I was hoping maybe we could pick up where we—"

Before I can babble my way to asking Colton for another lesson, Jake jogs up to our table and hops onto the seat beside me. "There you are." His arm wraps around my back as he gives me a side hug, like we've been pals for years. Heat rises to my face from the unwanted attention and Colton's scrutinizing look. His disapproving gaze flicks to Jake, who grabs my fork and cuts himself a huge slice of my johnny cake like we frequently share meals from the same plate. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

"You found me," I say, squirming out of Jake's awkward heavy-armed hug to put some much-needed space between me and the overpowering cologne he has on. I stifle a cough and sip my coffee to wash the taste of Axe body spray out of my mouth. When I glance up, Colton's shoving food into his mouth like he's the star contender in an eating contest and he's got only twenty seconds left on the clock. A solid chill settles over the table, and it's not from the steady breeze coming in from the north.

The awkward silence is killing me, especially since I'm not sure why Colton's gone all moody and broody and Jake's acting like we're best buddies.

"I'm glad the rain finally passed," I say, hoping to get conversation flowing. "Those cumulus clouds are a good sign."

Jake gives me a pity-the-poor-soul look. "Haven't you ever heard the saying, ‘Cumulus at morning, pioneers take warning, cumulous at night, pioneers delight'?"

"Um, I don't think anyone's heard that saying," I reply, looking to Colton for some backup. He glances up at the sky but refuses to make eye contact.

"Well, you see," Jake says, settling into what I've quickly come to discover is his mansplaining posture, "cumulus clouds form from ice crystals in the upper atmosphere."

I shake my head. "You're probably thinking about cirrus clouds. Those are the ones that look like wispy horsetails."

"Nope. Cumulus clouds are puffy, low-lying, and full of rain."

"How can they be low-lying if they're in the upper atmosphere?" I ask.

Little does Jake know, I spent an entire month studying clouds for my eighth-grade science fair project. It took me hours to painstakingly depict each type of formation using recycled materials, modeling paste, acrylic paint, and cotton candy. One lesson I learned from that experience: spun sugar is tasty but it doesn't hold up; cotton balls are a better choice. Another lesson: the small, puffy, fluffy clouds are low-lying cumulus, which hardly ever produce precipitation.

"Right, that's what I meant," Jake says. "Upper atmosphere. Lots of rain."

"That sounds like nimbostratus clouds," I say.

"Nimbostramous." Jake laughs. "You're hilarious. Isn't that a character from that new movie about the fortune-telling wizard from the old days?"

"Um?" Nostradamus? What is even happening here?

"Oh, you were being serious," Jake says, patting my hand like he feels bad that I could possibly have it so wrong. On the third pat, Jake's hand sinks down on top of mine. Before I can register what's happening and attempt an extraction, Colton's gaze flicks down at Jake's hand resting atop mine on the table. His left shoulder droops a fraction of an inch, and now I'm even more confident that he really did try to kiss me last night. We definitely need to find a quiet moment for just the two of us to chat without Jake crashing the party.

I pull my hand free and try to catch Colton's eye to convey that what's happening on this side of the table is, well, very much one-sided, but he's studying the food on his plate like he's cramming for a final exam.

Of course, Jake's oblivious that he's a squeaky third wheel. "Based on the cloud cover, I suspect we're in for some rain before we reach Fort Bellows. But don't you worry," he says. "The wagon's canvas coverings will keep you nice and dry while us Pony Express riders are out battling the elements."

"You're the only Pony Express rider," I say, patience seeping away.

"Speaking of…don't you have some mail to deliver or something?" Colton shoots Jake a thinly veiled glare. Guess he's fed up with Jake, too. Although, it seems a bit extreme for the current situation; I wonder if there's some history between them I don't know about.

"Nah, I'm all good. But that reminds me—" Jake pulls out a phone. "I do have some digital messages to get to."

"Wait, you have cell service out here?" I ask.

"It's hit-or-miss," Colton says.

"Mostly miss," Jake says. "But a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do."

"Are Pony Express reenactors even supposed to carry phones?" I ask. "Doesn't that ruin the whole living history experience?"

"Not really." Jake shrugs. "It's cool as long as I don't get caught."

Colton grips his coffee mug with white knuckles. I'm pretty sure that when he finally releases it, there will be impressions of his fingers in the tin.

"But…we caught you." I wave my hand back and forth between me and Colton.

Jake looks up briefly. "It's not like you're going to narc on me, babe." He doesn't even bother acknowledging Colton. "This is one of the few places where you can sometimes get signal on the trail before we reach Fort Bellows."

"I've got to go pack up my things," Colton says, pushing himself up from the table.

I stand, too. "Do you have a minute?" I ask. "I was hoping we could—"

"Maybe later."

Colton's words say one thing, but the tone of his voice makes it clear that if he has his way, there won't be a later.

My butt hits the bench with disappointment. As I watch him retreat to the other side of the campsite, I stab at what's left of my johnny cake in frustration. Not only has Jake eaten most of my breakfast and ruined my appetite, but he's made things weird between Colton and me.

"I'll always have a minute for you, babe," Jake says, glancing up from his texting to flash me what he thinks is a disarming smile.

The problem is: one minute with Jake is one minute too many.