Chapter 3 Riley

CHAPTER 3

Riley

WE MAY HAVE landed in Omaha, but this tiny nowheresville town we're staying in for the night is probably not even on the map. Aside from the hotel, there's a gas station, a sad-looking empty storefront, and an auto repair shop that may or may not be operational based on the amount of rusted-out vehicles in the lot. Worse, Darby has exactly one stoplight and zero traffic, and we still had to sit through a ridiculously long red on our way into town. Unbelievable.

It's just past five local time, and I'm exhausted, hungry, and growing more and more concerned that I will have to trek across the prairie in my ballet flats, shorts, and T-shirt, washing them nightly on a rock by the river and steaming them dry next to the campfire while wrapped in nothing but a scratchy wool saddle blanket. A shudder cascades down my spine. At least Omaha had department stores. Darby probably doesn't even have a zip code.

It definitely doesn't have cell service. All three of my text messages to Quinn bounce back as undeliverable, and I would write that guy's suggestion of postcards off as ridiculous except that it might be my only chance to make contact with the outside world.

"Ready for some retail therapy?" Mom asks.

My fingernails dig into my palms as if I'm trying to hold on to the lone spec of hope doled out by Tina, the front desk clerk who checked us in. She promised us that on the other side of town—and within walking distance—is Ranch & Rustler, a store guaranteed to stock all my shopping needs. It better, since I'm pretty sure it's the only game in town.

Mom and I walk along the cracked and uneven cement sidewalk. It's so quiet here, without the constant drone of rushing traffic, pedestrians, bikers, and skateboarders that seem to be ever-present in SoCal. Instead of palm trees, a few large red maples line the street, their roots causing the walkway to ripple above them. The soles of my ballet flats are so thin, I feel every bump and pebble underfoot. They were perfect for air travel, but now I'm regretting my decision not to wear sneakers on the flight.

We pass the ramshackle building that houses Frank's Sandwich Shop, where we're supposed to meet Dad and Caleb for dinner, and come face to face with Ranch & Rustler. The place is ginormous, in a big-box, mega-retailer kind of way. And the parking lot is far from empty. People must drive for miles to shop here.

"Oh god," I say as I take in the row of trailers, tractors, and farm equipment on display in front of the store. "There's no way a store like this sells anything I'd be caught dead wearing."

Mom shrugs. "California fashion can't be too different from Nebraska fashion."

"Nebraska fashion," I say, my nose wrinkling. "Is that even a thing?"

Mom links elbows with me. "We're about to find out."

Turns out, Tina was right about Ranch & Rustler being a one-shop-fits-all kind of place. If your shopping list has beef jerky, toilet paper, motor oil, fishing bait, nail polish, and a pack of highlighters on it, this is the place for you. There are giant canisters of cheese balls stacked on a shelf above plumbing supplies, and I nearly trip over my own feet as I gawk at a display of pantyhose capped with disembodied mannequin legs next to assorted vermin traps.

"I've never seen so much flannel in one place," I mutter, running my hand over a rack of surprisingly soft shirts. My fingers graze a navy blue and pink print with strands of silver woven throughout. The shirt is cut in a fitted style and the mother-of-pearl buttons glimmer in the store's bright fluorescent lights. It's a bit fancy for a prairie excursion, but it's also something I'd wear later, when I'm not stuck on the Oregon Trail. At ten dollars, the price is way less than what I'd pay for something similar in California.

"That's cute," Mom says, working her way around a rack of T-shirts across from me. "Oh, check this out." She holds up a pale green shirt with a faded image of a monarch butterfly resting on a bright orange milkweed bloom printed on it. "Five bucks."

"Oh my gosh, that's perfect," I squeal, floored by the unbelievable find. For the first time since the Great Upheaval, I actually feel…excitement? No, that might be going too far.

I'm out of sorts and cranky, but I'm also a sucker for a good deal.

"Why don't you go and find some pants and I'll pick out more tops? Meet you by the socks in twenty?" Mom asks, pointing to the far corner of the clothing section. She slides the hangers along the rod with the practiced speed of an expert bargain shopper. It reminds me of when she used to take me back-to-school shopping every fall, back when we would laugh and talk about silly things and my goals for the year.

My throat gets cottony and I force down a painful swallow. "Sounds like a plan," I manage. Tossing the flannel shirt into the shopping cart, I spin around and prepare myself for the daunting task of finding the perfect pair of rugged—yet fashionable and cheap—jeans.

We're laden with Ranch & Rustler bags by the time we make it back to Dad and Caleb. They've managed to nab the lone, weathered picnic table behind Frank's.

"Someone had luck," Dad says, shifting to make room for Mom.

We set our purchases down on the concrete patio, balancing them just so, careful to make sure that my new all-terrain hiking boots don't crush my new clothes and my new clothes don't crush my new art supplies. Trekking across the prairie in ballet flats would have been tough, but not having sharpened pencils and a sketchbook in hand? Near impossible.

Dad hands Mom a foil-wrapped Italian sub and slides a cardboard takeout box in my direction. Caleb hasn't even bothered to look up from his phone since we arrived. I sneak a peek to see if he has service, but he's playing some mind-numbing game, not texting. I nudge him aside to get him to make enough room for me to sit on the bench, too.

"Hey, bony elbow," he starts grumbling, but quickly changes tack when I toss him the bag of gummy bears I picked up for him at Ranch & Rustler. "You're my favorite sister. Thanks."

"I'm your only sister. You're welcome." I pull open the lid of my sandwich box and heave a giant sigh of relief. The turkey club inside looks amazing and is just what I need after today. It's also possible that this'll be one of my last decent meals for the next seven days, assuming the hotel's continental breakfast is edible. The tour my parents signed us up for promises authentic Oregon Trail cuisine, cooked in Dutch ovens and cast-iron skillets over open campfire flames, which seems sketchy at best. I can't say I'm looking forward to subsisting on salted meat, hard tack, squirrel, venison, or foraged berries.

"Ready to head back to our room?" Dad asks, collecting our trash in a neat stack. "We should turn in soon, since we have an early start tomorrow."

It's not quite dusk yet, but I get the sense that daylight will fade fast here once the sun dips below the horizon. Not like in California, where the streetlights maintain a dull glow long after sundown.

Dad heads off to the garbage can, and pauses on the way back to the picnic table to chat with a tall beanpole of a man with a giant cowboy hat, broken-in dungarees ( jeans just don't do the pants justice), and worn leather boots that have kicked up more than their fair share of dust. When the man turns our way, Dad waves Mom over. Caleb, as always, is still lost in some game on his phone, barely bothering to look up as he stands from the picnic table. Sometimes it feels like I haven't actually seen his face in years, with it always hovering over a screen.

"I'm going to head back to the hotel," I say, gathering up my Ranch & Rustler haul. My muscles strain under the weight and I'm not entirely sure the flimsy plastic bags will survive the walk.

Mom nods. "We'll be right behind you."

"We'll be seeing you bright and early tomorrow," the man says as he tips his hat to me. "Have a pleasant night, miss." He turns his attention back to Mom and Dad.

"You know, we're really looking forward to a fun family adventure," Dad says, wrapping his arm around Mom's waist. He's clearly in no rush to end the conversation.

The streetlights flicker on as dusk settles. A group of guys heads down the sidewalk toward me, dressed in the same style as the wagon train leader—worn-in jeans with fancy belt buckles, scuffed leather boots, and rugged, long-sleeved, button-up shirts. A few have baseball caps pulled down low over their foreheads and another has a bandanna wrapped around his head like a pirate. The one hanging at the back of the group has his dark brown cowboy hat pulled down low over his eyes and his hands shoved in his front pockets.

I pause under a streetlight, unsure of what crime statistics look like in Middle-of-Nowhere, Nebraska. I feel like a sitting duck surrounded by my shopping bags and my eyes dart around for an escape route, just in case I need one. I glance back to Mom and Dad, and see the wagon train leader beckon the guys over with a friendly wave. A soft breath escapes me when the realization sinks in that I'm not in danger. These guys are probably locals.

When the group reaches me and my jumble of purchases, they step off the sidewalk into the street to pass. Adjusting my grip, I glance up to meet the flinty gaze of the guy who trails slightly behind their pack. He tips up his Stetson so that the streetlight and setting sun cast a myriad of shadows over his face. I recognize him. This is the guy who recommended I send postcards instead of texts. A delicious shiver runs down my spine and I take back everything I said about not being in any danger. With his firm jaw and dark eyes, he's exactly the kind of guy I always end up falling for—tall, dark, and handsome with strong-and-silent-type vibes. Perfect material for an unrequited crush and certain subsequent heartbreak. Dangerous, indeed.

Just as the spark of interest ignites curiosity in me, his expression hardens as he takes in my jumble of shopping bags. His full lips pinch together into a tight line as he turns away with a grimace, muttering something about a "prairie princess," which leads to a round of barely suppressed guffawing from his friends.

Ouch.

Sure, I might look out of place with my California clothes and shopping spree purchases, but calling me a "prairie princess"? What the hell?

Even after the apparent insult, I can't seem to look away. When he gives me a final backward glance, his eyes go wide at the realization that I've overheard his snide comment. Tension radiates between us. One of the guys in the group whistles and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Irksome turns away. Good looks are meaningless if a guy's a complete jerk. Guess I'm safely out of the danger zone after all.