Chapter 43 Riley

CHAPTER 43

Riley

DAWN brEAKS ON our last full day on the trail and I'm filled with a restless energy. If Colton were here, I'd be able to draw from his calm, centered nature. But right now, I seem to share the same wild and unpredictable energy as the flock of red-winged blackbirds Barnaby is studying through his binoculars.

At nooning time, I settle down against a wagon wheel and flip open my sketchbook to a blank page. With Colton on my mind, it's no surprise that he's the subject of my latest sketch. I draw him as I remember him from two nights ago, looking up at the stars, his Stetson tipped back on his head. His lips are slightly parted, as if he's about to speak, the reflection of the campfire brightening his eyes. The glow of the firelight softens his chiseled features, but the stubble along his jawline keeps him looking more rugged than boyish. My pencil glides over the paper as I sign and date the sketch.

This Colton is so different from the Tall, Dark, and Irksome first impression I had of him. This is the Colton hidden beneath the watchful, careful, by-the-book outer layer that felt like an impenetrable wall until we kissed. This is the Colton who challenges me to coax him into a rare smile. Who offers up dry humor and keen insights when least expected. Who's managed to stake a claim on my heart.

I flip to a fresh page and start a new sketch of the surrounding landscape. While I might not get picked to paint the mural, I'm excited to have some new pieces for my art portfolio. Coming to terms with my new life in Nebraska is going to be a process, but I think I can find a way to accept it and be happy. Now I just have to find a way to tell Colton everything and trust that good things are possible.

We continue east along the trail at a slow, steady pace and reach our campsite by midafternoon. Once everyone's settled, Wild Wanda gives a natural-cloth-dyeing lesson while Captain Walker and Felix make dinner. Beans and rice, bacon, and biscuits, with potato pudding for dessert.

Dusk falls and Ty pulls out a harmonica. He puffs up his cheeks and starts blowing, the wheezy chords cutting through after-dinner conversations. Felix picks up a fiddle and joins in. Soon I recognize "Sweet Betsy from Pike."

"I love this one," Dad says, slapping his hand on his knee.

Wild Wanda grabs a washboard and wooden spoon and adds some percussion while leading the passengers in a sing-along.

"One evening quite early they camped on the Platte…"

When the song is over, Captain Walker stands. "Tonight, we celebrate the last night of our Oregon Trail adventure, which has certainly been more adventurous for some"—I feel his eyes on me—"than others. Hopefully you've all enjoyed what the Nebraskan prairie has to offer and have come away with a new perspective on the Oregon Trail. Music was a big part of the pioneers' celebrations out here and we like to keep that history alive today. Feel free to sing along, and, if the mood strikes, kick up your heels for our very own Oregon Trail Adventure Company hoedown."

Soon, the three-piece band strikes up "Skip to My Lou." The McCreadys and the Stones, the only couples without kids on the excursion, decide to brave the impromptu dance floor. Clearly, the Stones have participated in some sort of organized dancing, given the square dance moves they're doing. What the McCreadys lack in rhythm, they make up for in exuberance.

Mom looks over at Dad. "Want to give it a whirl?"

His eyes light up like he's just been told he was selected to appear on Jeopardy! "You know it."

They wander off and Caleb abandons me for his friends, who are busy chowing down on penny candy they picked up at the general store in Fort Bellows. At least there's no sign of any more pyrotechnics. I've had enough excitement these past few days.

Wild Wanda sings about little red wagons, jay birds, and a cat in a cream jar, and the whole song ends on a fiddle flourish and hoots and shouts.

"This next one's called ‘Irish Washerwoman,'?" Felix calls out before another dance number starts up.

Jake makes his way over. "Care to dance?" he asks, holding out a hand.

I hesitate. Is he asking as a friend or is he making another play at me?

He senses my reluctance to take him up on his offer and draws his hand back. "You looked lonely sitting over here, is all. I doubt any of those guys would ask you to dance, and Barnaby's too old. I wasn't planning on asking you, either, to be honest, because I know you aren't interested in me. But as I was sipping my lemonade, I thought, ‘What would Colton do if the situation was reversed?'?" He shrugs. "Colton would ask you to dance and make sure you had a good last night on the trail."

That actually sounds about right.

"Just friends?" I ask.

"Just friends," Jake confirms. "Although, you should probably know I'm a much better dancer than Colton. He's too stiff."

"I have a hard time picturing Colton dancing," I say, rising from my seat by the fire. The cool Nebraska air rushes over my skin as we walk toward the other dancers.

"Colton dancing is a local urban legend. Few have seen it, and those who have are scarred for life."

"He can't be that bad at it." Even though I can't quite picture it, Colton seems proficient in everything he does. I doubt he'd be loosey-goosey on the dance floor, but I bet his rigid posture and serious composure would make ballroom dance judges sit up and take note.

"The Harvest Dance is coming up in a few weeks," Jake says, pulling me into a spin. "If you were still around, you could find out firsthand just what kind of a dancer he is then."

Unexpectedly, someone taps me on the shoulder. "Or maybe you could find out what kind of dancer I am right now."