Chapter 9 Riley

CHAPTER 9

Riley

AFTER WE LEAVE Mather's Field, we come to a fork in the road and the wagon train leader guides us along the northern route. The covered wagon's canvas glows bright white in the afternoon sun and a few puffy cumulus clouds dot the brilliant blue sky. It's beautiful out here, surrounded by all this nature, but I just can't bring myself to enjoy it.

Back in California, I'd probably be basking in the first beach day of summer break. I reach an arm out of the wagon to feel the sun and the cool breeze on my bare skin. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear the sound of the waves lapping against the shore and see the palm trees swaying in the warm, windy gusts. But my toes wiggle in my stiff new shoes instead of the soft, sun-warmed sand. The creak of the wagons fills in for the screech of seagulls. The taste of salty air is replaced with dust. The familiar ocean brine scent fades to the foreign smell of sweaty oxen and prairie grass.

My forehead brushes against the rough canvas wagon cover and I sigh.

Mom and Dad, still knee-deep in conversation at the front of the wagon, are having a blast. Mom snaps photos with her phone while she nods and chats. I look away when she tries to get a candid of me. Dad leans back against the side wall of the wagon, his legs crossed at the ankles, and stares out the open side flaps, throwing in a comment here and there. Every so often, he gives me a thumbs-up and an encouraging nod, as if he thinks he'll eventually wear me down.

I drift into a state of numbness, my eyes glazing over at the passing vegetation as I zone out. Eventually, the wagon train pulls into a flat area that looks like every other flat area around us, and the oxen come to a halt.

"Welcome to Hunt's Meadow," Wild Wanda says as she unhooks the tailgate. "This, here, will be our campsite for the night. Felix and me'll get started on cookin' up some grub over a campfire, while the rest of you'se get your sleepin' situation sorted. Captain Walker, Ty, and Colton"—she nods to Tall, Dark, and Irksome—"will help with pitchin' the tents after they've seen to the animals. For those of you who'll be sleepin' in the wagons, we'll convert the benches to beds right quick after everything else is complete."

Colton, huh?

The name fits.

Twilight is still a few hours off, but the sun casts the meadow in a golden glow. A pair of red-winged blackbirds settle on a shrub nearby to watch us, tilting their heads curiously at the intrusion on their space. They remind me of a pair of mourning doves that used to build a nest in the eaves above the garage door every year. Sometimes I would sit on the counter next to the dryer and stare out the laundry-room window, watching them hard at work while I made quick study sketches in my notebook. I wonder if the roles are reversed now—will the red-winged blackbirds watch us humans toil to build our night nests?

Toil we do.

The McCreadys and Stones secured the makeshift wagon beds when they reserved their spots, so we—the Thomas family of four—will be bunking in tents. As we follow Captain Walker to the supply wagon to grab our things, I spot Colton chatting with an old man with binoculars. I only catch a short glimpse of his Stetson-shadowed square-jawed smile as his soft, low laugh carries on the breeze. The minute I feel myself softening just a smidge, I remind myself that all he sees when he looks at me is a helpless tourist.

We load up with the bulky canvas tents, fold-up aluminum cots, and fiber-filled sleeping bags we've been assigned, and follow Ty to our homestead for the night—a small area across from the wagons, with a fieldstone fire ring in the center.

Wild Wanda and Felix busy themselves setting up the campfire and assembling the cooking tripod. My stomach rumbles at the prospect of food, but I'm still not convinced that the historically inspired Oregon Trail cuisine they plan to serve out here will be any good. It's not that I'm picky, and lunch was decent enough, but the pioneer diet was pretty limited and consisted largely of bacon and bread. I never realized how much I took for granted all the fresh fruits and veggies we had access to in California.

"We'll pitch our tent here," Dad says, pointing to a general area with his finger. "And you kids can pitch yours over there."

Caleb pulls open the tent bag to reveal an off-white canvas wrapped tightly around smooth wooden tent poles with metal connectors and a handful of metal stakes. This is nothing like the tents I'm used to camping in, with flexible plastic poles, a zip flap, and a lightweight nylon cover.

"Oh, wow." I cough as a billowing cloud of dust unfurls from the dense canvas. A few moth carcasses drop to the ground, too desiccated to identify their species. "This thing is ancient."

Theoretically, I know how to assemble a tent. First, erect the frame, then cover the frame with the canvas. It's the same basic principle for any outdoor shelter, and thanks to a variety of summer camps, I've built my fair share of lean-tos, wedge tents, and, once upon a time, an authentic Sioux-style teepee. I've even spent the night in a yurt under giant sequoias. But this thing looks like it might have actually come from the Civil War era, and since it's a wedge tent, we have to flip our approach by spreading out the canvas before we erect the frame.

"Well?" Caleb asks, looking to me for answers. Out of the two of us, I'm more technical minded, especially when it comes to assembling things. I might be able to piece it together, but we'll need his brawn to get it standing. It's a good thing his once-scrawny frame is starting to bulk up with a bit of muscle.

I close my eyes and picture how the pieces fit together. My brain automatically sketches a diagram and a surge of energy flits through my fingertips. Cream-colored paper, brown ink, fine lines from a fountain pen depicting the geometric precision of the tent with scrolled lettering to identify the pieces like something Leonardo da Vinci might have sketched.

"Okay," I say, letting the plan solidify in my mind. "Help me square up the canvas."

We each grab two corners and unfurl the tent like we're spreading a blanket on a bed. Once it's square, I grab the tent stakes. "We'll need something to pound these in with."

I glance up to see what everyone else is using to set up their tents, only to find Colton striding our way with a sturdy-looking rubber mallet in his hand. When he gets closer, he gives a bro nod to my brother. "Most people don't know to spread the canvas out first," he says, tipping his head toward my parents, who are struggling to assemble their tent poles.

"Right," Caleb says, acting like he's known all along and not like he just found out five minutes ago, from me. As if he knows anything about pitching a wedge tent. I tried to convince him to come to conservation camp with me, but no, he just had to go to basketball camp. Who has skills now?

Caleb notices the grip I have on one of the stakes and his eyes go wide. I twist the spike around the palm of my hand like Buffy the Vampire Slayer. He knows I'll never hurt him…but he also knows I binge-watched the series with Quinn last summer and I'm a bit of a wild card, forced out of my native SoCal habitat and into the wilds of the Nebraskan prairie. "I'm going to go see if they need any help," he says, hustling to our parents' aid.

Colton and I stand like we're about to engage in a high-noon shoot-out again, except instead of coffee, our six-shooters are a rubber mallet and a handful of tent stakes, respectively. He lifts his eyebrow, assessing me and my vampire-slayer stance. I roll my shoulders and step forward, holding out my hand for the mallet. "Can I borrow that, please?"

Slowly, he hands it over, as if trying to decide whether it's wise to trust someone like me with even the most rudimentary of tools. Our fingers brush during the handoff, and I jump back at the unexpected warmth and roughness against my skin.

When I glance up at Colton, his eyes are as wide as mine. His mouth parts as if he's going to say something, but instead he blinks and takes a step back.

Anywhere else, any other time, and I might be tempted to call it a moment. But here, trapped in Middle-of-Nowhere, Nebraska, with a guy who clearly underestimates and dislikesme?

No way.

Adjusting my grip on the mallet's handle, I walk around to the other side of the tent, where the air is free from his distracting scent and I can't see the depth of his dark eyes. Starting at a corner loop, I tap in the first stake and then move on to the opposite corner, making sure to pull the canvas taut as I pound the second spike in. The ground is hard, but I channel my frustration to drive the remaining two stakes home.