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Caleb’s a traitor, too. He’s not nearly as bent out of shape about any of this as I thought he’d be, once reality sank in. Sitting across from me, with his feet propped up on the bench, he’s the picture of ease with his head back and his eyes closed. Not even a hint of angst.
Why should I be surprised? Caleb’s outgoing and easygoing, and he will waltz into our new high school on the first day like he’s been going there his entire life. It’ll be easier for him to mask his new-kid-in-town-ness, because every freshman is new. They’re all starting out from the same space.
But being the new senior in town? That’s a wild card I never wanted to be dealt. Will I be shunned? Accepted? Forced to prove myself? Or will I be an interesting new display in the teenage zoo? It was hard enough navigating high school when I knew the players and the rules, but now I’ll have to work on my currently nonexistent poker face in the hopes that it will help me survive the year.
“Nooning time,” the wagon train leader calls as he rides up alongside our wagon. When he makes it to the end of the caravan, his light gray horse nickers at Tall, Dark, and Irksome’s horse as if to say, “What are you doing all the way back here?”
I glance at my watch to find that it is, in fact, noon, but what that has to do with anything is beyond me.
The wagons roll forward a few hundred yards more and then halt at a slight bend in the dusty trail. To our left is a small thicket of scrawny, windblown trees, but otherwise we’re surrounded by the endless plains. There must be a highway somewhere out here that cuts west, but I don’t see any vehicles speeding past in any direction.
Our driver, Wild Wanda, comes around the wagon and unlatches what is essentially a tailgate that lowers to serve as a loading and unloading ramp. Caleb stands, stretches, and yawns, the hem of his shirt rising up over his belly button. Mom only got him that shirt a few months ago, but he must be having another growth spurt, since nothing fits him right anymore. As much as I’d love another inch or two on my five-four frame, I’m not willing to sacrifice my wardrobe for it. And I’m glad I wasn’t willing to share his, because those are some nasty-looking pit stains.
We file off the wagon, squinting in the bright June sun. The air out here is slightly sweet and more humid than I’m used to in the Southern California desert. My normally pin-straight hair curls along my neckline and my usual perky ponytail has lost its pep. Not that it matters since there’s no one around I’m hoping to impress. My gaze flicks to Tall, Dark, and Irksome and I quickly look away.
Definitely not him.
“Gather ’round, pioneers,” Wild Wanda says with a toothy grin. Mom, Dad, Caleb, the McCreadys, and the Stones huddle up to stand in a semicircle before her, but I hang back. My fingers twitch and I wish I’d thought to grab my new sketchbook and a pencil before we unloaded. The soft snick of the lead rasping against the paper soothes me and helps channel my emotions. I could definitely use a creative outlet right about now.
“This here is Mather’s Field. It’s named for Augie Mather who is a local legend for his time spent as an Oregon Trail guide and gold miner.” She points toward the grove. “Just behind them trees there is a spring with fresh water for the animals. At just ’bout noon every day, we stop to give the animals a rest. Many pioneers learned that by observing noonin’ time, the oxen are able to travel farther distances in a day, when they aren’t forced to work in the hottest hours.”
“How far can oxen travel in a day?” Dad asks, stepping closer to Wild Wanda.
Oh my god.
Wild Wanda grins. “Glad you asked. Oxen travel at about two miles per hour. We get in about fifteen miles on a good day.”
No wonder it feels like we’re crawling out there. I’ve seen babies scoot faster.
“Now, I’m gonna grab some buckets to haul water from the spring and get the team re-hy-dray-ted. While they’re resting, we’ll have a picnic lunch set out for you and you can stretch your legs. In about two, three hours we’ll depart for our campsite at Hunt’s Meadow.” Wild Wanda strides away.
While Mom and Dad continue their conversation with our wagon-mates, I look for Caleb and find him playing hacky sack with the boys from the other wagon. It appears I’m an island unto myself.
A lonely, lonely island.
“Wild Wanda tell you about why this is called Mather’s Field?” Tall, Dark, and Irksome stands beside me with his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze fixed on the horizon.
“She did not.” And then, because I can’t resist getting in a small dig, I add, “But I bet you’re going to.”
His jaw works, causing the skin below his cheekbones to grow taut. “Nope,” he says. “Not unless you ask. I only tell interesting stories to interested people.”
This feels very much like another Prairie Princess jab. I should ignore him, but I can’t stand the thought of him gloating, thinking he was right about me. Plus, I have nothing better to do.
“Fine, I’ll bite. Why is this place”—I spin around once like Maria in the opening scene of The Sound of Music. “The plains are alive…”—“called Mather’s Field?”
“Funny you should ask,” he says, dropping his arms to his sides.
CHAPTER 8
Colton
“AUGIE MATHER WAS one of the first white settlers in this area. He built a log cabin a little ways from the spring and made his living as a tinker for the pioneers heading through: repairing wagons, reshoeing the animals, selling extra rations, making bourbon, that kind of thing.”
Riley squints over at me like she can’t believe she asked me to tell her more about Augie. If we were anywhere else, she’d probably stalk off in a huff, but out here in the middle of the prairie, there’s all kinds of space and nowhere to go.
“Anyhow, Augie was big, strong, and stubborn, and legend has it, he wasn’t one to back down from a fight. Some say he wrestled a bear for a honeybee hive. Others say he cleared out a rattlesnake den with his bare hands without so much as a bite. But here, in Mather’s Field, this is where Augie squared off against his most fierce opponent of all.” I pause and dig the heel of my boot into the hard-packed dirt. The wind whispers through the short grass and the birds call to each other as they dart after insects.
Riley lifts her eyebrows. “Which was?” Her dark brown eyes sparkle with interest, though her face is the picture of boredom.
