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“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 dislikes me?
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.
CHAPTER 10
Colton
DINNER THE FIRST night on the trail is always poultry, and tonight it’s Dutch oven chicken and biscuits with a side of bacon, because the pioneers ate bacon at just about every meal. While we try to keep the excursion as authentic as possible, crabby, ill-fed passengers are not much fun. All the recipes are made with the same ingredients the pioneers would have had available to them, with the same cooking techniques, but the portions are larger and the selection remains varied, no matter how far west we travel.
The campfire crackles when Ty throws on another log, a luxury to have with so few trees around. I’ve spent hours chopping and stacking cords of wood, so it’s nice to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Buffalo patties would be a more bona fide fuel source, but for some reason, overlanders don’t appreciate food cooked over prairie coals.
Once my tin plate is heaped with a generous helping of food, I make my way over to where most of the party has congregated. With the portable picnic table full, some of the passengers sit on their bedding rolls while others lounge on small boulders or patches of grass. Barnaby has his folding stool with him and has centered himself with the other adults. I pull up a patch of earth near the other trail guides and dig in.
“Excellent first day,” Dad says before taking a swig of water from his tin cup. It clinks dully against his plate when he sets it on the ground.
“It’s a quiet group,” Wild Wanda remarks, studying the passengers who haven’t really started to mingle yet. Barnaby is doing an excellent job of keeping the conversation flowing, and it won’t be long before there’s more interaction between the groups.
“For now,” Felix agrees, but then he glances at the middle-school boys and gives a knowing chuckle. “This time tomorrow, I bet you’ll be singing a different tune.”
Wild Wanda gives a wheezy laugh. “Them boys bound to be rascals, sure enough.”
“Keep an eye on ’em,” Dad says to all of us, “and let me know if they start to get out of hand.”
Plate clean, I rise to drop it in the dish tub when Barnaby calls my name.
“Evenin’, Longspur,” he says, giving me a short nod.
If Barnaby likes you, you get a bird nickname, and I count myself in the rare few who have earned that privilege. No one else on the wagon train has one, which is a sore subject for Dad, who’s taken Barnaby on our Oregon Trail adventures for at least fifteen years. Only a few of our vacationers have ever been lucky enough to leave an excursion with a nickname.
“Evenin’,” I reply, tipping my hat in greeting.
We take a moment to gaze out at the open prairie before us.
“How’s the birdwatching?” I ask.
“So far, so good. Though I’m still holding out hope for the elusive Centronyx bairdii.”
