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Dad presses a key on his laptop. “Final count for tomorrow is eleven adults and eight youngsters. The Stones, the McCreadys, and Barnaby have already made their selections for Fort Bellows. You can get the rest of the parties’ info when we make camp tomorrow.”

“Good old Barnaby,” I say, grinning. An avid birdwatcher, Barnaby usually takes at least one or two wagon excursions with us every summer. He’s great to have along because he’s personable, easygoing, and has plenty of corny jokes and wise advice to go around.

“Double-check we have enough saddle blankets, sleeping bags, and mats for everyone, and check with Joe on the TP situation. Last I heard, our shipment was delayed. Oh, and could you restock the first-aid kits in the wagons?”

“On it.” I tip my hat in a salute and head back into the yard. It’s time to get to work.

I’ve just finished with the first-aid kits when Dad finds me. “Can you run these welcome packets over to the front desk?” he asks, handing me a stack of manila folders.

“Sure thing.”

Dad tosses me the keys to the truck. “There’s some chicken feed in the back.” He doesn’t ask, but I know he expects me to unload it when I get home.

I slip the keys into my pocket. “See you in a few.”

I make my way across the wagon yard to the front entrance of the Darby Grand Hotel. A girl about my age is sitting on the front steps, hunched over her phone. The wind lifts her dark hair, blowing wispy strands across her face. She thumbs in a message, sighs, and glances up at me. With her messy bun and wide eyes, she’s cute, I’ll give her that, but she’s definitely not my type. Tourists never are.

Not that having a type matters much out here, with so few dating options. While it wasn’t a one-room schoolhouse, Darby Public School often felt like it, with only two classrooms for each grade, kindergarten through eighth. Asa Porter Memorial High is slightly better, with students from six neighboring towns. But with a school population just shy of five hundred, it’s not exactly teeming with relationship opportunities.

With her perfectly manicured nails and glittery shoes, this girl stands out. But I’ve been on plenty of excursions with girls like her, and they’re nothing but a headache no matter how good-looking they are. The last time we had a high-maintenance passenger, Chance and I had to ride thirty miles from our campsite to Fort Bellows because some fourteen-year-old brat couldn’t live without an eye shadow palette she had overnighted from Paris. What the hell good is makeup on the Oregon Trail? There isn’t a bison in the entire state of Nebraska that would be impressed.

Even low-maintenance tourists are off-limits for me. Aside from the “no fraternizing with the passengers” policy the crew usually abides by, I’m not looking for a quick hookup. I learned the hard way my first summer on the trail that relationships with expiration dates are doomed from the start. Flings might be fine for some, but I want a deeper, more lasting connection than you can get in one week. Plus, as the son of the wagon train leader, I’m expected to toe the line in all things. Dad would have my hide if I did anything to jeopardize crew morale.

The phone in the girl’s hand vibrates. “You have got to be kidding me.” She stands and lifts it, twisting it this way and that. “One bar.” Her eyes lock on mine. “How does anyone send messages around here?” she asks.

“Postcards,” I say.

It’s supposed to be a joke, but she doesn’t laugh at my dry humor. She doesn’t even crack a smile.

“Right,” she says with an eye roll.

I’m about to tell her the signal is much better if she stands closer to the boxwood at the end of the walkway, but a woman who must be her mother comes striding out the front door.

“There you are,” she says. “Let’s get going.”

The girl frowns and slides her phone into her back pocket. She offers me a smile that’s more of a grimace as they breeze past me on the sidewalk.

I nod and continue on. With an attitude like that, she’s definitely not my type at all.

By the time I’ve stowed an extra sleeping bag in the supply wagon, my shirt is drenched with sweat and my throat’s parched. I have just enough time to make it home to freshen up and unpack my saddlebags before heading to Frank’s for the staff meeting.

When I push open the front door, Mom rushes from the kitchen to wrap me in a huge hug. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” She pulls back and screws up her face. “And a scent for sore nostrils. My goodness. I thought the prairie would air you out.”

“I missed you, too, Mom.” I press a soft kiss to the top of her head. “Something smells good.”

“It ain’t you,” she says with a teasing smile.

“All right, all right. I get the picture.” I slide my dusty boots off and set them on the shoe rack between Mom’s gardening boots and a pair of my worn-out gym shoes.

Mom’s wearing a pair of dark pants and a flowery blouse under a blue-and-white striped apron. Usually she dresses more casually in jeans and a work shirt for farmette chores: gardening, beekeeping, egg gathering, and canning.

“Book club night?” I ask.

“We had to move it because Linda and Bobby joined the Wednesday night bowling league over in Duvall. It’s easier for Rachel, too, now that she’s helping out with her grandkids.”

Who knew book club scheduling could be so complicated?

The kitchen timer beeps and Mom jumps into action. She has oven mitts on her hands and a tray of snickerdoodles out of the oven before I have a chance to blink. When I reach for a soft, warm cookie, she smacks my hand away. “Hands off, buster. These aren’t for you.”