Page 36
The rumbles grow louder, with flashes punctuating the sky in steady bursts. Suddenly, rain pelts down in buckets. Great for the prairie, which is experiencing record drought conditions, but bad for anyone caught unawares. A few surprised shrieks echo through the camp as people scramble for shelter.
I turn just in time to see Jake grab Riley’s hand and pull her toward his tent. She tips her face up to the sky and laughs as the rain pours down. I hate that I’ve never made her laugh like that. I hate that she’s sheltering in Jake’s tent—the tent that should have been mine.
Most of all, I hate that she’s with him, not me.
CHAPTER 23
Riley
LAST NIGHT HAS left me full of impossible-to-answer questions like:
Was Colton actually going to kiss me?
Why did I have to get stranded in a tent with a self-obsessed narcissist like Jake?
Why is thunder so loud/why is rain so wet/why are storms so stormy?
Colton was going to kiss me, right?
You’d think that being stuck in a small tent with rain pouring down and only a hot boy and a cot for company would be a good thing. And maybe it is 99.9 percent of the time. But I drew the short 0.1 percent straw, and being trapped with Jake and his long monologues about how wonderful he is in a leaky tent is far from romantic.
The whole time, I endured lectures on how Jake charms girls to write papers for him for his college courses, how great an equestrian he is and how many awards he’s won, how fantastic his sense of humor is, and how lucky I am that he arrived to save me from the boredom that’s certain to plague me on the trail.
To add to the torture, the whole time he was droning on and on, I was thinking of the moment—the possible almost-kiss—Colton and I might have shared at the end of our lasso lesson, if Jake, the self-proclaimed God’s gift to girls, hadn’t shown up when he did.
Thunder booms in the distance.
Lightning flickers across the sky.
And I continuously correct Jake’s unyielding attempts to lecture me with incorrect information about thunderstorms. (Sorry, Jake, lightning can strike the same place twice. And, yes, if you can hear the thunder, you’re within the strike zone.)
Thank goodness he was only obnoxiously conceited and not handsy.
Eventually, I was able to emerge/escape from his tent. My first thought as I crawled into my own cot was that I hoped Colton was warm and dry. The damp air sank into my pores and I tucked my blankets tightly under my chin. My next thought? That I would’ve much rather spent the past few hours in his company, even if we’d ended up soaking wet. Again.
I love Colton’s slow smile. His restrained sense of humor. The way the calluses on his fingertips feel on my skin. Being around Colton almost makes up for not being in California. I don’t hate it here nearly as much as I did when we first arrived and I no longer feel like I’m missing out on something better back home.
It might not be what I’d hoped for or imagined, but I’m starting to think I could…like?…being here. Nebraska would be a whole lot more palatable with Colton in my life. Which is a big ask, especially since we’ve known each other for all of three days.
The rainstorm freshened everything up overnight. The prairie seems to stand taller, with raindrops glistening on the tufts of grass in the rising sun. The air is crisper without all the dust motes, and the big puffy clouds look as soft as cotton balls.
It might be a shiny new day, but I’m full of just as many questions—if not more—as I was when I fell asleep last night.
Felix cooks breakfast this morning, flipping golden yellow pancakes and whistling “Wild Mountain Thyme.” The fire crackles beneath the cast-iron skillet and hot oil sizzles and snaps as it cooks the batter inside.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” he says, sliding a steaming cake onto a tin plate for me. “Johnny cakes this morning, made from a secret family recipe passed down from my mother’s side of the family. Now, will you be wantin’ moh-lasses or gravy with it?”
“Um…”
Felix looks left and right before whispering, “Wanda’ll tell you that moh-lasses is the way to go, and as far as you, me, and the rest of the world are concerned, she is one hundred percent correct. But between just the two of us? I recommend the gravy. I’m not one for sugary breakfasts and it sticks to your ribs better.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” I mime zipping my lips. “I think I’ll try the gravy, please.”
Felix gives an appreciative nod and ladles thick brown gravy over the johnny cake.
“A rasher of bacon?” he asks.
“Yes, please.” He’s cooked it just the way I like it, crispy but not brittle.
