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Even my best puppy dog eyes won’t get her to budge. “Still nope. And as long as you’re standing in my kitchen, smelling to high heaven, my answer won’t change. But you come back cleaned up and smelling fresh, and I just might give you this.” She slides a cookie tin in my direction but keeps it just out of reach.
“Did you?” I ask, my mouth already watering at the prospect.
“I did,” she says, waggling her eyebrows.
Mom’s peanut butter chocolate chews are the stuff of legend. And they’re great to have along on the trail when I’m in need of a quick bite. There’s not a pantry out on the prairie, so sneaking a tin or two of Mom’s treats into my saddlebag is a must.
Twenty minutes later, I’m showered, shaved, and set for the all-hands dinner. The first of Mom’s book club members arrives just as I’m pulling on my boots.
“Mrs. Martinez,” I say, standing to greet her.
“You get taller and handsomer every time I see you,” she says, wrapping me in a warm hug.
Almost everyone’s taller than Mrs. Martinez, so that’s not saying much, but the ten-inch difference between us always makes me feel like the Jolly Green Giant.
“So handsome,” she says again with a gleam in her eye.
Oh no. Here we go again. Mrs. Martinez’s Matchmaking and Meddling Service is open for business. I glance helplessly at the kitchen, trying to send Mom an ESP message. Unfortunately, she’s not answering my Mayday call.
“A young lady would be lucky to have you to herself. You aren’t dating anyone, are you?” She pats my arm. “Of course not. Danielle would have told us if you were.”
Mom’s not the type to gossip about my personal life with her book club, so Mrs. Martinez is on a fishing expedition. I’m tempted to tell her I’m seeing someone to get her off my case, even if it’s a lie, but then she’ll want to know details and I don’t have the time to sit here casting tales to see if she’ll bite. But if I tell her I’m single, she’ll try to set me up with someone, like usual.
“It’s…uhh—”
“Time for you to head out, sweetheart,” Mom says, saving the day. “Dad texted. He wants you to meet the crew at the office so you can head to Frank’s together.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I press a short kiss to her soft cheek and grab my hat from the hook by the door. Settling it on my head, I give her a quick nod. “Good night, Mrs. Martinez.”
As I make my way across the wraparound porch to the old F-150 pickup in the drive, I can hear Mrs. Martinez through the screen door saying, “That boy of yours is a heartbreaker, Danielle. I have a friend whose daughter would be perfect for him…”
CHAPTER 3
Riley
WE MAY HAVE landed in Omaha, but this tiny nowheresville town we’re staying in for the night is probably not even on the map. Aside from the hotel, there’s a gas station, a sad-looking empty storefront, and an auto repair shop that may or may not be operational based on the amount of rusted-out vehicles in the lot. Worse, Darby has exactly one stoplight and zero traffic, and we still had to sit through a ridiculously long red on our way into town. Unbelievable.
It’s just past five local time, and I’m exhausted, hungry, and growing more and more concerned that I will have to trek across the prairie in my ballet flats, shorts, and T-shirt, washing them nightly on a rock by the river and steaming them dry next to the campfire while wrapped in nothing but a scratchy wool saddle blanket. A shudder cascades down my spine. At least Omaha had department stores. Darby probably doesn’t even have a zip code.
It definitely doesn’t have cell service. All three of my text messages to Quinn bounce back as undeliverable, and I would write that guy’s suggestion of postcards off as ridiculous except that it might be my only chance to make contact with the outside world.
“Ready for some retail therapy?” Mom asks.
My fingernails dig into my palms as if I’m trying to hold on to the lone spec of hope doled out by Tina, the front desk clerk who checked us in. She promised us that on the other side of town—and within walking distance—is Ranch & Rustler, a store guaranteed to stock all my shopping needs. It better, since I’m pretty sure it’s the only game in town.
Mom and I walk along the cracked and uneven cement sidewalk. It’s so quiet here, without the constant drone of rushing traffic, pedestrians, bikers, and skateboarders that seem to be ever-present in SoCal. Instead of palm trees, a few large red maples line the street, their roots causing the walkway to ripple above them. The soles of my ballet flats are so thin, I feel every bump and pebble underfoot. They were perfect for air travel, but now I’m regretting my decision not to wear sneakers on the flight.
We pass the ramshackle building that houses Frank’s Sandwich Shop, where we’re supposed to meet Dad and Caleb for dinner, and come face to face with Ranch & Rustler. The place is ginormous, in a big-box, mega-retailer kind of way. And the parking lot is far from empty. People must drive for miles to shop here.
“Oh god,” I say as I take in the row of trailers, tractors, and farm equipment on display in front of the store. “There’s no way a store like this sells anything I’d be caught dead wearing.”
Mom shrugs. “California fashion can’t be too different from Nebraska fashion.”
“Nebraska fashion,” I say, my nose wrinkling. “Is that even a thing?”
Mom links elbows with me. “We’re about to find out.”
Turns out, Tina was right about Ranch & Rustler being a one-shop-fits-all kind of place. If your shopping list has beef jerky, toilet paper, motor oil, fishing bait, nail polish, and a pack of highlighters on it, this is the place for you. There are giant canisters of cheese balls stacked on a shelf above plumbing supplies, and I nearly trip over my own feet as I gawk at a display of pantyhose capped with disembodied mannequin legs next to assorted vermin traps.
