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“Sure have. Plenty of ’em.”

She doesn’t seem surprised as she looks over my scuffed cowboy boots, faded jeans, and worn flannel.

“Restrooms are that way.” I point toward the redbrick office building. “In case you need to…um…powder your nose.”

Her spine straightens as if I’ve said something insulting. I hope she doesn’t think I actually expect her to powder her nose. It would be a shame to cover up the smattering of freckles.

“Just so you know, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest.

I don’t know why I decided to go out of my way to talk to her, but it isn’t exactly going well. So much for getting past the whole “Prairie Princess” comment and letting bygones be bygones. Since we’ll be stuck on the trail together for the next week, I thought it might be nice to set out on the right foot, but that prairie schooner has already sailed. The chip on her shoulder seems to be a permanent fixture. The guilt I felt earlier ebbs.

She’s wearing a brand-new shirt, judging from the folding creases that haven’t been ironed out. In fact, all of her clothes, down to her pristine canvas sneakers, look like they’ve never been worn before. My gaze lingers on a sticker on the back of her thigh: relaxed midrise waist, boot cut. Must have come from her Ranch & Rustler shopping spree. Guess she’s not used to wearing rugged, outdoorsy clothes in that big, designer world she comes from.

“Clearly,” I say, giving her a meaningful nod to the sticker.

Color floods her cheeks as she reaches down to yank the sticker off. She opens her mouth like she’s going to light into me, but then her jaw snaps shut with a crack and her shoulders hunch.

A woman who must be her mom walks over, a strained smile on her face. I tip my hat in greeting. “Ma’am.”

“Hello.” She turns to the Prairie Princess. “Riley, your dad and Caleb just went to the restroom. We should, too, before we board the wagon.”

“Whatever.” The Prairie Princess—Riley—spins away so fast the end of her ponytail just barely misses swiping over my nose.

“Smooth move, Romeo,” Jake Harding says with a chuckle, coming up to stand next to me. “You know you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, right?”

With the Prairie Princess here, I wouldn’t be too sure.

“Mind your own damn business,” I say, surly at the downward spiral the morning is taking. I hope this isn’t a preview of what’s to come.

“Ooh, she has gotten under your skin. And I can see why.” Jake gives a low whistle. “A girl like that can really drive a guy wild.” His eyes fix on her retreating backside.

It takes all my willpower to keep my fisted hands by my sides and not launch toward his face. This kind of crap is why I prefer being alone on the prairie to being around people. “I thought you were set on Carrie Mae,” I snarl through gritted teeth.

Jake shrugs. “I like to keep my options open. Why limit yourself?” He slaps me on the back with more force than necessary and then gives me a finger-gun salute complete with a Pow, pow. “See you two when I ride out for my grand entrance on Wednesday,” he says. “Everyone just loves when the Pony Express rider shows up out of the blue. So damn heroic-like. By the time I arrive, she’ll be ready for a real man.” Jake smirks and then does that weird “I’m looking at you” back-and-forth motion with his hand before sauntering off toward the parking lot.

What a dirtbag.

Dad will tell you he’s 100 percent wrangler, but there’s some showman in him, too. He’ll lead the wagon train from his horse, Cisco, but first he’ll stir up a bit of excitement before the wagons pull through the gates. He calls down the line for us to confirm that we’re ready to roll out. “All clear?”

Behind him in line are the prairie schooners, driven by Felix and Wild Wanda, a good-hearted husband-and-wife duo full of grit. Each is loaded up with our passengers and their cargo, though Barnaby opts for a front-row seat next to Felix. He’s been on so many of these excursions, he’s practically a paid crew member.

“Alpha clear,” Felix and Barnaby call in unison.

“Beta clear,” echoes Wild Wanda’s raspy voice.

Next, Ty will drive the mule team pulling a slightly smaller supply wagon, loaded with fresh water, food, cooking supplies, camping supplies, and emergency equipment, including shovels, pickaxes, a tranquilizer gun, fire extinguisher, portable defibrillator, and other odds and ends. You can never be too prepared when you’re out on the trail, as I’m sure many of the pioneers discovered the hard way. Dysentery, typhoid, and cholera might have been dangers of the past, but broken bones, snakebites, and other accidents are still very real possibilities in the present day.

“Gamma clear,” Ty calls with an added whoop at the end. The younger passengers clap with glee.

“Omega clear,” I shout.

I’m bringing up the rear on Chance, with two extra pack mules, Sal and Buck, loaded with supplies. They’re mostly here to add a feeling of authenticity to the excursion. Plus, trips like this give them a bit of exercise to get them back in shape for future wagon trains, as they’ve spent most of their time in the corral since last tourist season. Most of what they’re carrying in their packs is their own feed rations, although we have loaded them with a few extra emergency MREs—meals ready to eat—and first-aid kits.

Dad lets out a high-pitched whistle and trots Cisco around the caravan all while spinning a lasso over his head. It’s mostly for show, because we aren’t driving cattle, but being able to rope things comes in handy on occasion. Dad comes up alongside the prairie schooners, guides Cisco into a circular dance, and shouts, “Wagons ho!”

That’s Silas’s cue to pull open the side gate that leads past the corral and out into a narrow meadow that abuts the south side of Darby. He pulls off his hat and waves it at the passengers in the wagons as they pass through.

“Take it easy out there, kid,” he says to me when I ride by on Chance in a working walk.