But with his mom squashed against my other side, I had to try, right?
So I tried focusing on the scenery. Mountains. Pines.
Noah’s fingers skimming the back of my shoulder…
Oh, look! A river!
The train rumbled onto a narrow trestle bridge, and just like that, we were tracking the Animas River. There were murmurs of appreciation as we curved around a bend. Someone pointed out an old wooden water tower, and then a deer.
Which I thought looked more like a dog but…
“No Bigfoot sightings,” Noah whispered in my ear.
I glanced over, chuckling.
Then the conductor stepped into our car, neat and cheery in his vest and cap.
“Good morning, folks, and welcome aboard the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad,” he announced. “We’ll be climbing nearly three thousand feet in elevation today, following the same rugged route used to haul silver and gold out of the San Juan Mountains in the 1880s. The trip to Silverton takes just over three hours. Take as many pictures and videos as you like—but please, for your own safety, keep your arms and devices inside the car.”
He tipped his cap again and continued through the train.
Three hours?
I blinked, shifting a little.
Noah’s thigh was still warm against mine. His hand was still idly curled across the back of the bench. And I was still trying very hard not to melt into a puddle.
To distract myself, I took out my phone and angled it toward the front of the train. The black engine shone like polished coal as it curved through the cottonwoods up ahead. The clatter of the wheels echoed off the valley walls, rhythmic and comforting.
I snapped a photo. Then switched to video. The train’s whistle blew as we started across another bridge, and I caught the call of it just in time—high, echoey, a little bit magical.
A hawk glided above us, wings outstretched like it had nothing but time.
“This is so much better than the bus,” Mrs. Grady said, unexpectedly, leaning slightly forward to speak to Noah.
I turned to glance at her, surprised.
“Right?” I agreed.
“I’ll bet you aren’t even nervous.” Noah was looking at me. “We can’t go off the road when we’re on a track.”
“That’s because we’re not being driven by a sixteen-year-old.” I relaxed a little.
“Joey is not sixteen,” his mom corrected automatically but still didn’t quite look at me.
Noah gave his mother a look.
She gave one right back.
There was something in the air between them then, a silent exchange I couldn’t decode.
And then, miraculously, she turned to me. With a smile.
“Tay says it isn’t his fault that the bus broke down.”
It wasn’t exactly a truce. But it was a start.
I nodded, grasping at what I hoped was an olive branch. “Of course not.”
