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“A land spout.”

“A land spout?” she repeats. “Isn’t that just a weak tornado that hardly ever does much damage? I don’t think they even get up to an E3 rating.”

“Well, uh, yeah,” I say, thrown off by her meteorological knowledge.

Riley rolls her eyes. “It’s basically a dust devil.”

I study her profile as she stares out at the prairie. Wisps of dark hair curl along her soft jawline, blurring most of her face. When she brushes it back, I catch the faint scent of sweet pea blossoms. Her eyes are focused on a point in the distance.

“Are you from the Midwest?” I ask.

“No,” she says, like I’ve insulted her yet again. “Southern California.”

I thought it was always sunshine and clear skies there, so how does she know so much about Midwestern weather events?

I clear my throat. Telling her this story is starting to feel like a bad idea. Honestly, I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea in the first place, given our earlier encounters. Maybe it’s because I felt bad for her, standing here all alone while everyone else found a group to hang out with. Usually I just keep to myself on excursions. This conversation is a good reminder why.

“Well,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t leave me hanging. What happened?”

I pull off my hat and scratch at the back of my head. “So, Augie had just whipped up a batch of his famous skull varnish—”

“That sounds appetizing.” She wrinkles her nose, and I can’t help but stare at the constellation of freckles there.

“It’s essentially adulterated bourbon,” I manage, trying to stay focused.

“So much better,” she murmurs.

“Back then, it was common for people to add things to try to extend batches, and Augie supposedly added molasses to the dregs of his barrels when supplies got low.”

Riley motions for me to continue.

“Augie got this batch of skull varnish the way he wanted and tried to sell it to all the pioneers passing through. A few questioned the quality of his spirits, and to prove it was safe enough, he took a long swig. Soon enough, they all got to talking and drinking. No one noticed the storm rolling in. The land spout whipped out in the distance without a warning and headed right toward Augie’s cabin. Well, in their fright, the pioneers decided to run for it and headed over toward that hill over there, hoping the depression on the other side would shelter them from the storm.” I point to a small mound of dirt that’s slightly higher than its surroundings. “They tried to get Augie to join them, but he just took another drink of his bourbon, tossed his tin cup to the ground, and put up his fists like he was preparing for a fight.”

“This better not be one of those tall tales where he supposedly wrestled the storm into submission,” she says.

“Not exactly. The land spout swept right on through, picking up Augie and all his possessions except for a broken axle and a busted wagon wheel, and no one ever saw him again. His cabin remained just over there for the next fifty or so years, until a wildfire swept across the prairie and burned it down.”

“Hmm,” Riley says, turning west to study the plains as if she can picture the mini-tornado rolling our way. Her gaze sweeps back around and finally lands on me. My heart beats a bit faster when our eyes meet. “That story has more holes in it than a window screen.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, wondering if maybe I left out an important detail. Or maybe it was my delivery? I’m not much of a storyteller…or a talker. Wild Wanda usually tells that story on our three-day excursions and no one’s ever called her out on it, as far as I know, but maybe it’s because she uses more colorful language.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m having trouble concentrating.

“You’re telling me that Augie and all his belongings go missing after this ‘storm,’ ” she says with finger quotes, “but his log cabin is sturdy enough to withstand it and last another five decades?”

“Yeah?” I curl the brim of my hat against my palm.

“There’s no way.” Riley shakes her head and starts walking toward the hill that supposedly sheltered the pioneers. It takes me a few seconds to realize she’s heading out into the prairie alone.

I jog to catch up and fall into step with her. “What are you doing?”

“Gathering facts,” she says, as if it should be clear.

“What are you trying to do? Prove the legend wrong?”

She shrugs. “It’s just a story. I’m confirming my suspicions that it’s approximately fifteen percent true.”

“That much?” I say, the words laced with sarcasm.