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And yes, I’m emotional.
In the grand scheme of things, lost luggage is barely a blip on the “horrible things that can happen to Riley” radar, but heaped up on everything else I’m dealing with right now, it feels like the final straw.
Forced to move from California to Nebraska the summer before senior year because your parents accepted new jobs? Uncool.
Saying goodbye to classmates a whole year before everyone else has to because of said move? Uncooler.
Finding all this out two weeks before the end of the school year? Uncoolest.
And just when I thought my parents couldn’t make my life any worse, they went and reserved us a spot on a one-week Oregon Trail Adventure wagon excursion while the movers pack up and haul all our worldly possessions across five states to a house I’ve never seen that I’m suddenly supposed to call home. To add insult to injury, Dad’s been playing the classic Oregon Trail video game—and giving us running commentary of his pioneer escapades—ever since.
Mom gives me a reassuring pat on the back and I shrink away. “We’ll figure something out, Riles. You won’t have to wear that all week. I packed some extra clothes and Caleb has—”
“No way. I’m not borrowing clothes for an entire week. And what about underwear?” I hiss, completely skeeved out at the thought of wearing her mom-panties or Caleb’s boxer briefs.
Mom nibbles on her lower lip, probably creating a mental list of all the things we’ll have to purchase to get me through the next week.
Arnold clears his throat. “Given the extenuating circumstances, I can process a monetary claim. The most I’m authorized to approve is two hundred and fifty dollars, but that should at least get you a few replacement items until you and your bag are reunited.”
“That would be wonderful,” Mom says, relief easing the wrinkles on her brow. She reaches out as if she’s going to squeeze my hand but opts to brush her hair back from her face instead. “Thank you, Arnold.” She gives Dad a thumbs-up through the office window and then turns to me. “Looks like we’ll be doing some shopping tonight, Riley.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter.
CHAPTER 2
Colton
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE the tranquility of a morning on the prairie. I roll onto my back and stretch, the scent of last night’s campfire carrying on the damp morning air.
Chance whinnies at me as if to say, “You’re finally awake.” He swishes his tail and chomps on a giant mouthful of prairie June grass.
The trail I know like the back of my hand snakes east to west. Heading west, it goes past Devil’s Gate Rock and Jack Rabbit Falls, all the way to Fort Bellows. East, the trail is a straight shot to Darby. For my family, this land is the pay dirt that puts bread on the table and grain in the stables, though I don’t know how much longer the excursion business will be profitable. Operating costs continue to rise, and I worry we’ll be forced to sell the land to tract developers and big-box enterprises before long.
“Let’s get you a drink,” I say, unlooping Chance’s lead from a tree branch.
We head down to a bubbling brook, an offshoot of Tin Can Creek, and I let him drink his fill. When he’s done, I splash my face with the cool, crisp water and shake off the droplets with a flick of my head.
Chance snorts like he’s laughing at me.
“Easy there, big guy,” I say, giving him a gentle pat on the rump.
We’re on the trail by seven, traveling eastward at a leisurely pace. I tug the brim of my hat down over my eyes to block the penetrating glare of the rising sun. “Whoa,” I say when we arrive at Donovan’s Pass. If we continue on the same dusty road, we’ll arrive in Darby by lunch. But the path here is uneven and Chance can’t get up into a canter. If we take the scenic route that runs along the south edge of Broken Yoke Mesa, he might get in a good gallop.
“What do you think, boy? Want to feel the wind in your mane?”
Chance swishes his tail and tilts his head toward the wide-open plains. I cluck and tug slightly on the reins to chart our own course back to Darby.
When we ride into the stables behind the Darby Grand Hotel, windburned and invigorated, most of the crew is hard at work. Silas, our farrier, reshoes one of the oxen. Brett and Joe load rations into the supply wagon, which will follow the prairie schooner replicas—large covered wagons that feature a modern suspension system to make the ride more comfortable since few tourists want to walk alongside like the pioneers did.
After giving Chance a good brush-down and leaving him to his feed and water, I make my way across the yard to the main office with my pack slung over my shoulder. I drop it with a thud in the corner of Dad’s office and grab an oatmeal chocolate chip granola bar from the snack stash on top of his filing cabinet.
“How was your ride?” he asks, setting his pen on the desk and leaning back in his office chair.
“Uneventful.” I sink into the chair across from him. “We’ll have to get a team over to the Cottonwood Creek area for repairs. Won’t take more than a day to shore up, but I don’t think we should risk it with the oxen and wagons tomorrow.”
Dad nods. “Anything else to report?”
I shake my head as I chew. “Nope.”
