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I do my best to keep from having dirty thoughts, but…mud.
Getting free of the mud is no easy feat. I struggle to my knees, then ease up to standing, lifting victorious arms over my head when I’m finally upright.
“Impressive,” she says, staring up at me from her semi-reclined position. “Nine points for difficulty and ten for execution. You really know how to stick a landing.”
“Was that a joke?” I reach down to haul Riley up, and her fingers intertwine with mine. I don’t miss the way our palms press together or how nice it is to hold her hand in mine.
Then I wonder if I smacked my head on the way down. I release her like she’s a hot potato and attempt to brush some of the mud off my butt, but stop when I realize I’m only making it worse.
“Prairie Princesses never joke,” Riley says, straightening her shoulders. But there’s a bit of a smirk building on her lips and a glint in her eye. Standing there, with dirt splattered all over her face and her hair slicked back, she’s prettier now than she was the first time I set eyes on her. Which makes no sense, since she’s an absolute mess.
Hell, I feel like I have whiplash.
Riley brushes her hands over her arms and shivers. She turns back to the monumental hill we have to climb. Not particularly high or dangerous, but as I found out in multiple ways just now, it’s a slippery slope nonetheless.
CHAPTER 15
Riley
WE DECIDE TO make our way back up from the muddy creek bed by using broken branches as pitons. Thankfully there’s a whole heap of freshwater driftwood stuck in the mud. We dig through the stack until we find the thickest branches and then break them into foot-long segments. Colton pounds the thick sticks into the banking with a fist-sized stone until only six or so inches stick out, providing grips we can use to climb to the top. He tosses the fishing rod up ahead and then volunteers to go first, insisting that if the branches can support his weight, they’ll support mine, too.
Colton’s progress is slow and steady. As he works his way up, he pulls sticks from his back pocket, jams them into the mud wall as far as they’ll go, and then hammers them most of the way in. Eventually, he reaches the ledge and pulls himself over, boots disappearing as a few clods of damp soil roll down the embankment. A moment later, his grime-streaked face appears above me. “Good news. The fishing rod made it up okay.”
Lot of good it does us right this second.
“Your turn,” he says. “Take it nice and slow.”
“It’s just like climbing a tree,” I say to myself. A slippery, muddy, unpredictable tree.
My hands wrap around the protruding sticks and the treads of my hiking boots grip the holds below me as I propel myself higher. Just as I’m about to give a final push, the stick beneath my right foot pulls free. My leg slips out from beneath me and I battle against gravity, clinging tightly to the other sticks as I press myself into the mud. My arms tremble and my pulse pounds.
The stick beneath my left foot starts to wobble. My right foot scrapes along the slick muddy wall without finding a toehold. It’s only a few yards, but the distance between me and the creek feels like a mile. Unable to use my legs for leverage, I have no idea how I’m going to make it over the few remaining feet ahead of me.
Then Colton reaches down. “Grab my hand.”
The tips of my fingers graze his but I just can’t reach. My left foot slips and I cling to the two handholds with shaky arms. “I can’t.” My voice warbles with panic.
“Hold on,” Colton says. He stretches down and wraps his hands around my forearms. “I’ve got you,” he says. “You’re almost done. I’ll lift while you push. On the count of three, okay?” Our eyes lock and I nod. “One. Two.”
“Three,” I grunt, pressing down with my left leg and heaving with my aching arms.
Colton hauls backward, his weight an efficient counterbalance. With my elbows digging into soil, I scramble up over the edge.
“Thanks,” I say, before collapsing next to him to catch my breath.
Colton hasn’t said a word to me since I reeled in a sizable brook trout, deposited it into the net, and handed him the fishing rod, proclaiming, “And that’s how it’s done.” I’m pretty sure the look that flickered across his face was reluctant admiration but I don’t know him well enough to be certain.
We fall into step along the path, his stride slightly longer than mine thanks to his height and my developing blisters. Every once in a while, I catch him sneaking glances at me out of the corner of his eye. But doing that means I have to sneak glances at him, and I don’t want him to think I’m checking him out.
I wish I could say there’s nothing appealing about Tall, Dark, and Irksome—but even covered in grime, with a huge smear of mud along his brow line and the way his flannel shirt is plastered to his abdomen—he’s got this magnetic appeal about him. Thankfully, a particularly loud flock of grackles interrupts my thoughts before I get too carried away. He might be good-looking, but he’s still annoying as hell. Even if he did save me back there.
Blisters are the bane of my existence. I have plenty of them by the time we make it back to the wagons, coated in cracked mud and bits of vegetation, and chilled to the bone just as the sun passes below the horizon. The wind kicks up a bit in the twilight and I shiver, wrapping my arms around my waist to preserve what little body heat I have left. I probably shouldn’t have insisted we make another attempt to fish once we reached the top of the embankment, but after everything, I wasn’t about to return to camp empty-handed.
I’m startled by a loud, ear-piercing whistle. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Wild Wanda exclaims as she steps out from behind the supply wagon. She lifts a lantern and takes us in. “You two are a sight! Do I even wanna know?”
Colton shrugs as I push a scraggly strand of hair out of my face.
“Cap’n Walker was about to send out a search party.” Behind her, the campfires send shadows dancing over the wagons and the low murmur of voices echoes. Wild Wanda pulls a walkie-talkie from her belt and says, “Colton and Riley are back at base. Over.”
