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She flips the book open to the first page and shows me studies of various plants, animals, and the occasional person. “This is a sagebrush lizard,” she says. “Their underbellies are this amazing shade of bright blue.”

“I think we have them in Nebraska.”

She grins. “I love watching them do push-ups. And here’s a desert tortoise. He was rescued by a local wildlife preserve.”

“These are amazing.”

“Thanks. I’m trying to put together a portfolio,” she says.

“The only thing I can draw is water from a well,” I joke.

Riley’s eyes sparkle when she turns to a blank sheet of paper and hands me a gray pastel. “Show me.”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t talking about art. I was being literal.”

“I know,” she says, tapping her foot against the side of my leg. “I was just teasing. Although…” Scooting over until she’s kneeling right beside me, she wraps my fingers around the pastel and then places her hand over mine. “Relax your arm. The trick is to stay loose. Let it flow onto the page.”

A bit of her hair tickles my cheek when she leans forward to guide my hand across the paper. My pulse skyrockets at her touch, and I hope to hell she can’t feel it. Or hear it, based on the heartbeat stampede ringing in my ears.

I swallow and try to concentrate on the pastel and the page and the lines and whatever it is she’s trying to explain to me, but all I can seem to focus on is the soft curve of her cheek, the way her lips press together in concentration, and her pastel-smudged fingertips.

“All done,” she says, dropping my hand.

Riley’s shoulder presses against mine and I resist the urge to wrap my arm around her and pull her into my side. When I look down at the paper, I see that we’ve created a rough sketch of an old stone well with a water-filled wooden bucket sitting on the edge.

“Now you can draw water from a well, both literally and figuratively.” She glances up at me with warm smile.

Our eyes lock and it feels a lot like the time I accidentally grabbed ahold of the Marshalls’ electrified fence. All my nerves are rattled and tingly. “Thanks,” I manage. “I definitely couldn’t have done it without you.”

Riley blinks and pulls away. “That’s what…friends are for.” She clears her throat.

The way she says friends feels more like a weapon than a reassurance. I can’t help but wonder if some rules—like not getting involved with the passengers—are meant to be broken.

CHAPTER 19

Riley

THE CASCADING HILLS grow more pronounced as we make our way westward. In the front of the wagon, Mom and Dad continue to chat with the McCreadys and the Stones. How can they possibly have so much to talk about with a group of strangers? I’d complain about it to Caleb, but I can’t, since he bailed on our wagon and stowed away with the other group so he could hang out with his new friends.

Colton’s dark, focused eyes stare up at me from a page in my sketchbook. I’ve captured them perfectly, with his lashes reflected in the lenses, the lines of the cheekbones below softened in the sunrise. A lock of his hair falls across his brow in soft waves, just like it did at the campfire when he was frying up the brook trout. But no matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to get his mouth right.

Worried I would ruin the page by over-erasing, I begin sketching his lips on a piece of scratch paper. His mouth pursed in a grimace after he ate the piping hot peach cobbler. His lips curved up at the edges when he talks about life out here on the prairie. The small part between his top and bottom lips that opens just before I think, Finally, he’s going to kiss me. But of course, he doesn’t, because we’ve established that we’re friends.

I flip the sketchbook closed and tuck it away into the safety of my backpack, determined to do something other than moon over Colton. I’ve practically convinced myself that the only way I’ll ever be able to render an accurate likeness of his lips is if we kiss. I pull the zipper shut with a quick flick of my wrist, as if I could lock away my thoughts as well. I’ve already spent way too much time today thinking about his mouth and lips and kisses, and definitely not in the artistic sense.

The wagon train slows to a stop for nooning. There’s a thick mass of dark clouds building to the west and I really hope this doesn’t mean we’re in for inclement weather. Rain is a rare treat in Southern California, so a light Nebraskan shower might be nice to experience, but I’d rather not deal with high winds, hail, lightning, or a twister.

It feels good to stretch my legs after being cooped up in the wagon all morning. I’ve swapped out my hiking boots for the pair of cheap canvas sneakers I’m dying to customize as soon as I can get my art supplies unpacked. It would be a perfect project to distract me from dissecting every interaction I’ve had with Colton so far. If only I had a permanent marker.

When I round the supply cart, I come across Ty and Felix. Maybe they can help me out. “You wouldn’t happen to have a Sharpie, would you?”

Felix shakes his head. “Ain’t got much use for them out here.”

Ty shifts around a few crates. “I bet Barnaby’s got one you can borrow. He’s always using one to mark off his bird sightings in that book of his.”

“Thanks.” A flicker of hope sends my fingertips tingling.

When I finally locate Barnaby, he’s got his binoculars pressed to his face and his sights set on a clump of bushes a few hundred yards away. “Hello, Sparrow,” he says, giving me a nod. “Enjoying the trail so far?”