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Jake laughs again and glances back in our direction, as if hoping his antics will inspire a bit of jealousy in Riley that might work in his favor.
As far as I can tell, the plan backfires. The line on Riley’s brow softens and she looks away. She seems relieved that Jake’s turned his attention elsewhere, at least for the moment. Still, I better strike while the iron’s hot.
I tug on her bonnet’s ribbons to get her attention. “Meet me outside your hotel in twenty minutes?”
She opens her mouth, as if she’s about to say yes, but then she hesitates. “I want to say yes, but…”
Here it comes. My stomach starts to sink. The look on my face must give my thoughts away, because she reaches out and gives my arm a reassuring squeeze.
“Do you think we could make it thirty? I’d like to freshen up a bit.”
“Sure, no problem,” I say, relieved that she didn’t turn me down.
Riley wanders off to locate her parents in the crowd and I get to work pulling suitcases down from the storage compartments. Jake saunters over with a big ol’ smirk plastered on his face.
“Guess she doesn’t want a private tour from you either?” he says.
I shrug and tug a hard-shell Samsonite from the wagon bed.
As usual, Jake crosses his arms and watches me. While unloading the baggage is technically not part of the Pony Express rider’s duties, standing around doing nothing while the rest of the crew toil away is a jerk move. Not that I expect him to lift a finger, but he could at least put in an appearance at the post office and make his speech, like he’s supposed to do on arrival.
“Well, you know what they say: the harder the chase, the sweeter the taste,” he says.
“Who says that? Stalkers?”
Jake waves a dismissive hand. “Stop being a poor loser.” His eyes brighten and a sleazy smile tugs at his lips. He straightens up and steps forward as Riley materializes beside me. She slides a folded piece of paper into my hand.
“See you in a few, Colton,” she says with a smile.
“I’ll see you soon, Riley,” I say, calling after her.
I unfold the paper and glance down at the quick pen-and-ink sketch she’s made of a monarch butterfly on a milkweed flower.
Who’s the loser now, Jake?
CHAPTER 29
Riley
OUR SUITE IS at the end of the hotel, with one side overlooking the main avenue and the other overlooking a large, well-tended vegetable garden, beyond which is the tall wooden wall that separates us from the wild prairie. I let the thin cream-colored lace curtains fall shut and wander around my room, which isn’t large by any means, but it’s definitely more hospitable than the tent Caleb and I have been sharing.
The double bed has a shabby-chic green and white quilt and a thick pillow that I can’t wait to try out later tonight. It’s not my bed, but it definitely holds the promise of a better night’s sleep than a cot, which I’ll gladly take. If these circles under my eyes get any darker, people will mistake me for a raccoon. On the dresser is a ceramic pitcher and washbowl set on a white linen table runner, and a long rectangular box wrapped in brown paper with my name on the manila tag.
I sink onto the bed, which has Goldilocks-level firmness, and ease the twine over the corners, pulling the lid free. Inside is a small prairie flower bouquet—more of a posy, really—that eclipses the rooty tangle that Jake tried to foist on me before. Each stem has a tiny paper tag tied on with a piece of white thread, the common names of the flowers written in what must be Colton’s jagged penmanship. A damp paper towel in a plastic baggie is wrapped around the cuttings and secured with a rubber band. Beneath the bundle is a handwritten note in identical rough scrawl on thick, creamy stationery: To Riley, for inspiration. C.W.
My fingers twitch, anxious for my notebook and pencils to get started on some sketches, but it’ll have to wait until later. I grab a glass of water from the bathroom and place each bloom inside the makeshift vase, taking care not to get the tags wet.
Yarrow
Blue false indigo
Beebalm
Spiderwort
Beardtongue
False sunflower
