[He'll spare her the saucy tavern stories too. He coaxes his hand back through her bangs, brushing back her hair with his head tilted in thought. He's not sure she'll care for what he comes up with, spilling out whatever comes to mind-- really, he's not a story sort of guy. Recalling,] There's nothing like riding a box train across a stretch of flat prairie. Spring or autumn are the better seasons, summer gets too hot.