Firelight at Mustang Ridge (3 page)

High walls on either side of her, pressing in on her, folding her into an impossible pretzel and kinking her diaphragm, making it hard to breathe. Rocks beneath her, above her. On her. Trapping her.

She clawed at her throat, part of her knowing that meant her hands were free, but unable to make it matter as her vision tunneled narrower and narrower until all she could see was the yellow confetti and the stranger in the picture, who looked like her, except that she was ready to take on the world, ready to—

Darkness.

T
he noon sun beat down on the horse and rider as Yoshi descended into a dry wash, his movements swinging the saddle back and forth while Sam whistled “Home on the Range” to the beat, thinking there was something seriously cool about playing cowboy, riding out under the big Wyoming sky with a scraggly scruff on his face and nobody else for miles.

Granted, the average old-timey cowboy wouldn't have had his saddlebags loaded with uncut gems—that would've been more the bailiwick of a pick-wielding miner with a couple of pack mules. Or maybe a bandit, riding a fast horse and looking over his shoulder to see if there was dust on the horizon. “Bandit, definitely,” he decided. “Don't you think, Yosh?”

The gelding shook his head, making the bit jingle.

“I've got a month's pay in stones,” Sam drawled, getting into character as the sure-footed horse started up the other side of the gulch, “a six-shooter, and a disguise. So, stick 'em up, pardner!”

Sure, the red bandanna that made up his disguise had started out wrapped around some muffins four days ago, courtesy of a stopover at Mustang Ridge on
his ride out to Misty Hill. But he had tied it around his neck after breaking camp that morning, and now pulled it up to cover the lower half of his face, settling his Stetson on his brow and pretending it was bad-guy black felt rather than summer straw.

Dropping his reins as they hit the flatlands once more, he drew from his hip, cocked his thumb as if his index finger were the barrel of a pistol, and fired at a nearby rocky outcropping, imagining the posse that'd been sent from the nearby—in backcountry terms, at least—town of Three Ridges to take him down and recover the stolen gems. “Pew, pew, pew!” Okay, maybe the noises were more sci-fi blaster than Wild West six-shooter, but whatever. “Pew, pew!” The last imaginary shot took out the imaginary marshal who'd been right on his tail, and Sam blew across the tip of his index finger. “There you go, Yosh. That's the way it's done!”

The paint gelding snorted and broke into a jog, headed for the distinctively stacked landmark stones that were becoming clearer with each mile, letting him know that Mustang Ridge was just a few valleys away now, maybe a couple of hours at an easy pace.

“You want to bum some dinner?” Sam asked his horse, even though his stomach was already grumbling with a
hells to the yes
on that one. “Wyatt did say we should swing back by on the way home.”

Granted, Sam's college buddy would no doubt get in some more digs about it being time for him to grow up and settle down—Wyatt was full steam ahead when it came to his new baby and upcoming wedding, and seemed to think Sam should be revving up to take the same fall. But he figured he could handle another dose
of “You need to quit with the flings and find yourself a real relationship” if it came with chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and gravy thick enough to walk on.

“Off we go, then,” he said, nudging Yosh into a lope that rolled down one hill and up the next. The horse's hooves beat a syncopated tattoo on the sunbaked earth, kicking up dust that coated the back of Sam's throat, tasting like—

Smoke!

*   *   *

The flames roared up toward Danny, heating her skin and making her hair crackle around her face as she tossed in another paperback and watched the pages curl and blacken in the firepit. “Good-bye—”

A sudden clatter of galloping hooves brought her whirling around, her heart leaping into her throat as she pictured Jupiter and the herd stampeding through camp. Then a loaded-down brown-and-white-spotted horse burst through the trees, carrying a big cowboy wearing a mask on the lower half of his face.

At the sight of her and the fire, the man hauled back on the reins and flung himself out of the saddle, hitting the ground even before his horse had come to a skidding stop. He advanced on her. “What in the blazes—”

Survival instincts taking over, Danny threw the last paperback at him as hard as she could, nailing him in the face.

“Ow!” He reeled back as she fled past him to the four-wheeler.

Flinging herself aboard, she twisted the key and hit the button to start the engine, but nothing happened. Her breath hitched in her lungs as the stranger
reoriented himself and started toward her. She scrambled off the ATV, grabbed her pack from the tent, yanked out her anti-critter revolver, and cocked the hammer. “Freeze!” she shouted, even though he'd already done exactly that, making like a statue when he saw that she was armed.

“Whoa, lady, hang on.” His voice was low and resonant, his granite-gray eyes more focused than scared as he added, “Finger off the trigger. I'm not going to hurt you.”

She kept her finger right where it was. “Then why are you wearing a mask?”

Sudden understanding dawned. “Oh, for— Hang on. Don't shoot. I'm just going to pull down the bandanna.” He did just that. “Sorry. Forgot I was wearing it. Is that better?”

Not really. Because
dang
. Without the bandanna, his face was a whole lot of stubble, dark skin, and angles put together in exactly the right combination.

Which didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. Hot guys could be dangerous.

“Who are you?” she demanded, her heart drumming against her ribs. “What do you want?”

“I'm a friend of the people who own that RV,” he said with a nod toward the
Rambling Rose
. “And what I want is for you to point that gun someplace else.”

She kept it on him, but took her finger off the trigger. “Who?” she pressed. “I want names.”

“Rose and Ed Skye own the bus,” he said without hesitation. “Their daughter, Krista, is a month or two away from marrying my college roommate, Wyatt Webb. They've got a daughter, Abby, and—”

“Okay.” Pulse slowing, she lowered the hammer. “I believe you.”

“Good.” His eyes sharpened on hers, putting a quiver in the pit of her stomach. “Then do me a favor and kill that fire before you torch the whole damn valley.”

She glanced past him, to where it was starting to burn down, now that she wasn't lobbing pictures, books, and men's XL T-shirts into it anymore. “It's fine.” And she didn't want to talk about the fire. The cathartic burn had seemed like a really good idea when she found herself sitting outside the RV with the contents of the duffel strewn around her. Now, though, it seemed silly and overdramatic, like skywriting
TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE
REST OF MY LIFE
from one horizon to the other rather than just saying it out loud.

“Maybe. You've got it in the pit and the river is right there. But just last week an ember from a near-dead wildfire caught on a current of air, carried a mile, and torched Gabe and Winnie Sears's place. House, barns, and all. They got their five kids and some personal stuff out, and let the livestock run loose, but the rest is gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Didn't take more than an hour. It's that dry right now. Anyway.” He shrugged. “I was on my way to Mustang Ridge, smelled the smoke, and figured on the worst case. I'd apologize for overreacting—”

“Don't,” she said. “I get it. I'll douse it, and keep the cook fire small from now on.” She stuck her hands in her pockets, suddenly off-balance and feeling like she had already forgotten how to talk to another human being. Especially one that looked like him. “Sorry I clobbered you.”

He touched his cheek. “Good aim you've got there. Between that and the gun, I guess I don't have to worry about you taking care of yourself.”

“No. I like being alone.”

“Well, then.” He gave a low whistle, and the paint horse ambled over from where it had been standing hipshot near the RV. Mounting up, he gathered his reins, then leaned down and stretched out a hand. “I'm Sam Babcock, by the way.”

That surprised a laugh out of her. “Danielle Traveler. Danny.” His grip was firm, his hands broad across the palms, with strong, capable fingers, long thumbs, and big, sturdy joints. They weren't calloused right to be climber's hands, but he definitely worked with them. Was he one of those hunky cowboys that Kiki-from-Cambridge had been chirping about?

Drawing away, he touched the brim of his hat. “Maybe I'll see you around, Miz Traveler.”

“Maybe.”
Probably not,
she thought, and was surprised to feel a small pinch of regret. “And Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Do me a favor and don't mention the tent, okay?” She figured that a guy like him, with eyes like that, wouldn't miss that she was living in a two-man tent rather than the camper. “Krista's been so sweet about the campsite, the supplies, the RV . . . I don't want to hurt her feelings.”

“But you'd rather feel the breeze.” Her surprise must have shown on her face, because he patted the bedroll strapped to the back of his saddle. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Touching his gelding to a jog, he headed out along
the riverbank, man and horse making a heck of a picture riding beside the water with the trees closing in and the canyon walls rising up to the blue, blue sky. When he reached the cut-through where the river emptied through the rock wall surround, he turned back and lifted a hand in farewell.

Caught watching him, she returned the gesture. And darned if she didn't keep watching as he disappeared through the gap in the canyon wall.

*   *   *

“Tell me again how she clocked you with a copy of
Moby-Dick
and then held you at gunpoint?” Wyatt poked Sam below the swollen cut on his cheek. “Does that hurt?”

“Ow!” Sam socked him in the shoulder. “Yes. And it wasn't
Moby-Dick
, it was
Adrift
. Or maybe
Perfect Storm
. One of the Bad Things Happening at Sea books that got turned into a movie but didn't have a whale in it.”

They were sprawled at one of the picnic tables out by the barbecue pit, where the first-aid kit had wound up after one of the assistant wranglers had split his thumb open with a hammer, working on a construction project that was new since Sam's last visit.

“Still, she really nailed you,” Wyatt said with poorly faked concern. “That's going to bruise like a mother.”

“I've had worse.” Tipping his head toward where Ed Skye and several of the barn staffers were going to town with two-by-fours and a framing nail gun, Sam said, “What's going on over there? You having problems with the pavilion?”

Wyatt didn't quite roll his eyes. “Rose decided it wasn't big enough for the wedding.”

Sam frowned down at the round structure, which was the epicenter of the Friday-night outdoor barbecues that Krista, Gran, and the others threw as a farewell for the guests of each themed week. Some fifty feet away, Ed and Junior were leveling off a new support beam. “How big does it need to be to hold you and Krista, the JP, and a couple of groomsmen and bridesmaids?” A daunting thought occurred. “Did you guys decide to expand things into one of those three-ring-circus deals?”

That got an emphatic “Hell, no.”

“Phew. For a second there, I was picturing a dozen bridesmaids in sparkly pink dresses, and me, Nick, and Foster standing up there with all seven of the Lemp brothers and whoever else you could round up, the whole lot of us wearing glittery bow ties and suspenders to match the bridesmaids' outfits. Not that I wouldn't man up, mind you. For you and Krista, whatever it takes. But I'm really not a sparkly-pink-cummerbund kind of guy.”

“Tempting, but no. It's just you, Nick, and Foster on the guy's side, and Jenny and Shelby on the girl's side, pick your own clothes. Lucky for you, Krista stood up to her mom on that one, or you might've been in a cummerbund, or worse.”

Not wanting to know what counted as worse than a
My Pretty Pony
–pink cummerbund, Sam said, “Then what's with the pavilion?”

“Rose is afraid that it'll rain during the ceremony, so she wants to extend the roof to cover the guests.” Wyatt shot him a
don't say it
look.

Unable not to, Sam said, “She knows we're in the
middle of the worst drought in twenty-some years, right? And that it hasn't rained more than a dribble since May?”

“When you're living on the same property as your in-laws, you learn to pick your battles,” Wyatt said drily. “Especially when your mother-in-law-to-be is the resident events coordinator, interior decorator, and unofficial wedding planner.”

“A deadly trifecta.”

“Only if a guy is inclined to argue.” Wyatt stretched his arms behind him and leaned back on the picnic table. “Which I'm not. You said it yourself—whatever Krista wants, she gets. I'm getting what I want, which is her and Abby Rose. Why shouldn't Krissy get everything she wants, too?”

Sam would've ribbed him about turning into a giant sap, except it was actually kind of nice to see the big guy go down so hard. “Well, hell. Looks like you've got yourself a pavilion-on-steroids, then. Maybe next season you could turn it into a covered horseshoe pit.”

“I was thinking of a bowling alley. Great minds.”

“I'm starving. Is my face patched up enough to brave the dining hall?”

“Let me throw on a couple of Band-Aids first. And if I could make a suggestion? You should come up with a better story than the attack of the killer paperback. Tell people you got caught in an avalanche, maybe, or a stampede.”

Sam glared at Mr. Enjoying-This-Way-Too-Much. “I don't need a story—I got the cut galloping through the trees to save Mustang Ridge from looking like the Sears place.”

Wyatt sobered. “Thanks for that, by the way. Seriously. This is . . .” He looked around, from the guest cabins near the lake, up to the barns and the main house. “It matters. It's home. I could live without it—we all could if we had to. But I'd hate to have to.” And coming from a guy who hadn't stayed in the same place for more than a few months at a time before he arrived in Three Ridges, that was saying something.