Firelight at Mustang Ridge (4 page)

Rather than think too hard about his own big empty house on the other side of town, Sam punched his buddy in the arm. “Don't worry, Webb. I've got your back, especially when it comes to the cute brunette staying out in Blessing Valley.”

Wyatt zeroed in. “Jenny's friend is cute?”

“Yeah, she's cute.” Hot, even, with long, dark, flowing curls, big blue-green eyes, and a killer set of curves that he had noticed even with her finger on that trigger. “You haven't met her?” he asked Wyatt.

“Nope. I missed her when she arrived, and she hasn't been back since. Krista and I figured we'd give her a few more days to come in for supplies. If she doesn't, we'll load up and head out for a visit.”

“Sounds like a plan.” It also sounded to Sam as though he should keep track of whether she showed up at the ranch, and if not, ride out and warn her to hide the tent. He didn't know exactly what was going on there, but he had to respect her for not wanting to hurt Krista's feelings—not to mention that he wouldn't mind seeing his assailant again. Lady like that, packing a fastball, a pistol, and a secret or two, made a man wonder what else was hiding beneath the surface.

T
he morning after the Bonfire Incident—that was how Danny had decided to think about it, focusing on her
aha
moment rather than on the man—she awoke just past dawn, tired and achy and feeling like she'd climbed a thousand feet straight up while she slept.

The squirrels were waiting for her, sitting on the cleared-off table and looking at her as if to say,
Well? What's for breakfast?

“Shoo! Scat!” She waved them off.

Tails flicking, they boogied up the awning. Instead of dashing up the tree, though, they stayed on top of the RV, stomping their feet and chittering at her. One was fatter and more sandy gray, the other leaner and reddish, and neither looked particularly scared of her.

Narrowing her eyes, she said, “I've got a gun, you know.”

They didn't look impressed by the threat. Probably knew she didn't mean it—the revolver was for predators and signaling for help.

“Okay, fine. You can stay. But I'm not feeding you!” Word of a sucker traveled fast, and the last thing she needed was two squirrels to turn into a dozen, then
four dozen. Or, worse, a bear. She slept inside an electrified fence that was rated for the area's biggest predators, and made a point of keeping her food sealed and her compost far away from camp. The M&M's had been a rare misstep; she had no intention of letting the RV become a feeding station.

Turning her back on the squirrels, she went through her morning routine with more speed than usual, veins thrumming with an anticipation she couldn't quite pin down. Maybe it was leftover excitement from the previous day's break in the routine, or the buzz of knowing that if yesterday had been the first day of the rest of her life, today was the next first day.

Even her surroundings were a little different now. Whereas she had burned the bad memories that had come out of her duffel, she had spread the good ones around her camp. She was drinking her tea out of the cartoon mug her sister, Charlie, had given her while she was in the hospital; there was a picture of her, Charlie, and their parents visible through the RV's window, a rare indoor shot of them plopped together on a couch; and a brightly painted pottery bowl sat on the ground nearby, ready and waiting should she decide to transplant an herb or two.

And hanging from one of the awning supports, dangling like a fluorescent yellow chandelier, was the little stuffed toy butterfly that Farah had given her before she left rehab, the one that wore hiking boots, suspenders, and a tag that said its name was
BUTTERS THE BUTTERFLY
. But though Butters had looked cheerful and benign yesterday, now he watched Danny with big plastic eyes that seemed to say,
Aren't you forgetting something?

And, yeah, maybe she was. Or not forgetting so much as avoiding.

“I know, I know. I'm sorry. I've been . . .” She couldn't bring herself to say “too busy,” even when her audience consisted of a couple of squirrels and a stuffed butterfly, because it wasn't like taking walks and picking salad greens needed to be a full-time occupation, even on vacation. And this wasn't entirely a vacation, either. She was supposed to be making some decisions.

Sighing, she said, “Okay, fine. I've been avoiding the tests. The whole idea makes me feel silly.” Which was ironic, considering that she was talking to rodents and a toy. But there was something inherently goofy about using a bunch of online personality tests—
What's Your Spirit Animal? What's Your Superpower? What Martini Are You
?—to decide what she wanted to do with her life, or even just the next couple of years.

Then again, it wasn't like she had made any real progress on her own. It was one thing to announce that she didn't want to work in the family business anymore, that she needed to branch out, find herself. It was another thing to figure out what, exactly, that meant.

Thus, the tests, courtesy of her physical-therapist-turned-friend, whose whole therapeutic approach involved taking grueling, painful exercises—whether physical or mental—and turning them into games.

“The goofier the better,” Farah had said firmly when she gave Danny a list of the Web sites she wanted her to use. “Download the quizzes and answers onto your computer and do one a day. And promise me you won't just laugh at the answers but really think about them, too!” Fiftysomething and borderline frumpy, Farah was
a whiz with everything from homeopathy to the newest gadgets, and had serious mother hen tendencies. She had appointed herself Danny's new best friend for the duration of her rehab, and they had kept in touch after, with Farah dispensing liberal doses of “Live your own life” and “Go someplace new and maybe you'll find yourself.” And, when Danny had settled on Wyoming, Farah had added the silly quizzes to the mix.

So Danny had promised. She had downloaded. But until yesterday, she hadn't actually unpacked her laptop. Now it sat on the front seat of the RV, sucking up its solar charge and waiting for her to get to work.

“Fine.” She squared her shoulders. “I'll do it. Happy?”

The squirrels had gotten bored and wandered off. The butterfly looked unimpressed. But a minute later, with the laptop open on the table in front of her and a whole lot of files to choose from, Danny closed her eyes, twirled her finger, and pointed to a random spot on the screen. She opened her eyes and said, “Hm.”

What Kind of Sandwich Are You?

Deciding that finding her inner sandwich definitely counted as goofy, she opened the multiple-choice questionnaire.

The first question was “Who do you admire most?” which wouldn't have been bad, except that the answers consisted of “Mother Teresa,” “the president,” and three entertainers she couldn't have picked out of a lineup if her life depended on it.
Okay, Mother Teresa it is
.

The next couple were easy—favorite animal, eagle; favorite color, green—but then she got to “What's your favorite day-off activity?” and found herself wrestling with the choices. She could cross “getting a manicure”
and “getting wasted” off the list, but that left her with “spending time with family,” “being alone,” and “doing something I've never done before.” All of which fit, depending on whether she was answering as her old self, her current self, or the cooler, less neurotic person she wanted to be.

Deciding to go with what fit the now-her, she clicked on “being alone” and reminded herself she wasn't being graded. The test was just a tool.

Which was lucky for her, because after that the questions got harder, the answers weirder.

“What lifetime supply do you want?” She negged “Cheez Whiz,” “reality TV,” and “bagpipe music,” and went with “books.”

“What's your favorite condiment?” She skipped “hair gel,” “motor oil,” and “shampoo” on the theory that whoever wrote the quiz was messing with her, and picked “Cool Whip.”

“Pick your transportation” offered up “mine cart,” “magic carpet,” “submarine,” and “giant bat” as the choices. Magic carpet, definitely.

Doing her best, she filled out the computerized form, pretty sure she was headed for something bland and forgettable in the sandwich department, like bread and butter. When she reached the end, answering “dandelion” for her favorite flower, because she loved the tart greens, she hit the
EN
TER AND CALCULATE
button, and steeled herself for bread and butter.

A picture of a fat, tightly wrapped burrito popped onto the screen.

Danny blinked at it. “Since when is a burrito considered a sandwich?” Since never, as far as she was
concerned. But she paged down to the accompanying description:

“You are spicy chicken and jalapeno hot sauce hidden inside a layer of lettuce and tightly wound within a constricting tortilla. Your outer wrapping has been strengthened by your experiences, making it difficult for you to break free. But break free you must, because you have so much more to offer than you realize. So step outside your comfort zone, do something unexpected, and let yourself take a bite out of life today!”

Which resonated, darn it.

“So . . .” She leaned back in her chair, looking up to find a pair of beady eyes watching her from the branches overhead. “You got any suggestions?”

The eyes disappeared and leaves bobbed back into place.

“You're no help.” But she pushed to her feet, snagged the picnic basket Gran had given her, and strapped it to the back of the ATV.

She didn't need a computer to tell her that it was past time for her to head for Mustang Ridge.

*   *   *

“Danny! You're here!” Beaming, Gran whisked down the kitchen steps and along the gravel path to where Danny had parked the four-wheeler. “We were starting to worry!” She was wearing a ruffled blue-and-white-polka-dot apron over jeans and a yellow shirt, and enfolded Danny in a no-nonsense hug that carried the scents of cinnamon and vanilla.

“I'm sorry,” Danny said automatically.

“Oh, poosh, not your fault. We're programmed to fuss over our guests here. You've got every right to
come and go as you please.” Gran eased back and twinkled up at her. “And besides, Sam mentioned running into you.”

She mostly smothered the wince. “I'm afraid to ask what he said.”

“That he rode up on you and your fire, thinking you were a trespasser, and you set him straight.” Her smile widened. “With a revolver.”

“About the fire—”

“Don't fret. You had everything under control. Including him, from the sound of it!” She patted Danny's cheek, then stepped away and started untying the picnic basket from the back of the ATV. As her fingers worked, she said conversationally, “Good for you. Man like him needs to stay on his toes. Otherwise, he'll hide out in that big old house of his and play with his rocks.”

Danny did a double take. “Is that a euphemism?”

Gran threw her head back and hooted. “No, dear. Although I guess we
are
talking about the family jewels here, aren't we?” Seeing Danny's confusion, she added, “He didn't let on that he's our local-boy-made-good?”

“We didn't exactly exchange life stories.” And he had a workingman's hands. Aware that Gran was waiting for the go-ahead, Danny hesitated, then nodded. It wasn't gossip, so much as getting the lay of the land. He
had
ridden up on her like a stagecoach robber.

“His father, Trooper, was a mechanic, and a good one, but his true love was gem hunting. Sam's, too. They spent all their time and money on it, and never really saw much of anything back until Sam stumbled on a huge pocket of blue diamonds seven, maybe eight years ago. High quality, very rare. The stones sold for a
ton of money, and
poof
!” She snapped her fingers. “Millionaires. Like winning the lottery.”

Danny gaped. “I thought he was . . . I don't know. A local ranch hand or something.” Though he had the eyes of a man who was used to being in charge.

“Well, Windfall used to be the family ranch. Now it's the center of operations for Babcock Gems. Sam built himself a big house up on Wolf Rock Hill. A mansion, really, though he only lives in a few rooms.”

“With his parents?”

Gran's expression clouded. “No. Sam's mom passed when he was a baby—cancer, I believe—and Troop died not long after they broke ground up at Windfall. It was a terrible motorcycle accident.”

“Oh.” Danny's hand lifted to her throat. “That's awful.” Her parents might not understand her now, or why she had needed to get away, but she couldn't imagine the hole it would put in her life if one of them suddenly wasn't there anymore. Both? Forget it. She didn't even want to imagine.

And she really needed to give them a call.

Gran nodded. “It was, though Lord knows folks around here—especially his dad's biker friends—did their best to step in and help. It took a while for Sam to come back out of his shell, but he came around eventually. Business is good these days, and I know he likes having Wyatt nearby. He's out here every week or so for a hot meal and some company, so we keep an eye on him, make sure he's not spending too much time up there alone on the hill.”

“Playing with his rocks,” Danny said with a small smile, as Gran's earlier reference cut through the ache.

“Exactly. Any-hoo . . .” Gran hefted the basket off the ATV. “Let's get you loaded back up. I know Krista will want to see you—she's out in the barn, helping the guests settle their horses before dinner.”

“Actually, I need to make a call first, check my e-mail, that sort of thing. Is there someplace I can go that's out of the way?”

“Of course, dear. You can use Krista's office. Come on. I'll show you.”

Ten minutes later, with her laptop open on the huge wooden desk that dominated Krista's small, crowded office and the window cracked to reassure the squirrelly part of her, Danny listened to the digital ring as the computer did it's
E.T.
thing and phoned home.

The image on the screen was a snapshot of the cabin where she grew up and where her parents still lived, deep in the Maine woods, all rough logs and a huge chimney, with pine trees crowded around it, blocking out the light. It struck her as odd how it seemed suddenly very crowded compared to Wyoming.

The computer gave a triumphant
badda-beep
as the video call connected, and her parents' faces blinked onto the screen. “Danny!” her mom said. “
There
you are.” Rumor had it that she had said the same thing when Danny was born. A true Yankee, Bea Traveler had underreaction down to an art, though Danny could see the relief in her mother's sun-lined face. She could also see from her parents' dark green shirts and ID tags, and the office backdrop, that she had caught them both at work.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. Sorry it's been so long. I got settled in at my campsite, and time got away from me. You know how that goes.”