Harvest at Mustang Ridge (14 page)

Wyatt sank into the saddle. “Go on,” he told the tensed-up mare. “They won’t get you.”

Jupiter hesitated, then gathered herself and plunged forward. The trees whipped past, dragging at his clothes, and then they were through, squirting out like a seed from a squeezed lemon.

Krista raised a cheer. “Brave mare!”

“She sure is.” He fished in a pocket for the clicker and some treats, and looked around the clearing as the mare munched. The pretty little grotto was edged with greenery and pink flowers, and echoed with the sound of a nearby waterfall. Knowing there was no point in bringing up another, long-ago waterfall, he said only, “Do you bring guests out here?”

“It’s more of a family deal.” She looped Lucky’s reins over a branch. “Will Jupiter be okay standing tied for a few minutes?”

“Should be. We’ve practiced it.” Deciding to go with the flow rather than analyzing either of their motives—hers for bringing him to a private spot, his for chasing
a woman who didn’t seem to be fully interested in being caught—he tied the mare and whistled for Klepto. When the mutt zipped into the clearing, he pointed to a safe spot. “Keep an eye on these two, will you?”

The dog flopped down and glared at the horses.

“He’s a funny one, isn’t he?” Krista said with a small smile. “Not exactly your typical cattle dog.”

“He was a city stray.”

Interest sparked in her expression. “I bet there’s a story.”

“There’s always a story when it comes to Klepto,” he said drily. “This is a good one, though. It was the night of my first show for Damien. There was lots of money, lots of pretense, and after an hour or so it really started getting to me. I stepped out back for a break, and this ugly gray dog came out from underneath a Dumpster and mugged me for my cocktail wieners.” The woman he’d been seeing, Desiree, had been horrified by the filthy, smelly creature, but he’d felt more than a little kinship. “When I said I was keeping him, Damien took pictures and splashed the story, and the show sold out on the second night.” He ruffled the dog’s upturned head. “I wouldn’t say he made my career, but he sure kick-started my popularity. Now it’s up to me not to torpedo things by flaming out on the pioneer piece.”

“I think I might be able to help with that.” She gestured him to where a trail led into the scrub. “Come on, but watch your step.”

Wyatt followed her along a corridor of rocks and trees while the waterfall noise went from a whisper to
a roar and the air turned damp. Up ahead, two stone slabs leaned against each other, forming a tunnel. He followed Krista through . . . and found himself in a slice of the backcountry at its very best. On one side of the wide ledge, char marks on the cliff face attested to decades—maybe centuries—of campfires. On the other, a plume of green-and-white water plunged past and down to crash in a boiling pool that carved deep into the stone and fed a winding river. The valley beyond was pure Wyoming, all greens and browns, and bounded by high canyon walls.

Krista didn’t stop, though. She kept going along the ledge, shot him a sassy smile, and ducked right through the cannonading waterfall. There was a splash and then she was gone. But a moment later, her voice carried back over the sound of the rushing water. “Come on. There’s room for both of us.”

Adrenaline zinged through him as he followed. Had he told her she needed more adventure in her life? Suddenly, it seemed like she had plenty without him. The rocks were slippery, the mountain-cold water a shock when he plunged through the falls. Beyond, he found himself in a cavern that was lit with an eerie dance of dark and light. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, the hairs on his nape prickled at the sight confronting him. “Whoa.”

*

Krista hadn’t been sure about bringing him here, but as she watched him cross to the back wall of the cave and trail his fingers reverently over the words and
drawings that had been carved there, she was glad she had. His face was intent in the flickering half-light, his lips parting as he scanned the intricate carvings. Names, dates, and pictures—the marks of dozens of people who had visited the cave, maybe hundreds over the years.

“I’ll be danged,” he rasped. “You’ve got your own little Independence Rock here.” He drew his fingers across a foot-tall inscription:
WILLIAM T
1897
.

He got it, she realized. Of course he did. “This was the Skyes’ version of it, anyway—not so much landmark for the wagon trains, like Independence Rock down south, but more a way for the cowboys of Mustang Ridge to leave something of themselves behind.” She moved up to stand next to him, eyes tracing the familiar names carved in everything from bold block letters to illegible scratches, beside dates ranging from the mid–eighteen hundreds through nineteen-sixty, with a few modern ones carved at the edges. There were pictures, too. Female silhouettes beckoned from rock formations that suggested their curves, and stick mustangs galloped among anatomically improbable cartoon bulls and hump-shouldered bison, the lines working together like city graffiti to create a whole that exceeded its parts. She reached up and trailed her fingers across the letters
ROP
, which sat alone near the top.

“Roper?” he guessed.

“Maybe. Or Robert, and he didn’t get to finish the B. When I was a little girl, I pictured him coming up here every time he brought the herd through, and chiseling
away a little bit each visit. Whenever Big Skye brought me and Jenny up here, I would race see if he had gotten more of it done. Eventually, I figured out that he lived a long time ago and never got to finish.” She shrugged. “I like to think he met a girl, started a family, and moved on from cowboying.”

“Nothing wrong with giving his story a happy ending.”

Trying not to let his approval warm her more than it should, she crouched down and pointed. “This is one of my favorites. Jeremiah Skye. He was Jonah and Mary’s son, the first generation born at Mustang Ridge. And then there’s this.” She brushed her fingertips over a collection of thinner scratched lines, so light that they were nearly invisible. Two names together inside a heart.
Jenny and Krista.

A corner of his mouth kicked up. “How old were you?”

“Eight. Big Skye gave us matching pocket knives for our birthday, and the first thing we wanted to do was come up here.” She touched a nick in the stone. “I broke mine, and we finished it using hers.” She straightened away and stuck her hands in her pockets. “Anyway, some of it is pioneer era. I thought it might give you some ideas.” And maybe she had wanted to bring him here to prove she could.

“There’s a whole lot of history here.” He spread his palm on the wall, covering a name, a date. “A whole lot of continuity.”

“I feel centered here,” she said, “like I can feel the
ground more clearly beneath my boots. The carvings remind me that Mustang Ridge has been through its ups and downs—floods, fires, sickness, robbery, you name it. Yet we’re still hanging on.”

Studying the carvings, he said, “I used to wish for a big family. Someone to take the pressure off me and Ma.”

It wasn’t what she had expected him to say, so it was a moment before she replied. “You turned out okay. Ashley, too, right?” She wasn’t sure she expected an answer—despite what he’d told her about his father, he’d never been much for talking about his family.

He surprised her by shaking his head. “She’s got no degree, no plan, and a deadbeat boyfriend who keeps circling back around to her when he doesn’t have a better option.” He made a disgusted noise. “She’s just like Ma. Guess one of us had to be.”

She told herself to leave it alone but couldn’t ignore the tense set of his shoulders, the echo of grief in his voice. Resisting the urge to touch him, she said, “You’re not your father, Wyatt.”

He shot her a look. “Near enough. When I stay long enough with anything—a job, a place, a person—the switch eventually goes off in my brain. Good old Sam’s eight-week buzzer. Maybe it’s not eight weeks anymore, but eventually the walls start closing in and it’s time to go.”

And suddenly things got far more serious than she thought either of them had intended.
Don’t,
she told herself.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
But it did. “Have you
ever tried to fight through it and stick with something long term?”

He hesitated. “Twice. No, three times.” A glance over at her. “Once with you, and then a few years ago with a woman named Desiree. She was the one who ended it, but only because I refused to.”

“And the third time?” Was that her voice? It sounded so much steadier than she felt.

“Is now, with the sculptures.” He strode to the front of the shallow cave, where the rock ledge dropped off forty feet and the waterfall sheeted past. “I’m not going to give up on it. I can’t.”

Leave it alone
, she told herself.
Leave
him
alone
. She had brought him out here hoping that the setting would help. That didn’t mean
she
had to help. He wasn’t her problem, wasn’t even really her friend—she should go back through the waterfall and give him some time with the inscriptions. But the same part of her that was never able to turn down a creaky old cow or a one-eyed cat couldn’t walk away from him now. “Tell me.”

The waterfall seemed suddenly loud in the silence that followed. It went on so long that she thought she had her answer, told herself to just go.

But then, voice low, Wyatt said, “When I’m working on a piece, it’s like I’m inside it. The bull is bucking to beat the cowboy on its back, to prove that he’s bigger and faster, and that no measly human is going to tame him. The rearing stallion is fighting off a rival, and the cowboy sitting by the fire is so lonely that he pretends
his horse is a saloon girl named Matilda and talks to her for hours, yet when he goes into town he usually leaves before his money runs out, because he can’t breathe around so many people.”

Her heart gave a long, slow roll, both because he was talking to her—really talking to her—and because of what he was revealing. “The sculptures connect you to something bigger than yourself.” She got that, even if she didn’t have an artistic bone in her body.

He nodded. “When I built the first metal horse, I didn’t do it to help Ma or Ash, to pass a class or make a client happy. I didn’t even do it thinking I would make money. I did, though. Enough that I didn’t have to worry about a boss or a schedule, and so I could keep moving, keep things fresh. Except that doesn’t seem to be enough anymore.” Expression flattening, he said, “Which just goes to show that I’m so much my old man’s son that I can’t even make myself stick when I want to. With you. With Desiree. And now with the sculptures.”

“You haven’t quit on the sculptures,” she pointed out.

“I don’t plan on it.” He turned to her, lifted a hand to brush his knuckles across her cheek. Voice softening to regret, he said, “Don’t take that to mean I’ve got a serious relationship in me, though. I spent a chunk of my growing-up years raising Ashley and worrying about Ma. The last thing I want to do is tie myself down like that again.”

There it was, Krista realized as the waterfall sounded
suddenly loud in her ears. He wasn’t just following an old pattern or his father’s footsteps, wasn’t just a short-term guy because that was all he knew how to be. He had already raised a child, supported a family, been the man of the house—and he didn’t want to press
REWIND
. And she couldn’t blame him.

She hadn’t meant to hold out hope, but her stomach still sank as it hit her once and for all: She had to either take him as he was and enjoy him for the next six weeks, or decide that it wasn’t enough.

*

On the long ride back to the homestead, Wyatt had to work not to fill the silence.

Sure, she had said they were good as they left the waterfall. She had even suggested he come back another time and try sketching beside the fire pit, sitting where generations of vaqueros had watched over their herds from the high ground. But her voice had been different, and now she rode ahead of him on her big, black gelding with her spine ramrod-straight and her eyes fixed on the marker stones that said they were nearly back to the ranch.

Last night at the bonfire, he had thought there might be a chance for the two of them—to have some good times, to see where the sparks would take them. Now, though, that seemed about as likely as Jupiter rising up on her hind legs and doing a tap dance. It wasn’t the first time that brutal honesty had cost him a chance with a woman, but he had never before been so tempted to keep talking and see if they couldn’t meet on his side
of the fence. He didn’t do that, though, just like he didn’t ride up beside her and try for a kiss that would remind her that there was something special between them that didn’t come along every day.
Let her alone. She’s made her decision.
She hadn’t said as much, but he could tell.

When they reached the marker stones, she reined in and waited for him to join her at the edge of the ridge, where the land fell away to the homestead valley and they could see little people-dots gathered around the big white shuttle bus.

“Looks like we’re a few minutes late,” he said. “I can put Lucky away for you, if you’d like to get right down to the guests.”

“Thanks. There’s something I want to ask you before we head in, though.”

He braced himself. “What’s that?”

“Do you have any plans for tomorrow night? Because if not, you can pick me up at eight.”

T
he shock on Wyatt’s face brought laughter bubbling up even as the heat in his expression kicked an answering buzz through Krista’s system.

“You mean it?” His voice was a rasp, his eyes suddenly avid.

“I mean it. You were right when you said I sell adventures. Well, you know what? I’ve decided it’s time for me to have one of my own.” There was such joy in saying it. When was the last time she had let herself be reckless and wild, let herself throw out her usual rules to take something she really wanted? Had she ever? “Oh, and heads up? If you ask me whether I’m sure or try to talk me out of it, I’ll kick you in the shin.”

“Trust me,” he said with a wicked curve to his lips. “That wasn’t my first impulse.”

Her pulse kicked into overdrive. “Oh? What was?”

“This.” He leaned across, from horse to horse, and kissed her.

And, oh, his kiss.

She had forgotten what it was like to have a man look at her like he was starving, how it felt to be wrapped in his arms like she was his anchor in the middle of a stampede. His tongue slid along hers, and she felt his leashed strength as she drew a hand up his muscled arm, conscious of the saddle beneath her and the restless shifts of the horses. Heat seared through her; desire overruled everything, overwhelming her with the need to knock his hat to the ground, bury her fingers in his hair, and hold on tight.

Instead she eased away, knowing they were in plain sight and she had guests waiting. And knowing there would be plenty of time for them to enjoy each other, starting tomorrow night, after she got the new guests settled in. “So,” she said in a voice that came out huskier than she had intended. “How about it, cowboy? You up for a moonlight ride?”

“Not tomorrow.” His eyes were dark, his pupils dilated.

“Oh? You’d rather stay in?” The idea shouldn’t have sounded like genius.

“That’s good, too,” he agreed in a voice that sent shivers through her. “But tomorrow we’re going out.” He straightened, gathered his reins, and settled his hat, looking very much like a cowboy—
her
cowboy, at least for now. “This time we’re going to do it right,” he said firmly. “And that means a real first date. Drinks, dinner, fancy napkins, the works. Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up and we’ll take it from there.”

*

Early the next morning, Wyatt gave Jupiter a good rubdown and put her in the run-in stall next to Lucky. “Behave,” he said as he rolled the door shut. “If you two get along with a fence between you, the next step is a few acres of grass.”

Leaving the horses to work it out—though keeping an ear out for noises that would suggest they were doing more than making nasty faces at each other—he headed for the guests’ tack room. With Krista doing an extended version of Riding 101 after breakfast—this was First Timers Week, geared toward rank greenhorns with zero riding experience—he had a little time before the guests made it to the barn for the hands-on stuff. He shifted a couple of brush boxes, made sure there was a curry per, and swapped out the rub rags for fresh. Then he grabbed the half-full laundry hamper, figuring to get a jump on the wash.

He stopped. He stared. He cursed.

Then he raised his voice, “Klepto! Get your furry butt in here!”

Behind the hamper, piled up against the wall, was a careful arrangement of two toilet paper tubes, several dog biscuits, a copy of last week’s schedule, the deer-hide roping glove he’d been looking for since Wednesday, and a high-end contractor’s level.

He had thought he was paying close enough attention. Clearly not.

Grateful that most of it was trash—at least in human terms—he cleaned out the stash, tossing the garbage, and reuniting the glove with its mate. Which left the
level, and he had a pretty good idea who it belonged to. “Think you’re so smart, don’t you?” he said, seeing one hairy eye peering around the edge of the door frame. “Well, nuts to you. I was headed there anyway.”

He hadn’t asked a father’s permission to date a girl since ever, and didn’t intend to start now. But he also didn’t want to meet up with the business end of a shotgun when he went to pick her up, so he figured it was time for a little one-on-one with Ed Skye.

Complicated? Yeah, but she was worth it.

With Klepto taking a time-out in an empty stall, he headed out past the back barn, to the long, narrow workshop located about halfway up the ridge. As he drew near, he heard the rumble-thud of classic rock and the buzz of a circular saw.

Ed Skye was supposedly the peacemaker of the family, a quiet-spoken man who had run cattle for most of his life because he’d been born a Skye but was a handyman, tinkerer, and inventor at heart. Wyatt thought they might have enjoyed each other if they had met as strangers.
Too bad.

When the saw noise paused, he banged on the door and stuck his head through. “Morning. Can I interrupt?”

Wearing a plaid button-down with the sleeves cut off to show biceps that said
tough old guy
, Ed had a dusting of sawdust on his face and goggles covering his eyes, giving Wyatt no clue what he thought of the drop-in.

“Webb.” The goggles got pushed up, revealing eyes
the same blue as Krista’s, but hard and uncompromising.

Wyatt held out the level. “I’m guessing my dog stole this from you.” When the other man didn’t make a move, he set it on a nearby workbench. “Sorry about that. I’ll keep better tabs on him.”

“That it?”

“You tell me.”

Ed pulled his goggles all the way off and ran a hand through his hair, knocking loose some of the sawdust. Expression taking on an edge of frustration, he said, “Krista told us to leave that part of things alone, and when it comes to the business, she’s the boss.”

“This isn’t business. It’s between you and me.”

“The way I see it, we don’t have anything to say to each other.”

“Then I’ll say my piece and get out of your space.” Wyatt waited for a nod, didn’t get one, so he kept going. “I’ve got a little sister, Ashley. She’s not much older now than Krista was when she and I were together. Growing up, I was more of a father to Ashley than our old man ever was, and these days she’s hooked up with a boyfriend who doesn’t treat her right. So I get wanting to pound on the guy who hurts one of your own. In fact, if you want to take a swing at me, I’ll stand for it.”

The other man seemed to consider that for a moment, but then shook his head. “I don’t need to hit you. I just need your word that you’ll stay away from her.”

“I’m taking her out tonight.”

The lake blue of those eyes darkened to storms. “Then we’ve got a problem.”

“Things are different this time.”

“How so?”

“With all due respect, that’s between Krista and me, and we’re adults now, with a right to our privacy.” Even in a place like this. “But if I hurt her again, you won’t need to take a swing at me. I’ll do it myself.”

Ed studied him, giving him a long up-and-down. Then he reached for the radio, and cranked up the tunes. Over the racket, he said, “Close the door on your way out. And keep your mutt away from my shop.”

*

“Going out?” The question, coming from the main room in her father’s voice that evening, stopped Krista in her tracks.

She closed her eyes, tempted to mutter something she’d probably regret, and then felt guilty for the impulse. But ever since she had asked her mom to cover the late shift with the guests—and explained why—she had been dealing with a whole lot of “I hope you know what you’re doing” from her family. Gran had plied her with chocolate chip cookies and offered to brainstorm dating-site user names, starting with ReverseCowgirl and going downhill from there; her mom had hit her with “this wasn’t what I meant when I told you to get him out of your system”; and Jenny had sent her a couple of asterisk-laden texts and left a voice mail. Now it seemed it was her dad’s turn. She had figured him for Switzerland on this one, but apparently not.

Pasting on a bright smile, she turned back. “Yep, I’m out of here for a few hours.”
Which you already knew.
“Mom is on call tonight for guest requests.”

Her father rose from the overstuffed recliner and crossed to her, wearing an expression that made her want to tug up the scooped neckline of the not-quite-slinky blue shirt she had paired with a long denim skirt and her going-dancing boots. He searched her face. “You’re sure about this.” It wasn’t exactly a question.

“It’s just a date.” Actually, she was hoping it would turn into more than that, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.

“With the only guy I’ve ever seen you cry over.”

“That was a long time ago.” She went up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I love you for worrying, but I’ll be fine.”

“You always say that.”

“That’s because I know how to handle myself. You guys taught me well.” She patted the place she had just kissed, feeling the roughness of a two-day stubble and seeing more salt than pepper. “I’ll see you later. And I promise that no matter what happens, I won’t cry this time.” That was what ground rules and grown-up conversations were for.

He grumbled something as she headed for the door, but didn’t call her back. And a moment later, she was out on the porch with the door shut between them, breathing a sigh of relief. She loved her family, wouldn’t change them for the world, but every now and then it got old doing things by committee.

Wyatt pulled in as she reached the parking lot, stepping down from his pickup to come around and get the passenger door for her. He was wearing dark jeans and a crisp new snap-studded shirt in a forest green that emphasized the russet streaks in his dark hair. His boots gleamed, his belt rode low on his hips, and for a second he looked so much like his younger self that her footsteps faltered and something inside her said,
This isn’t really happening. It’s all some crazy dream.

Two weeks ago, she had never expected to see him again. Now they were going on a date.

He gave her an up-and-down as she crossed to him. “Hey, boss lady. Looking good.”

She resisted the urge to fuss with her shirt, her hair, the strap of the little purse she rarely used. “Thanks. You, too.” Which was a major understatement. Up close, she could smell the freshness of his shower and see the comb marks in his hair. Which shouldn’t have made her feel so unutterably tender toward him, yet churned up at the same time. “You ready to hit the road?”

“In a minute. I’ve got one thing I need to do first.”

“What’s that?”

“This,” he said. And, in front of any guests who might be watching from their windows, and her father, who was definitely watching from the house, Wyatt leaned in and kissed her for all the world to see.