Harvest at Mustang Ridge (17 page)

Disappointment thumped, but she covered it with a shrug. “Don’t worry about it—it’s no big deal. I’ll tell Jenny that you’re not up for the inquisition, and we’re going to keep this to ourselves.” He had been there when she needed him, after all. She could give him a pass on this one.

He gave her a little shake. “That’s not what I was going to say. I was thinking we should turn those drinks into dinner. Take our time. Enjoy ourselves.”

Her heart bumped in her chest. She didn’t look up at him, didn’t dare let him see that it really was a big deal to her. “Are you sure? You really don’t have to—”

“I’m sure.” He tightened his arms around her. “I’ve already done the meet-the-parents thing. How bad can your sister and best friend be?”

B
etween schedules and guest stuff, it was Saturday night before the triple date actually happened, which meant that the parking lot of the Rope Burn—a cowboy bar with all the trimmings, from the neon beer signs to the hitching rail out front—was jam-packed full. With a whole lot of blue collar spilling out onto the front porch with beers in hand and Aerosmith pumping through the open door, it was just the sort of place Wyatt would be happy kicking back with a brew to do some unwinding. In fact, he and Sam had done just that once or twice.

Tonight wasn’t about unwinding, though—it was about Krista. Meeting her sharp-edged twin wasn’t exactly tops on Wyatt’s wish list, but it was important to her. And for all that her family loved her and vice versa, he had noticed that nobody really did much for her at Mustang Ridge. Sure, her gran did the food-is-love thing, and any of them would pitch in to help with the chores and the guests when Krista asked, but she
always had to ask. Which made him think it might be lonely at the top of Mustang Ridge some days.

At the moment, though, she looked far from lonely. Wearing a ruffled blue skirt and a calico button down shirt with a subtle fringe, with her hair down and a layer of pale pink lipstick that made him want to home in and take a nibble, she grinned at him as he parked Old Blue in the far corner of the dirt lot, between two other equally disreputable farm trucks. “They’ll behave, I promise.”

“Why? Did you threaten to interrupt the cookie pipeline?”

“That only works on Jenny. But I told Foster that if he gave you any grief, I would book back-to-back Singles Weeks next year and then take a vacation and leave him in charge of everything.”

“Evil,” he observed as he came around and got her door for her, handing her down from the cab. “I like it.” Taking her hands, he drew her in for a kiss that she returned with interest. They had spent time outside of work every day that week, riding out together, working on the hot tub, and just enjoying each other. They had even played around in the workshop, though the
Doorknob Kiss
, as they had dubbed the piece they had made together, was the only thing that was even vaguely worthwhile so far. The rest had just been tinkering. And each night, she spent an hour or so in his bed and then slipped home—no fuss, no drama, no expectations beyond what they had already agreed to.
Now, determined to give her a nice night out, he eased the kiss, tucked her fingers into the crook of his arm, and said, “Shall we?”

She patted his hand. “Thanks for this. You’re a good sport.”

“Remember that when it comes time for my quarterly job review.”

“Your performance gets an A-plus from me, cowboy. Especially that thing with the chocolate sauce the other night.” She blinked innocently up at him. “Or wasn’t that the performance you meant?”

“Sassy. I like it.” He dropped a kiss on her nose, and they headed for the Rope Burn.

The place was Saturday-night loud and crowded, with bodies piled two and three deep at the bar, a bearded DJ on the stage transitioning from Aerosmith to George Strait, and a two-step happening on the dance floor.

“Come on!” Krista yelled over the din. “We usually grab a booth in the back.”

Sure enough, in the relative peace and quiet of the far back room—which was still pretty loud—a couple of tables had been pulled together to accommodate a crowd. There was a tough-looking guy on the end with his leg encased from crotch-to-ankle in a hospital brace, and propped up on a chair. Beside him was a pretty, dark-haired woman in a vivid red shirt, with buttery black leather thrown over the back of her chair. Next came a lean, tanned guy with shaggy hair and a capable air that suggested he’d be equally at home doing
intricate surgery on a house cat in a sterile clinic or a water buffalo out in the field. And beside him was Jenny, who might not be glaring daggers at Wyatt like she had at the lottery, but didn’t look all that welcoming, either.

“Cookies,” Krista singsonged, dropping into the chair beside her twin. Then, as Wyatt took the last empty seat, she said to him, “You’ve probably put it all together, but the guy in the soft cast is Foster, and the bombshell beside him is Shelby. That’s Nick, who’s our go-to guy when the horses do what horses do and try to kill themselves in the most expensive ways possible, and you know Jenny.”

“Hey,” her sister protested. “I’m a bombshell, too!”

“Of course you are, but saying it feels weird, because that’s the same as saying it about myself.”

“Not even, blondie.” Jenny tugged Krista’s hair.

“Anyway,” Krista continued, “that’s everyone. And everyone, this is Wyatt. Be good.”

Bull by the horns,
he thought, and said, “Nice to meet you all, but I figure there’s no point in playing games.” Looking at Jenny, he added, “You got something to say, go ahead and say it. I care about Krista, and she cares about you, and I don’t want her caught in the middle of anything if I can help it.”

There was a moment of surprised silence. Then the waitress bopped over, wearing a checkered shortie apron over an even shorter pair of cutoffs, and said brightly, “Welcome to the Rope Burn! What are we drinking tonight? And can I recommend our Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down appetizer special?”

“That depends.” Wyatt nodded to Jenny. “What do you say?”

Her lips twitched. “I came in thinking I might want the He’s Not Worth It nachos, but now I’m not so sure. Give me a Corona Lite and an order of chicken fingers.”

“They don’t have a cutesy name?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Nick said drily, “the I Wouldn’t Push Your Luck nuggets.”

The waitress frowned. “I’m not sure we have those. Do you want me to ask the cook?”

When everybody laughed and Krista squeezed his fingers under the table, Wyatt decided that might’ve been the right way to go, after all. After some “I’ll get that if you split yours” negotiations, he ordered nachos for him and Krista to share, along with a Coke.

“Not much of a drinker?” Jenny asked as the waitress skipped off with a jingle from the pair of roweled spurs she wore on a pair of low-cut boots that probably hadn’t ever made it near a horse for anything more than a calendar shoot.

“Now and then. Figure on keeping my wits about me tonight, at least for starters.” He slung his arm over the back of Krista’s chair, grateful that she was looking more amused than annoyed by the back-and-forth.

Jenny leaned in. “I went to school with Kai Vitelli.”

On a scale of one to what-he-was-expecting, that scored pretty low. He searched his memory banks. “Multimedia artist-slash-ski bum. I did some welding for him last winter.”

“That’s the one. I asked him about you.”

That was the downside of Damien’s PR machine. Enough Web searching and the degrees of separation plummeted. On the upside, he didn’t think there was much Kai could say about him that went beyond the stuff in his official bio. “And?”

“He said you’re one of the most down-to-earth people he’s met in the Denver scene. Honest. Hardworking. Reliable.”

“Coming from him, I’m not sure that’s a compliment. As far as he’s concerned, an artist isn’t the real deal unless he’s on the edge.”

“Maybe not, but when you’re dating my sister, it’s a good thing. Especially given the history.”

“Jen-ny,” Krista said in warning.

“No,” he said. “It’s cool. I’d rather get it out there.” This was something he could give Krista. Something she would never ask for. To Jenny, he said, “You ever do something that you thought about long and hard at the time, and were sure you were making the right call, only to look back later and realize you’d been a hundred percent wrong?” When Krista shifted beside him, he squeezed her shoulder in what he hoped was reassurance that this would be over soon, and the rest of the night—and going forward—would be better for it. “I was a jerk to leave the way I did—no argument there. But that was a long time ago. I’d like to think we’ve all learned some lessons since then.”

“And this is you making up for it?” Jenny wagged a finger between them.

“No. Me filling in for Foster was, in part. Krista and me getting involved has been something else entirely.”

“Which would be what?”

“Our business. I hope you’ll respect our privacy and let me leave it at that.”

She grumbled but dropped it. Wyatt was tempted to look under the table and see if Nick’s foot was atop hers, bearing down. Figuring they might as well go around the table at this point, he asked, “Anyone else?” To Foster, he said, “How about it? I know you and Krista have been friends a long time. You want to take a swing at me?”

The wrangler—who seemed the quiet, thoughtful sort—said, “That depends. How’s the gray mare coming along?”

“She’s good. Smart as a whip and taking to the tricks like nobody’s business. She keeps going this way and we’ll have a chance at the finals.”

Foster nodded. “Just don’t push things too far, too fast. You do that, and the two of us are going to have a problem.”

And suddenly they weren’t talking about the horse anymore. “I don’t intend to push,” Wyatt said. “Not like that.”

“We’re good, then.”

The waitress appeared, her bounce diminished by a loaded drink tray. A server trailed behind her bearing appetizers. “So,” she said brightly, “who ordered the Let’s Move On Already fries?”

*

By eight that night, Krista was wrapped in a warm glow that came partly from a couple of beers with dinner, but mostly from good food, good friends, and a lively conversation that bounced from horses to advertising to TV and back again. By nine she was giddy, watching Wyatt and Jenny go head-to-head in a game of nine-ball that she suspected he was keeping closer than it needed to be. And by ten, after the others had called it a night and Wyatt claimed a slow dance before they left, she was floating.

The dance floor was still full, but it was no hardship to snuggle up against him, with her head on his shoulder and his arms forming a protective barrier between her and the rest of the jostling dancers. His scent seeped into her pores, his heat into her bones, and her belly tugged with the knowledge that they’d be heading back to his place soon.

“Thank you,” she said against his throat.

His arms tightened around her, pressing her close in a full-body hug, and his wonderful voice rumbled in her ear. “I don’t mind dancing, especially with a beautiful woman in a long, swishy skirt.”

“Not for the dance. For dealing with Jenny the way you did. It made tonight a thousand times better than it would have been if we were all trying to avoid the elephant in the middle of the room.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a mechanical bull.” But he kissed her temple. “They’re good people, and they love you. A guy’s got to respect that.”

Not all of them would, though, she knew. And very
few of them would have handled the situation the way he had. “Still. Thanks. You ready to get out of here?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” But he kept holding her close, swaying to the music. After a few beats, he said, “Will you stay the night?”

She thought about her guests and her family, and said. “Why not? I don’t think I’ve ever officially done the walk of shame before.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” he said solemnly.

Yes, there was. For the first time, she was in a relationship for the pure fun of it—not because she was thinking about a ring and a baby, or because she was trying to prove a point, but because she was exactly where she wanted to be. And how awesome was that? Grinning up at him, she patted his cheek. “Come on, cowboy. Let’s take this dance horizontal.” She didn’t have to ask him twice.

R
ustlers Week galloped past with a Singles Week on its heels, and suddenly they were down to three weeks before the finale, when the contestants were invited to show off their horses in the annual Summer’s End Parade. First thing that morning, Wyatt loaded Jupiter and Lucky into the trailer, and he and Krista hit the road for Three Ridges.

She looked pretty as a sunrise in green chaps that were studded in silver and edged with an iridescent fringe, paired with a big, flashy belt buckle she had won at a long-ago rodeo, and a gleaming white shirt that was fringed in green and silver, and had the ranch’s name and logo splashed on the back. With her hair in braids and her snow white hat dressed up with a tooled leather band and a peacock feather, she looked bright and vivid, and like she was ready to take on the world. She grinned over at him as they drove. “The others are going to eat their hearts out when they get a load of Jupiter.”

“Not to mention that she’s going to be some darned
good advertising. I saw the saddle pads you had made up for today.” White edged with emerald green and embroidered with the ranch’s name and logo. “You’d better hope she behaves.”

“We’ll bail if things get too hairy.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.” He was mostly teasing, though. When he first heard about the parade, he just shook his head at the thought of a bunch of half-broke mustangs sandwiched between a marching band and some fire trucks, and quickly losing their furry little minds. He had to admit, though, that it could be a good way to prep Jupiter for the chaos of the Harvest Fair. And putting her in close quarters with the other horses would be a good test of the desensitizing he and Krista had been doing over the past couple of weeks, working the mare through narrower and narrower chutes with gates at odd angles, trying to get her to trust that the rider would always find a way out.

Back in his regular, everyday life, he probably would’ve found it ironic, given that he was a pro when it came to not letting himself get boxed in. But Mustang Ridge had a different feel to it, a different flow, making all that seem less important. Each week was different, and there were so many moving parts to the guest ranch business that every day brought surprises, good and bad. Like the Rustlers Week guests who turned out to be tech geeks for a drone-camera startup company, and had wound up teaming up with Jenny and Shelby to get aerial footage of the overnight roundup. Or when two of the singles turned out to have been best friends
back in grade school before one moved away, and rediscovered the old spark—times a hundred—twenty years later.

Wyatt sure wasn’t bored with the work. And he wasn’t looking to get away from Krista anytime soon, either. Their lives at the ranch fit together so naturally that the weeks had stopped counting down in his brain and he’d found himself thinking it wouldn’t be half bad to still be living in the bunkhouse when the snow started to fall. Until he really buckled down to the pioneer piece, which was still doing a slow boil in his brain, he could work anywhere he pleased. And for the moment, he was plenty happy at Mustang Ridge.

“Here we are,” she said, turning in to the strip-mall parking lot that was being used as a staging area for the mustangs. “Let the chaos begin.”

The trailers were parked in parallel rows with enough space between them that the horses could be tied. Right now, though, most of the fresh, over-stimulated mustangs were being led in wide circles as they danced on their toes like racehorses headed for the post parade.

“Hope you brought your crash helmet,” he said as Krista killed the engine.

To his surprise, though, Jupiter and Lucky came off the trailer without too much fuss and stood for their riders to mount up as the speakers atop the Mayor Mobile—a half-ton silver pickup draped with banners advertising the Harvest Fair Mustang Makeover—gave a
crackle-whine
that sent a couple of the teams scattering.
Standing in the back of the pickup, wearing a suit that already looked too hot, the mayor lifted her microphone, beamed around at the shifting sea of horses, and said, “Welcome to the Summer’s End Parade! With eight scratches and several teams electing to keep their horses in their trailers, we have twenty-two competitors marching today, and I’d like to personally thank you for putting yourselves out here to support the competition and our efforts to draw attention to Three Ridges!” She went on to describe the parade route, safety precautions, and bail-out options for the horses and riders.

“What do you think, Lucky?” Krista stroked the gelding’s arched neck. “Do you want to babysit Jupiter here so we can march in the scary parade?”

The big black horse didn’t answer, but he sure looked businesslike.

“Let’s do it,” Wyatt said.

She tapped her toe against his. “You got your seat belt on?”

He settled deep in the saddle and pulled the brim of his hat down, like a bull rider ready to give the gate crew the nod. “Good to go.”

The Mayor Mobile moved out with the mayor standing in the back, followed by the jittering, mincing mob of mustangs and their escorts. Seeing most of the others hanging toward the rear of the pack, Wyatt and Krista moved up to the front by unspoken consent.

Glancing back, she said, “Do you think the others know there are baton twirlers coming in behind us?”

“They will soon,” he predicted.

But darned if the horses didn’t handle the crazy just fine, moving out of the staging area and onto Main Street. There, locals and tourists of all ages cheered from behind ropes and sawhorses, while Mayor Teapot did her rah-rah thing, pimping the Harvest Fair and the Mustang Makeover on the loudspeaker, and tossing peppermints into the crowd.

Beaming, Krista waved at a pair of little boys in the front row. Wearing straw souvenir hats and clutching fat wands of blue cotton candy, they stared up at her, round eyed with awe as the horses passed.

Wyatt grinned at them and tipped his hat.
I know how you feel, guys.
He found himself staring at her like that now and then, and getting that caught-staring-at-the-sun head spin. In his case, though, there was also the chest-puffing knowledge that when the sun rose in the morning, she’d be in his bed and greeting him with a kiss.

“There they are!” Krista waved up ahead. “Hey, gang! Woo-hoo, go Team Mustang Ridge!”

Her parents and Gran leaned over a sawhorse, cheering. Beside them, Nick stood with Jenny, who was panning the scene with an expensive-looking camera, and Shelby had her arms around a dark-haired, happy-looking kid who had to be her daughter, Lizzie.

Krista gestured to Jupiter with an expression of
get a load of our girl!
and her family whooped. Lucky puffed up his neck and pranced, not being naughty so much as reacting to his rider’s enthusiasm. Still, Wyatt could tell that Krista was bothered by her grandfather’s
absence—early that morning, Big Skye had muttered something about finishing the new fencing up in the high pasture, and rode off with Deke and a couple of the other guys behind him, like the work couldn’t have waited the few hours that the rest of them had carved out to make the parade. Not for the first time, Wyatt was tempted to give the old man a piece of his mind. Couldn’t he see how much the distance between them bothered Krista? Didn’t he care?

Not your family, better to leave it alone,
he told himself. They had warmed to him somewhat, but there were limits.

“Yo, Wyatt!” The shout pulled his attention to the other side of the street, and there was Sam, with his arm around a gorgeous blond giggler and a footlong in his free hand.

Krista grinned. “Sam has changed, hasn’t he? I remember when we first met, he could barely look me in the eye, never mind carry on a conversation.”

“He still lives on strawberry Pop-Tarts, though.”

“You’re kidding.”

Wyatt grinned. “Would I kid about Pop-Tarts?”

They waved to the onlookers—many of whom knew Krista on sight and vice versa—and traded quips as the parade carried on, through several traffic lights and past a sea of faces, with the marching band still going strong behind them, though the mayor’s voice was starting to sound ragged. Then, finally, they came around a corner and the horses’ heads came up, and Lucky let out a little “whee-ho-ho-ho” of greeting.

Krista patted his sleek neck. “Can you smell the trailers, buddy?”

As promised, the Lemps had moved all of the rigs to the parade’s end point. To Wyatt’s relief, the horses loaded without issue, lured by the stuffed-full hay bags and relative quiet of the trailer.

He was double-checking the door latches when he heard the sound of high heels
tap-tap-tapping
behind him, followed by a woman’s voice. “Mr. Webb? Could we have a word?”

He turned to find the mayor standing there, along with a younger version with honey-colored hair and a friendly smile. Where Mayor Tepitt looked overheated, wilted and in serious need of a cold drink, her counterpart looked fresh and cool as she held out a hand. “Mr. Webb, I’m Constance Dewitt. It’s a real pleasure to find a man of your stature here in Three Ridges.”

As Krista joined them, wearing a look of
what’s going on?
he wiped his hand on his jeans, and shook. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. But after today I wouldn’t say I’m much out of the ordinary around here when it comes to trainers.”

“But not sculptors.” The woman turned to Krista. “Ms. Skye, I’m a fan of yours as well. You’ve done some really impressive things at Mustang Ridge, both in terms of infrastructure and PR. Not to mention your excellent use of local businesses to implement your guest services.”

Krista shook her hand, putting on a polite, dimple-free smile. “Thank you, Miz . . .”

“Constance Dewitt. But Connie is fine. I’m heading up the Harvest Fair Committee, which is why I wanted to talk to your Mr. Webb here.” To Wyatt, she said, “We met once, during a show at the GearHorse Gallery.”

“Oh?” He had long ago learned not to pretend to remember people—it just led to confusion. He had also learned to wait for the pitch in situations like this. There always was one.

“Yes. It was very impressive, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. The critics either loved it or hated it, both of which are a win in my book, and you sold out within, what, three hours?”

“Nice to hear you enjoyed it. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping . . .” The coolness cracked a little, letting hope shine through as she said in a rush, “Would-youbewillingtojudgethechainsawcarvings?”

That so wasn’t what he had been braced for—he’d been expecting her to ask for a demonstration or a big-ass sculpture for city hall—that he didn’t get all of it. “Excuse me?”

She took a breath, got the cool back in place, and said, “My apologies. It was such a shock to recognize you riding in the parade, that . . . Well, anyway. I’d like to invite you, on behalf of the Harvest Fair Committee, to judge our chainsaw sculpture competition.”

He relaxed. “Oh, sure. Yeah. I can do that.” Couldn’t think of a reason not to, and after hearing the mayor harangue Sam over donations, he’d rather just say yes and be done with it.

“You . . . Really?” Connie looked like he’d just
handed her the reins of a top-notch cutting horse on the eve of the championships.

“As long as it doesn’t conflict with the Mustang Makeover.”

She nodded and whipped out her phone and made a couple of notes. “Where can I reach you to firm things up?”

“It’s a done deal on my end. Just leave a message at Mustang Ridge telling me the day, the time, and where to meet you.”

“Can I get a bio? Maybe some photos? And we’d love to show one of your pieces. . . .”

Yeah. That was more along the lines of what he’d been expecting. But while a few weeks ago he would have ducked having his name connected to Three Ridges, now he thought,
Why not?
“Call Damien at GearHorse. He’ll hook you up and help get the word out. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to get our horses home in time to welcome the new crop of guests.”

He got another round of
I love your work
from Connie, which he fielded as genuinely as he could, and then he and Krista beat it for the truck and hit the road.

Surveying the traffic, Wyatt grumbled, “Thanks to them, we’re going to get to sit with five thousand of our nearest and dearest. I should’ve pretended I didn’t hear the mayor.”

“I don’t think that would have gotten you out of it,” Krista said tartly. “That Connie seemed pretty intent on nabbing you.”

Her tone had him shooting a look across the cab. “Are you mad about that?”

“No. Why would I be?”

“I don’t know, but I’m getting a vibe.” And it wasn’t like her to play games. “I was just being friendly, you know.”

“That’s your first shot? That I’m
jealous
? After spending the last few weeks watching you fend off dudettes and getting to be all smug because I’m the one who gets to wake up next to you? I think not.” But at least she looked amused. And after a moment, she sighed and shook her head. “No, it’s stupid, and it’s not you.”

“I’m not stupid?”

“Well, you’re not, but that’s not what I meant.
I’m
being stupid, my reaction back there was stupid. It’s just . . . I’ve gotten used to having you to myself. Sounds dumb, because at the ranch there’s always someone around, always people coming and going. But there’s a weird sort of privacy, too.”

“No, I get what you mean,” he said, relaxing a degree. “We’ve got our own thing going on there, and then the real world intrudes.”

“Mustang Ridge
is
my real world,” she said with a bit of an edge. “But I think I let myself forget that it’s not yours. Seeing you get all professional and schedule-y with Connie, it hit me all over again that this”—she pointed between the two of them—“is an interlude. And the clock is ticking.”

“Krissy,” he began.

“I’m not trying to start a deep and meaningful
discussion, promise. In fact, I’d rather just leave it like this. I’m not mad or jealous, I swear. It just hit me that you’re more than my fill-in wrangler as far as the rest of the world is concerned, and that’s my problem, not yours.”