Summer at Mustang Ridge (16 page)

While she gaped, Foster swung down from Brutus and rummaged in one of his saddlebags. “Hop down. I’ve got halters and hobbles, and Loco will make sure Blockhead here doesn’t get it in his head to leave us high and dry.”

“We could always hike back.”

His teeth flashed. “Ty would never let me live it down.”

She looked at him for a moment, realizing that he was smiling more than she’d seen from him before, and looked much more relaxed. Was it being out in the backcountry or being with her? Probably both, she decided, and grinned. “What else have you got in those bags? Bathing suits, maybe? I have it on good authority that skinny-dipping is reserved for the second date.”

His chuckle sounded rusty. “How about some Twizzlers?”

She put a hand to her heart. “Don’t tease me.”

“No tease. Twizzlers.”

“Gimme.”

“Nope. See to your horse first.”

She watched what he did with the halter and hobbles, and tried to copy his expert motions. Within a few minutes the horses were contentedly grazing and Foster had the saddlebags slung over his shoulder. “This way. There’s a very cool picnic spot up on the ledge.”

He billy-goated his way straight up the rocks beside the waterfall, leaving her standing at the bottom, staring up at him. “You’re kidding. That’s not a path.”

“Sorry. I’ll come back and show you.”

“No, never mind. I can handle it.” Determined not to get herself busted back to city-girl status, she dug her pointy-toed boots into the space between a couple of rocks and started to climb.

It was only maybe ten or twelve feet up the low cliff he’d scaled, but the slippery stone surface made it feel as if she’d gone twice that far before her fingers found the edge of a gritty ledge.

A strong hand closed on her wrist, warm and sure despite the moisture. “I’ve got you.”

She clambered up with his help, very aware of his hands gripping hers and then his arm around her waist as she teetered momentarily on the edge, about to do a Humpty Dumpty, but not really scared because he was there for her to lean on. Their bodies brushed and bumped as she righted herself, the friction turning the night suddenly warmer than it had been moments before.

Kisses were all well and good, but her body wanted more. And she wasn’t sure whether it was getting ahead of her or not.

“There’s a dry spot over here.” He led her to where a big boulder offered some shelter from the spray and formed a lawn-chair-like depression. He sat down and leaned back, patting the smooth stone beside him. “Come on. It’s more comfortable than it looks.”

He was right, she found as she settled in beside him, leaning back against the smooth stone backrest, with their arms brushing and their legs just shy of touching where they stretched out along the ledge. They were about a third of the way up the falls, near where the water split. That spray, and the mist rising from the churning pool below, made the air dance silver in the moonlight. The trees made the little grotto seem very private, and the distant mountains made the world around them seem limitless. The sound and shimmering rush of water were hypnotic, the rocks still held some warmth from the day, and she found herself settling into the rocky niche, relaxed yet still very aware of him.

“So, do you come here often?” she asked, then laughed. “Oops. Minus two points for the lame pickup line.”

“Jeez, hope we’re not keeping score here, or I’m doomed.”

“A moonlit ride, a waterfall, and processed sugar? I don’t think so.” She kept her answer light and teasing, but his offhand comment hit home all of a sudden, giving her an inner “oh, wow” as she realized she’d mostly gotten out of the habit over the past few weeks. Always before—with her family, her career, her day-to-day life—there was a scorecard.

Not here, though. Not with him, and not with Krista or Gran. They offered to help because they wanted to, not because they were keeping track.

Unaware of her
hello
moment, he answered her original question. “I get out here a few times a year. Sometimes I just stop off on my way by. Other times I’ll stay and camp a day or two. I’ve seen some amazing sunsets.” He pointed off in the distance, where a gap between two mountains made a perfect triangle. “In the late fall, when the sun lines up just right, it looks like something out of a dream, deep blue up in the sky, going down to red and orange, all these layers going down behind the mountains.”

“It sounds gorgeous,” she said, and felt a little pang knowing that she wouldn’t be here come autumn.

“So is this, in a different way.” He looked at her for a long moment, letting her know he liked what he saw. Then, grinning, he flipped open one of the saddlebags and rummaged inside, and held out a couple of Twizzlers. “I believe I promised you dessert?”

“Oh, baby, come to Mama.” She took one and held it for a moment, absorbing the sweet, rubbery smell.

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a junk foodie.”

“I’ve got a stash of Cheetos and Swedish fish in my cabin. I snuck them in from town and hid them in my dresser.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

The darkness hid her flush. “The way I see it, what Gran doesn’t know won’t hurt her . . . and when you’ve lived on preservatives for as long as I have, it’s not easy going cold turkey.”

“Understood.” He held out his own Twizzler. “To moonlight rides, waterfalls, and processed sugar.”

Amused to have two food toasts in one day—first biscuits in the chuck truck, and now this—she Twizz-clinked. “To first dates, roundups, and new adventures.”

“Amen.”

She took a ceremonial bite when he did, and gave a big “Mmmm.” But then she warned, “Don’t tell Gran about this, or I’ll take you down with me for Twizzler pimping.”

He chuckled. “Twizzler pimp. I like that. Might have to put it on my card.”

“You don’t have a card. Or if you do, it’s with your phone, lost somewhere in your . . . what? Apartment? House? Trailer?”

“I live in a bunkhouse.”

“Of course. Silly me.”

“When Mustang Ridge went dude, the Skyes decided the bunkhouse was too far away from the main ranch to work for the guests, so they renovated it and made housing part of the head wrangler’s pay. When I took the job, Ed—that’s Krista’s dad—helped me set it up with solar panels and a cistern, and I’ve upgraded the gadgets along the way, tightening things up so I’m pretty self-sufficient without being nutso about it.”

“An ecofriendly bunkhouse. I like it.” It was another layer, one that fit with the astronomer. How many more did he have? How long would it take to get to know all of him?

Longer than she had, she knew, and stifled the pang.

“It suits me for now.” He paused. “Anyone back at the ranch would’ve told you that, if you’d asked.”

Pulling her brain back where it belonged—enjoying the moment rather than worrying about the future—she shrugged. “I didn’t ask. I’ve made a point not to gossip, with a couple of slips here and there. It seemed too high school, I guess, pumping the other kids for info on you, and whether they thought you liked me, or like-liked me.”

That got a grin. “I’d say it’s not just high school. That sort of stuff translates worldwide, possibly even to other planets.”

She shifted as a pointy rock dug into the base of her spine. “I can see it now, the jock gray aliens passing notes in the back of class, while the little green ones—their version of band geeks, don’t you know—travel in packs, even on dates.”

“Something like that. Here.” He put his arm around her and drew her against his side. “I make a better pillow than that rock.”

Yes, you do
. His body was warm beneath the tough cotton of his shirt, and musky with trail dust and sweat. She leaned into him, suffused with the strangeness of letting herself lean on a man, even as parts of her remembered exactly how this was supposed to go, how it was supposed to feel.

Like riding a bike,
she thought, and felt a wash of heat.

“Anyway, no, I didn’t ask Krista and the others about you. I figured that this—whatever it is, whatever it becomes—should stay more or less between the two of us. Not a secret, but not a village affair, either.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Well, then . . .” He tightened his arm around her. “I guess the next question is, what do you want to know about me? Because it’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure that a first date should include some form of twenty questions, maybe more.”

The questions swam in her head, but she also wanted to keep in mind that this wasn’t a first date between two strangers, trying to get a sense of each other or figure out how they synched up—or not—in relationship terms. So she said, “Whatever you feel like telling me, I’d enjoy hearing. Or you can ask me something. Or we can just sit here and cuddle. No twenty questions, no scoring, just the two of us together because we want to be.”

She felt him look down at her. “You’re not much like other women, are you?”

“I guess that depends on the other women. And no, I’m not asking about them. We’re here and now, just enjoying each other’s company.”

“No,” he said softly.

“No?” She looked up at him in surprise. “We don’t enjoy each other’s company?”

“No, you’re not like other women at all. Period. And I enjoy the heck out of your company. What’s more, it seems I’m going to kiss you now.”

If she’d thought before that her pulse was racing, now she realized that had just been a prelude to the real thing. “It seems I’m going to let you kiss me. I might even kiss you back.”

“Oh, yeah.” His smile was slow and devastating as he bent toward her, urging her up with his arms. “You sure will.”

Their lips met and clung, fanning the banked heat to a strong, sure glow. He took it soft and slow, sweeping his tongue between her lips, first a taste, then a caress. She softened against him and reached up to touch his neck, his jaw, and rub her thumb along the unfamiliar beard-bristle that said he’d been away from a razor for some time.

To her surprise, she liked the raspy feel of it, just as she liked knowing that he’d come straight from the gather, riding hard because he’d wanted to see her.

She broke the soft, drugging kisses to whisper against his lips. “I heard it’s in the Cowboy Code that you’re not supposed to touch a man’s hat.”

He chuckled. “If you’re another man, then yeah, it’s liable to get you in a fight. But if you’re a woman, it falls somewhere between skinny-dipping and borrowing his horse.” He reached up, removed his hat, and set it on her head, tipped back so he could catch her neck and draw her close once more.

His hat was warm and musky, his lips insistent, his body a contrast of hard and soft against hers.
Ah,
she thought,
this
. This was what she had given up, walked away from, deprioritized. This was what she sometimes missed at night, the ache that never quite went away. The kisses, and the feeling of a man’s body against hers, inside hers.

Yes, this.

But as their kisses grew deeper and darker, it stopped being familiar, and started growing new, strange, and urgent. She moved restlessly against him, caught his groan in her mouth, and slipped a hand into the open throat of his shirt to touch the wiry hair and warm skin beneath. They kissed, caught, held, shuddered, and slid a little lower on the stone, until they weren’t so much sitting anymore as lying together, wrapped up in each other. And even as the heat and hormones were all for sliding lower, part of her was thinking that it was too much, too fast.

She murmured and flattened her hand against him, and he eased back with a muttered oath, one that was more wondering than unhappy.

Keeping his arms around her, he pulled them back up to where they started, leaning back against the rock in a safer, more upright position. His ribs were heaving and his voice wasn’t quite steady as he said, “Whoa, there. Slowing it down now, before we skip a few steps and wish we hadn’t.”

“Okay,” she said, trying to slow her breathing. “Yeah, okay. That’d probably be best.”

He gathered her close and kissed her brow, her cheek. “I’m not saying I’d regret anything we might do together. But I want us both to enjoy the ride.”

“Walk the first mile out and the last one in?”

“Something like that.” But his eyes were intense on hers. “Okay?”

“Okay.” She blew out a pent-up breath. “Yeah, more than okay.”

“Want another Twizzler?”

“Is that a metaphor?”

“Nope, it’s a Twizzler.”

She laughed, accepted the faux licorice, and settled in against him, enjoying the feel of his too-big hat tipping down over her brow and the sound of his heartbeat, sure and strong, and still quick from their kisses. They ate the Twizzlers, opened another pack, shared a quick, sticky kiss, and watched the waterfall.

After a while, she said, “How about you tell me Loco’s story? A horse like that, there’s got to be a story.”

“Ah.”

She could hear his smile.

“Yes, indeed. There’s always a story when it comes to a horse like Loco.” He eased a little lower on the rock and urged her closer to his chest, so his voice rumbled beneath her cheek as he said, “I grew up on a ranch that was a lot like Mustang Ridge would’ve been, before it went dude. It was smaller, though, strictly a family operation. The Double-Bar H. My ma and pa did most of the work, though my grandpa ran the place, at least in name. He’d lost my gramma to cancer, and never really got past it, but he was good with me and my sister, Tish. And he had a way with horses like nobody else I’ve ever met.”