Sunset at Keyhole Canyon: A Mustang Ridge Novella (3 page)

Traci watched him go, lips pursed. Then, shooting Nina a sidelong look, she said, “Girl . . . I’m not sure if I just interrupted something good or saved you from doing something you’d regret.”

And that was the real question, wasn’t it?

That night, Ben headed for the boathouse a few minutes early, hauling a heavy picnic basket and trying manfully not to limp. Exploring the restored rustlers’ shacks and the rugged confines of Keyhole Canyon had been a blast, but he was feeling it now, with aches in muscles he’d forgotten he owned and sore spots from where his jeans had chafed in places where chafing really didn’t belong.

Still, though, none of that blunted the
oh, yeah
reaction
that went through him when he saw that Nina was already there, leaning back against the log-cabin wall and watching his approach.

She was wearing a flowing, brightly patterned sundress that moved around her legs in the gentle breeze, and had left her dark hair down to tumble around her bare shoulders in loose curls that made a man want to reach out and touch, and see if they were as soft and lively as they looked.

Beautiful,
he thought.
Unforgettable
. And he was glad he’d asked her to meet him.

He hadn’t gotten up this morning planning on doing any such thing—he’d still been pretty intent on keeping his distance and foiling his meddling little sister’s efforts. But he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Nina from the moment she walked into breakfast and sat down with Traci. He’d tried to hide it, but he’d been fixated on her—on the way laughter lit her face, her easy grace, and her gentle acceptance of her bay slug of a horse who couldn’t even give a snail a run for its money. Instead of prodding the lazy creature, she had enjoyed the ride and reveled in the moment. Which was a skill he was working on these days—enjoying life, even the simplest parts of it.

And, watching her, he’d been forced to admit he’d made a mistake. Maybe not in cooling things off initially, but in not calling her after everything had changed.

Maybe he’d be able to make up for that now, even if it meant letting Cheryl say “I told you so.”

He started down the hillside toward her, and she pushed away from the boathouse and came to meet him, but they stopped an arm’s length away. He hesitated for a second, not sure what his move should be. Normally he’d go for a gentlemanly peck on the cheek or, if his date looked willing, on the lips. But this wasn’t a first meeting, wasn’t a second date. It was more like probation.

Going with his gut, he closed the distance between them, looped his free arm around her, and pressed his cheek to hers. She was light and lithe against him, her soft curls brushing his throat and surrounding him with a scent that made him think of the sun warming the meadows that morning, burning off the mist and making everything clean and fresh. He held her a moment too long, felt her lean in, and was tempted to tighten his grip.

Instead, he made himself let go.

When she drew away, her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright and flustered.

He cleared his throat, not sure what had just happened. Since when did he get overwhelmed by a simple touch? “Hey there,” he said, which was lame, but all he could manage right then.

“Hey back,” she answered, and it seemed like they had exchanged far more than four words.

“I feel underdressed.” And also keyed up, which was a surprise. But where he knew the rhythm and routine of city dating, this was different.

Her lips curved. “I brought jeans in case this was too much.”

“It’s great. It’s perfect. You look lovely.”

She looked back toward the boathouse and the deep blue lake beyond. Fed from the fish-stocked stream that ran through the valley, it sported an L-shaped dock with several perky boats tied and waiting. “Are we going sailing?”

“We can if you want. Not much beats a picnic dinner on the water.”

“But . . . ?”

“But that’ll put us in full view of the dining hall. I think the gazebo would give us a nice view of the sunset without serving us up as a floor show for the others.”

Mocking a shudder, she said, “Sold. Lead on.”

“Ladies first,” he said, but then took her hand so they were walking side by side. When her dress flared around her ankles and he caught a flash of leg, he covered the surge of heat with a chuckle. “Cool boots.”

She paused to extend one foot, and studied a pointy-toed cowboy boot done in a purple hue that made him think of Easter baskets and neon Peeps. “They’re silly, but they make me smile. Not to mention, I’m helpless against the lure of ‘buy one pair, get a second half off.’ ” “

“Ah. A second trait you share with my sister.”

As they started walking again, she said, “Oh? What’s the first one?”

“You’re also a fan of fried chicken, if I recall correctly.” Lifting the hamper, he ignored the twinge in his shoulder. “Country fried with all the fixings, plus brownies for dessert.”

She made a sexy “mmm” noise. “I can see I’m going to need to watch it out here, or I’m going to come home from this vacation ten pounds heavier than I left.”

“I thought that was one of the signs of a great vacation. Besides, I’d wager we burned off this many calories and more today.”

“I know, right?” She rubbed her rear end, laughing. “You think the horse is doing all the work until you get off and your legs won’t hold you.”

“Well, then, I vote we take a load off and dig into these calories.”

“Motion seconded and carried, cowboy.”

And, just that easily, they fell back into the fun, easy rhythm of their first date, the one that had made him feel like he was hanging out with a longtime friend with the added bonus of chemistry, and had left him thinking she wasn’t anything like the women he usually dated. At the time, he hadn’t been sure that was a good thing.

Their bodies bumped as they mounted the three short stairs to the gazebo, which was a rustic octagon of stained logs, with a tongue-and-groove roof and deeply cushioned furniture set around a low table. He nudged a loveseat around so it faced the setting sun and put their backs to the rest of the ranch. “Have a seat and relax. I’ll serve.”

He did the drinks first, pouring them each some of the wine that had been included when he requested a picnic for two. “We’ve got a Chardonnay, though I’m not sure what’s supposed to go with fried chicken.”

“In my opinion? Everything.” Her open, happy smile and the way she tipped the glass in his direction put a strange pressure in his throat, like the air was trying to escape.

Clearing his throat, he held out his glass. “A toast, then. To rustlers, fried chicken, and second chances.”

She touched her glass to his. “To second chances.”

•   •   •

They chatted through dinner much as they had on their first date—easily, teasingly, so even the quiet pauses felt warm and natural, and a warm, bubbling excitement gathered inside Nina’s chest. She kept it in check, though. She had come away from their first date thinking she had found something special, only to discover that their connection hadn’t been as important to him as it had been to her.
He’s still the same guy
, she reminded herself.
Nothing has changed
.

That didn’t fit quite right, though. Because as the sun set with a vivid wash of purple and orange and they lingered over brownies and a second glass of wine each, she couldn’t stop thinking that he wasn’t the same as he’d been before. She couldn’t put her finger on it, though. Was it their surroundings, the aftereffects of a long day in the saddle, or something more?

Catching her staring at him, he paused with his wine glass lifted. “Problem?”

She shook her head, not so much denying it as not sure how to put it into words. “You seem . . . different, I think.”

His expression shifted, going serious, but not in a bad way. “I
am
different, I think.”

“Because you’re on vacation?”

“It’s more than that.” He paused, then said slowly. “Five months ago, give or take, I was in a car accident.”

“You . . .” Whatever she might’ve expected him to say, that wasn’t it. “Are you okay?” It was a dumb question—he was sitting right there after a hard day’s ride, looking in perfect health. “What happened?”

“It was on the way back from a meeting over at Memorial General. I was riding shotgun and my buddy Dean was driving. We were talking about our last fishing trip, making plans for another, when
wham
.” He clapped his hands together, making her jump. “A guy in a box truck ran a light and plowed into us, spun us right into oncoming traffic.”

“Oh.” She lifted a hand to her mouth.

“I was mostly just banged and bruised, thanks to the airbags, but Dean was hurt pretty bad. I, ah, did my best but there wasn’t much I could do, I was that shaky. I mostly just kept everyone else from moving him before the paramedics got there.”

“Did he . . .”

“He made it. He’s fine. Came back to work a few weeks later, in fact, and I was damn glad to see him.” He paused. “The other driver was okay, too, though he’s going through the wringer with his bosses and the insurance companies, and rightly so. He wasn’t drunk, wasn’t on the phone, wasn’t anything. He just zoned out, and nearly got all three of us killed.”

She shuddered, trying not to picture it. “Scary.”

“Very. But for better or worse it put a few things into perspective for me.”

A new shiver went through her, bringing the sense that things had just shifted into a new gear, one labeled
Pay attention. This is important
. “Like what?”

He looked up from his wine and met her eyes. “Like how I needed to make the time and room to have someone important in my life.”

Warmth prickled through her, heating her face with a flush she hoped he couldn’t see in the fading light.
Don’t make this into more than it really is
. “So, ah . . . what have you done about it?”

His quick grin lit his face. “Well, for starters, I got a dog.”

Which so wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. “Really?”

“Actually, it’s Reilly. As far as I can tell, he’s part goldie, part Irish Setter and part Brillo pad. He’s about nine months old now, finally got the housebreaking thing down, has feet the size of my hands, and will do just about anything for bacon.” He chuckled. “Adopting him was one of the best things I ever did.”

“Congratulations,” she said softly, and she wasn’t talking about just the dog. She held out her glass. “To Reilly.”

He tapped in a toast. “To making changes for the better.”

The next day the wannabe rustlers rode from sunrise to sunset, making a wide loop out from Mustang Ridge to the ranch’s upper pastures, where the wranglers coached them in tracking the scattered herds and cutting out a few “slow elk” that looked worth stealing. That was what the long-ago rustlers had called cattle that either weren’t branded or had brands that could be reworked into their own. Granted, the animals in question all belonged to Mustang Ridge, but the make-believe was entertaining and the buffalo-brown creatures tolerated the shenanigans with some lowing and a few halfhearted kicks as they humped out of the herd and back again, with the dudes wobbling in hot pursuit.

Ben stayed close to Nina most of the day, not because he doubted Moon’s ability to keep her safe—lazy or not, it turned out that he could spin on a dime and had good cow sense—but because he plain wanted to be around her.

He liked watching her eyes light as the terrain changed around them, from ridgeline to prairie to a series of dry riverbeds with crumbled edges that shifted beneath the horses’ hooves. He liked the way she sat in her saddle, soft and relaxed with her eyes up and her heels down, her weight centered in the middle of her body no matter where Moon took her. She wasn’t quite a cowgirl, but she was a far cry from any other city girl he’d ever known. None of them had ever made his blood heat with a smile or his pulse race from a passing knee-bump as they rode together, chatting about nothing and everything, and leaving him thinking he’d never had a better time.

That evening, exhausted from two days of hard riding, they sat together at dinner, knees touching, not saying much as they wolfed down salads, flaky biscuits, and savory chunks of local-caught fish, followed by hefty wedges of fresh berry pie and homemade ice cream.

Savoring her last spoonful, Nina made that sexy “mmm” noise of hers, the one that drained the blood from his head and sent it lower down, to pool warm and ready in his groin. But then she let out a rueful sigh. “I could fall asleep right here in my ice cream. I’m that tired.”

“Can I walk you to your cabin?”

She grinned over at him. “I know the way.”

“Humor me.”

As they walked through the gathering dusk, he took her hand, loosely intertwining their fingers and staying close, so they bumped together now and then at the shoulder, hip, and thigh. He was very aware of her soft, steady breathing, the warmth of her skin, the steady pressure of her fingertips, and when they reached her cabin and she turned to face him at the door, it took an effort of will not to close the small distance between them and kiss her, long and deep. Taste her. Touch her.

Patience
, he told himself, and lifted their joined hands and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Will you come out with me tomorrow night?”

Her lips curved. “What did you have in mind?”

“It’s a surprise. Please?”

He wasn’t sure which one of them was more startled by the intensity of that last word, but she nodded. “Of course. Yes.”

Relief flared harder than he would’ve expected, warning him that he was more tired than he’d thought. “Good, that’s good. It’s a date?”

“Absolutely.”

As he headed for his cabin, debating whether or not to shower before he crashed and slept like the dead, he was already looking forward to tomorrow night, already knew where he wanted to take her, giving them both an evening they would never forget.

He hoped. . . .

•   •   •

Early the next day—somehow it was Tuesday already and Rustlers’ Week was half over—Krista and the wranglers offered the dudes an easier day, with a choice of more riding, unmounted roping practice, fly fishing, or doing their own thing.

Ben opted for roping and headed for the practice area, which was a small corral near the picnic area that was populated by upright posts sunk into the ground along with a small herd of sawhorses wearing plastic cow heads. To his surprise—and huge pleasure—Nina was already there. She was wearing her purple boots and a matching shirt, with her hair pulled back in a fat braid and her straw hat perched at a jaunty angle that made him want to tip it back so he could get at her lips.

Traci was with her, and they had been joined by two of the other single guys. The firefighter brothers from New York City stood flanking the ladies; one was holding a loosely coiled rope and seemed to be showing Traci the basics, while the other was nodding enthusiastically, though it wasn’t clear whether he was approving his brother’s skills or the view down Nina’s shirt.

Ben wanted to tie him in a few knots of his own. Instead, he plastered on an edgy-feeling smile and strode toward them. “Morning, Nina. Traci.” He shot each of the guys a look. “Gentlemen.”

The shirt-looker took a step back, away from Nina. “Hey, Ben. ’Sup?”

Eyeballs off, or you’ll be what’s up, Yonkers. “Not much. Ready to learn how to rope?”

“Absolutely.” Nina laughed up at him as if he’d said the first part out loud. “Though right now, you look more ready to string up a couple of rustlers, not act like one.”

“So I’m what? The sheriff?”

“If the boot fits . . .”

He wanted to lean down and kiss her—in public, in private, it didn’t matter. He wanted his lips on hers, wanted her in his arms . . . but he didn’t make the move because they weren’t there yet. He had kissed her good night after their first date and things had heated up fast. That was before, though, when she didn’t have any reason not to trust him. And now . . . he wanted it to be right, wanted it to be special, so he kept his hands to himself.

He didn’t keep his distance, though. No, he put himself right beside Nina, almost touching, and shot the other guys a look.

Brother one grinned and tugged brother two away. Message received.

Traci pouted good-naturedly. “No fair. You chased them off.”

“You could’ve told them to stay,” he pointed out.

“Nah. They’re only fun in limited doses.”

Before he could ask if the same went for him, Stace stepped into the practice corral and raised her voice to project. “Everyone? Could I have your attention, please?”

The assistant wrangler was a curvy twenty-ish who always looked stylish and put together, even in the jeans and logo polo shirt that seemed to be the ranch’s unofficial uniform. Although young, she had a natural way with horses and people, and had coached the two least experienced dudes—a mother-daughter duo that had started off mildly terrified of their placid mounts—through their early lessons with cheerful good humor.

Now she ran a braided lasso through her fingers and took a look around the group. “Anybody missing a rope?”

Ben started to raise his hand, but Nina nudged him with an elbow, separated what turned out to be two ropes in her hands, and held one out. “I had a feeling you’d be here.”

He took it, happy to the point of goofy, like he was sixteen again. “What if I went fishing?”

“Then I would’ve had an extra rope.” She shot him a look from beneath her lashes. “I’m glad you’re here, though.”

The goofiness spread so it felt like it was surrounding him, making the air fresher, the colors brighter. “So am I.”

They wound up paired for roping practice—
thank you, Stace
—and joked their way through tossing the stiff loops around the posts and sawhorses from varying distances, before moving on to live targets . . . as in, each other.

“Cows don’t think about things the same as we do,” Stace said as she took up her position opposite one of the firefighter brothers and showed him what to do. “They don’t strategize. But if you get an older cow who knows the drill, you can be sure you’re going to have to work for it.” She pivoted and ducked a shoulder as the wannabe roper shook out his loop and gave it a few awkward swings. “That’s it, aim for where I’m going to be, not where I just was.”

Once Mr. NY had gotten a couple of good throws off, she broke the dudes up into their pairs and turned them loose. “Be a good sport about getting caught when it’s your turn,” she advised, “and do your best not to strangle each other. We hate losing dudes.”

“Plenty of places to hide a body, though,” Nina pointed out to Ben.

He grinned. “A new use for Keyhole Canyon?”

“Something like that.”

“You want to be the hunter or the hunted?”

“I’ll play target, thanks.” She moved twenty or so feet away, lowered her head, made horns with her fingers, and pawed the ground. “Come and get me, cowboy.”

He shook out a loop, measuring the stiffly coiled rope with his fingers and feeling very cowboyish, like he should slap the dust off a pair of imaginary chaps. “I’ve never seen a prettier, um, slow elk.” No way he was calling her a cow.

Her eyes glinted. “Flattery, huh? Think that’ll work on a longhorn?”

He got his lasso moving, not twirling it like a trick roper so it flared open over his head, but swinging it like a real cowboy—or so Stace had told them—with the knot in his hand and the loop traveling in a big circle, like a yo-yo going around the world over and over again. “Have you heard the way Foster talks to the horses? Want to bet he doesn’t have conversations with the cows, too, talking them into being caught?”

She circled him like a fencer, dancing on her toes and shifting her weight from side to side. “I think you’re stalling.”

“Stalling? Ha. I think you—” He pivoted and spun. He whooped as the loop spread in a perfect circle . . . but then groaned as it leveled off at shoulder height.

She dodged, then laughed as the rope hit the dirt, singing out Stace’s advice: “Aim for where I’m going to be next, not where I was before.”

“Words to live by.” Concentrating, he faked a toss in one direction and then threw almost blindly in the other, then gave a whoop when she dodged straight into the path of the lasso.

“Noo!” She ducked, but the rope settled around her neck and shoulder.

He pulled gently, snugging the lasso around her torso, and then hand-over-handed the rope to tug her in, not stopping until their bodies bumped. “I’ve got you.”

Grinning up at him, she winked. “Yes, you do.”

Not yet
, he thought,
but almost
. Leaning in, he grazed his lips across her earlobe and whispered, “Meet me behind the barn at seven.”

She pulled back, laughing. “Wow, that’s a cowboy pickup line, for sure.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” Okay, maybe a little. “Bring a jacket. You’re in for a treat.”

“Where are we going?”

He grinned. “This is Mustang Ridge, right? I figured that as long as we’re here, we should see some mustangs.”