He touched his cheek. “Good aim you’ve got there. Between that and the gun, I guess I don’t have to worry about you taking care of yourself.”
“No. I like being alone.”
“Well, then.” He gave a low whistle, and the paint horse ambled over from where it had been standing hipshot near the RV. Mounting up, he gathered his reins, then leaned down and stretched out a hand. “I’m Sam Babcock, by the way.”
That surprised a laugh out of her. “Danielle Traveler. Danny.” His grip was firm, his hands broad across the palms, with strong, capable fingers, long thumbs, and big, sturdy joints. They weren’t calloused right to be climber’s hands, but he definitely worked with them. Was he one of those hunky cowboys that Kiki-from-Cambridge had been chirping about?
Drawing away, he touched the brim of his hat. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Miz Traveler.”
“Maybe.” Probably not, she thought, and was surprised to feel a small pinch of regret. “And Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Do me a favor and don’t mention the tent, okay?” She figured that a guy like him, with eyes like that, wouldn’t miss that she was living in a two-man tent rather than the camper. “Krista’s been so sweet about the campsite, the supplies, the RV . . . I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“But you’d rather feel the breeze.” Her surprise must have shown on her face, because he patted the bedroll strapped to the back of his saddle. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Touching his gelding to a jog, he headed out along the riverbank, man and horse making a heck of a picture riding beside the water with the trees closing in and the canyon walls rising up to the blue, blue sky. When he reached the cut-through where the river emptied through the rock wall surround, he turned back and lifted a hand in farewell.
Caught watching him, she returned the gesture. And darned if she didn’t keep watching as he disappeared through the gap in the canyon wall.
* * *
“Tell me again how she clocked you with a copy of Moby-Dick and then held you at gunpoint?” Wyatt poked Sam below the swollen cut on his cheek. “Does that hurt?”
“Ow!” Sam socked him in the shoulder. “Yes. And it wasn’t Moby-Dick, it was Adrift. Or maybe Perfect Storm. One of the Bad Things Happening at Sea books that got turned into a movie but didn’t have a whale in it.”
They were sprawled at one of the picnic tables out by the barbecue pit, where the first-aid kit had wound up after one of the assistant wranglers had split his thumb open with a hammer, working on a construction project that was new since Sam’s last visit.
“Still, she really nailed you,” Wyatt said with poorly faked concern. “That’s going to bruise like a mother.”
“I’ve had worse.” Tipping his head toward where Ed Skye and several of the barn staffers were going to town with two-by-fours and a framing nail gun, Sam said, “What’s going on over there? You having problems with the pavilion?”
Wyatt didn’t quite roll his eyes. “Rose decided it wasn’t big enough for the wedding.”
Sam frowned down at the round structure, which was the epicenter of the Friday-night outdoor barbecues that Krista, Gran, and the others threw as a farewell for the guests of each themed week. Some fifty feet away, Ed and Junior were leveling off a new support beam. “How big does it need to be to hold you and Krista, the JP, and a couple of groomsmen and bridesmaids?” A daunting thought occurred. “Did you guys decide to expand things into one of those three-ring-circus deals?”
That got an emphatic “Hell, no.”
“Phew. For a second there, I was picturing a dozen bridesmaids in sparkly pink dresses, and me, Nick, and Foster standing up there with all seven of the Lemp brothers and whoever else you could round up, the whole lot of us wearing glittery bow ties and suspenders to match the bridesmaids’ outfits. Not that I wouldn’t man up, mind you. For you and Krista, whatever it takes. But I’m really not a sparkly-pink-cummerbund kind of guy.”
“Tempting, but no. It’s just you, Nick, and Foster on the guy’s side, and Jenny and Shelby on the girl’s side, pick your own clothes. Lucky for you, Krista stood up to her mom on that one, or you might’ve been in a cummerbund, or worse.”
Not wanting to know what counted as worse than a My Pretty Pony–pink cummerbund, Sam said, “Then what’s with the pavilion?”
“Rose is afraid that it’ll rain during the ceremony, so she wants to extend the roof to cover the guests.” Wyatt shot him a don’t say it look.
Unable not to, Sam said, “She knows we’re in the middle of the worst drought in twenty-some years, right? And that it hasn’t rained more than a dribble since May?”
“When you’re living on the same property as your in-laws, you learn to pick your battles,” Wyatt said drily. “Especially when your mother-in-law-to-be is the resident events coordinator, interior decorator, and unofficial wedding planner.”
“A deadly trifecta.”
“Only if a guy is inclined to argue.” Wyatt stretched his arms behind him and leaned back on the picnic table. “Which I’m not. You said it yourself—whatever Krista wants, she gets. I’m getting what I want, which is her and Abby Rose. Why shouldn’t Krissy get everything she wants, too?”
Sam would’ve ribbed him about turning into a giant sap, except it was actually kind of nice to see the big guy go down so hard. “Well, hell. Looks like you’ve got yourself a pavilion-on-steroids, then. Maybe next season you could turn it into a covered horseshoe pit.”
“I was thinking of a bowling alley. Great minds.”
“I’m starving. Is my face patched up enough to brave the dining hall?”
“Let me throw on a couple of Band-Aids first. And if I could make a suggestion? You should come up with a better story than the attack of the killer paperback. Tell people you got caught in an avalanche, maybe, or a stampede.”
Sam glared at Mr. Enjoying-This-Way-Too-Much. “I don’t need a story—I got the cut galloping through the trees to save Mustang Ridge from looking like the Sears place.”
Wyatt sobered. “Thanks for that, by the way. Seriously. This is . . .” He looked around, from the guest cabins near the lake, up to the barns and the main house. “It matters. It’s home. I could live without it—we all could if we had to. But I’d hate to have to.” And coming from a guy who hadn’t stayed in the same place for more than a few months at a time before he arrived in Three Ridges, that was saying something.
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.
4
The 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 ENTER 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.
Firelight at Mustang Ridge Page 4