Harvest at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  Heat stirred at the knowledge he’d been watching her. As metal gates clanged and unshod hooves thudded into the loading chute, she said, “What do you want, Wyatt?” He had to want something. Otherwise, why even make himself known?

  “I wanted to apologize to you. To . . . I don’t know”—he scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck—“clear the air. I know it was a long time ago, and we’ve both lived our lives since then, but I wanted to say I’m sorry for how I handled things. You deserved better.”

  “Yes, I did.” And once upon a time, she would’ve given anything to have him admit it. “Nice of you to make such an effort to track me down. Oh, wait. You didn’t.”

  He shifted in his boots. “I’m staying with Sam for a couple of weeks in between jobs. He volunteered me for this, said you’d be here. I thought it would be easier this way, just running into each other.”

  Easier for you, that is. Though, really, there wouldn’t have been a good time for this. She didn’t need an apology, didn’t need the mere sight of him bringing back a whole lot of memories that were better off forgotten. Didn’t need him. Jamming her hands in her pockets—and only then realizing they had balled into fists—she stepped back. “Like you said, it was a long time ago.” Behind her, the truck door slammed.

  Moments later, boot steps approached, and Jenny said, “Is everything okay?” Coming up beside Krista, she fixed Wyatt with a look that said I know who you are and what you put my sister through. “Is this guy bothering you?”

  Yes. “No. It’s fine. We’re done here.” To Wyatt, she said, “You’ll get the trailer gate when she’s loaded?”

  He held her eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Will do. You take care, Krista Skye.” It was more of a good-bye than he had given her before.

  “You, too, Wyatt,” she said, if only to have the last word. She didn’t let herself run, didn’t let herself shake, just climbed in the truck and slammed the door.

  And wanted to weep.

  Jenny grabbed her arms. “Ohmigosh! That was him, wasn’t it? That was—”

  “Wyatt.” She made herself say the name. “Yes.”

  “Unbelievable.” Jenny craned around to look toward the barn, where he had moved to man the gates of the loading chute. “Did he . . . Did you . . .”

  To Krista’s relief, there was a sudden commotion in the barn, a couple of hoots and hollers, and then hoofbeats clattered on metal and the trailer rocked and rolled, making the truck shimmy and signaling that the new horse was aboard. Moments later, the trailer door banged shut and the latches clanged into place, and Wyatt’s voice called, “You’re all set!”

  She put the truck in gear and hit the gas, not letting herself stomp down nearly as hard as she wanted to.

  As they rolled past the hot dog stands, Jenny stuck her head out the window to get a better look at the trailer. “I can see her ears through the Plexi,” she reported. “You want to stop and double-check the latches?”

  “No. We’re good.”

  “You trust him?”

  “To close up a trailer? Yes.” She would trust him with a horse anytime, anywhere. But as for anything more than that? Forget it. She may have gotten the care-and-nurture gene from Gran, but it was balanced by the one-strike-and-you’re-out attitude that came straight from Big Skye’s DNA.

  “Soo . . .” Jenny drew it out as they turned onto the main road and the ride smoothed out. “You want to tell me about it, or should we pretend we spent the morning shoe shopping?”

  So tempting. “If we went for shoes, then where did the horse come from?”

  “Get one free with every flat of annuals at Maas’s Feed and Grain next door?”

  Given Ernie Maas’s recent “two ducklings and a shrub, one low price” ad in the local paper, it wasn’t all that farfetched. Unfortunately, the charade wouldn’t appease Jenny’s curiosity, which on a scale of one to creepy stalker, fell somewhere around the National Enquirer level.

  “Shoes, marigolds, and a bonus mustang,” Krista said, trying to keep it light when there was suddenly a whole lot of heavy inside her. “That sounds way better than an ex who couldn’t be bothered to get in touch, but wanted to do the apology thing when we ran into each other.”

  Jenny made a face. “Which part was he apologizing for? Stringing you along, standing you up in public, or dumping you with a crappy Dear Jane letter?”

  Ouch. Trust the filmmaker to bring things down to bullet points. They were accurate, though, and eight years was long enough for the wounds to heal. “We didn’t get that far. And, frankly, I don’t care. I’ve got better things to worry about—like a ranch full of guests arriving this afternoon, and a new mustang to train.”

  She didn’t need Wyatt Webb or his apology. She had Mustang Ridge.

  *

  Wyatt was dog-tired by the time he got back to Sam’s ridiculously big house and let himself in through the kitchen. Dragging ass worked for him, though—the more tired he was, the less his brain would spin. And after his run-in with Krista, there was some serious spinning going on.

  He had known she would be there today—hell, he’d had his guard up ever since arriving in Three Ridges, figuring they would cross paths at some point. He hadn’t figured he’d have trouble looking away from her when they came face-to-face, though, and he hadn’t expected to feel like he’d gotten caught staring at the sun. She had gleamed like the sun, too, with a white straw hat, yellow-blond hair, and tanned skin the color of pale honey. And she had looked exactly the same as he remembered, fresh and vibrant, like it had been eight days rather than eight years. Her hair was a shade or two darker beneath the sun streaks, and the coed bounce had turned to a woman’s poise, but he could’ve picked her crazy long legs and cowgirl swagger out of a crowd. Heck, he had picked her out of the crowd, even before the mayor called her name.

  It was no surprise that the beautiful girl had grown into a knockout of a woman. It was also no surprise that she didn’t want anything to do with him. But being in Three Ridges had gotten him thinking about her, gotten him remembering. Maybe too much.

  Lucky for him, he was good at moving on. He had just hoped to do it with a clearer conscience this time.

  “That you, Wyatt?” Sam called from the front of the house, voice echoing through the under-furnished space.

  “Yeah. Hey, hon, I’m home.”

  “Ha! I’m in the game room.” The sounds of canned gunfire, explosions, and screams suggested he was killing zombies or something.

  Wyatt followed the noises and paused with a shoulder propped on the door frame. One of the few fully furnished spaces in the whole place—along with the home theater, master bedroom, and kitchen—the game room at Casa Babcock bore a strong resemblance to the bridge of the Enterprise, except with a ratty sofa, a relic from their college days, facing the wall of monitors instead of captain’s chairs. Not zombies, he noted, glancing at the screen. Aliens.

  Sam froze the game and spun in his chair. Wearing sweats, a ripped T-shirt, and yesterday’s stubble, he looked nothing like the unexpected heir to a gem-mining fortune, and everything like the guy who’d made it through his last year of college by volunteering for any medical study that would pay him a few bucks. “Well? I saw you talking to her. How’d it go?”

  “About how you’d expect.”

  Sam lifted the controller. “You want in on this game? Blow some stuff up? Might make you feel better.”

  Wyatt wasn’t big into gaming but appreciated the offer of mayhem rather than touchy-feely. “Maybe in a minute. I’m going to call my sister first. It’s her birthday.” And he was already riled up. Might as well call the fam.

  “Tell Ashley I said hey. Oh, and when you come back, bring my blue water bottle with you.”

  “Sure. Where is it?”

  “Ask Klepto,” Sam said darkly.

  “Right.” Wyatt smothered a snort and headed for the kitchen.

  He hadn’t figured out where his scruffy gray mutt was hiding his stash in the huge house, but
when he did, it would be a heck of a pile. He should probably feel bad, but as far as he was concerned, Sam’s life needed some shaking up. Besides, he and Klepto had an understanding: He didn’t try to stop his dog from “appropriating” the occasional sock or shiny thing, and Klepto acquiesced to act housebroken.

  As Wyatt rounded the corner to the kitchen, he was just in time to see the tip of a gray, wirehaired tail disappear around the corner of the fridge. He considered following but figured that finding Klepto’s stash would entertain Sam when they’d left. So instead, he grabbed the landline handset—cells were seriously unreliable out in the high country—and punched in his mother’s number, doing his damnedest to get Krista out of his head. Case closed, moving on.

  His mom picked up on the third ring. “It looks like a Wyoming number,” she said, her voice muffled like she was relaying the info. “I think it must be Wyatt.” Then, voice becoming clearer, she said, “Wyatt? Is that you?”

  He scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Hey, Ma. Yeah, it’s me.”

  “It’s Wyatt,” she called, like that was news to anyone in her immediate vicinity. “How are you, sweetie? How did the lottery go?”

  “It was . . . interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “Lots of horses, lots of people.”

  “Did you see anything that you liked?”

  About five three, one ten, blond, and blue-eyed, with a swagger that makes a man want to do something stupid. So much for getting her out of his head. He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t have kicked any of them out of the barn. Why, you in the market?” As far as he knew, she hadn’t been on a horse in thirty years. Back in the day, though, she had been a rodeo queen—it was how she’d met his old man.

  “Not on your life. How are your sketches going?”

  “They’re going.” And by that, he meant he’d thought about unpacking his pencils the other day. “How is Jack? Did that new chiro help any?” His mother’s husband had come along too late to be a father figure, but Wyatt would always be grateful to Jack for giving him his life back.

  “He’s good. He said to say hello.”

  They spent a few more minutes catching up, keeping to surface things because they did best that way. Then Wyatt said, “Is Ash around? I want to wish her a happy birthday.”

  There was a beat of silence before his mom said, “She went back to Los Angeles last week. Didn’t she call you?”

  “She—” He bit off a few choice words. “No. She didn’t. I take it she’s back with Kenny?”

  Kenny was his younger sister’s deadbeat ex-boyfriend . . . or he had been, the last time Wyatt checked. After two years of on-again, off-again, she had finally moved back home, got a waitressing job, and started saving the money she wasn’t paying in rent to attend community college in the fall.

  At least that had been the plan the last time Wyatt had talked to her.

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” his mother chided.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “There was a tone.”

  “Maybe we should change the subject. How is your garden coming?”

  “You just don’t understand how women think.”

  So much for changing the subject. “The guy is a loser, and he drags her down with him.” The drummer for a band that booked just enough gigs for its members to convince themselves that they didn’t need real jobs, Kenny was a self-absorbed, self-important dope who, when Ash had spiked a temp of one oh four with the flu on a night he was supposed to play, had loaded her in a cab and told the driver to take her to the ER, leaving her to figure out how to pay for the ride and the meds.

  “He’s young,” his mother said. “They both are. They’ll figure it out as they go along.”

  Like you did? Or like he had? His mother’s marriage to Jack—her only marriage, mind you, as Ash and Wyatt’s old man hadn’t ever quite made it to the altar—was the exception to the otherwise ironclad rule that both sides of his family sucked at relationships, and that was because Jack had the perseverance of a limpet. “I’d rather see Ashley figure out things for herself,” Wyatt added. “Once that starts happening, ten bucks says she’ll go for a different kind of guy.” Like one with a job. Maybe even a retirement plan. Hey, there’s a thought.

  “She doesn’t want another guy. She’s in love with Kenny.”

  “She’ll get over it.”

  “You don’t get to choose when to love someone,” she said tartly. “It’s all or nothing.”

  Which was ironic, really, given how many times she had fallen in and out of love with his old man. “I’m just saying I’d rather see her stay with you guys and go back to school. Maybe while she’s doing that, Kenny will pull himself together.”

  “You could help him with that, you know. You’ve got connections.”

  Not as many as she liked to think, but still. “I tried.” Several times, in fact, allowing Ashley’s pretty-please eyes to overrule his common sense. “I got him a sit-down with Nigel at Studio 101. He never showed.”

  “He was having car trouble, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember.” It had been his car that time, the flu the time before, and a hangover the time before that. Always an excuse, just like he’d heard from his mother all through childhood. Your father didn’t mean it; he’s just tired; he’s changed; you should give him another chance. . . .

  “You should give him another chance.” Her voice merged with the memory, sparking a burn of frustration in his gut. “Ashley loves him. And she loves you, too. You should call her. Tell her you’re not mad.”

  “I thought I was calling her.” But where the first few minutes on the phone with his mom had been fine, now he just wanted to hang up.

  “She’s got a new cell. Let me get you the number.”

  “Just tell her to call me when she gets a chance, okay?”

  “Are you coming for a visit soon? The side gutter is overflowing again, and with Jack’s back bothering him . . .”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know in a few days.” He ducked a few more questions and finally said, “I’ve gotta go, Ma. I love you.” Which was true—he loved them both, her and Ashley. But he had long ago learned that loving someone wasn’t the same as wanting to be with them, or even having much in common.

  Hanging up the phone with more force than necessary, he grabbed a couple of beers out of the fridge and headed for the game room. Suddenly, he was in the mood to kill the heck out of some aliens.

  4

  The next morning, when the alarm went off, Krista woke fuzzy-headed and fuddled from dreams that had involved lots of prancing hooves and a cherub wearing fringed chaps and wielding squirt guns.

  “Ohhh-kay, then,” she said, and sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes as things came into focus around her—mercifully without the kid.

  A few months ago, her mom had insisted that the room needed a facelift, and in a two-week orgy of paint chips and fabric swatches, the rodeo-princess-turned-businesswoman décor had given way to a rustic, homey blend of earth tones and comfortable fabrics. The centerpiece was a hand-carved bureau that had a herd of galloping mustangs flowing around three sides, with the same movement picked up in the swirling pattern of the bedspread and a wall collage made from Krista’s favorite prize ribbons.

  Her mom had described it as “equine eclectic with a modern Italian touch.” Krista didn’t know about that, but she figured it said, “You’ve come a long way, baby.” And she liked that.

  After dressing for the day, she headed downstairs and followed her nose to the big commercial kitchen that took up the back of the main house. There, exposed beams and potted herbs provided homey touches, baking racks bulged with muffins and sourdough rolls, and she could practically feast on the yeasty air.

  “Morning, sweetheart,” Gran caroled as she bustled between the ovens and the pantry. Wearing jeans and a mock tee under a bright yellow apron decorated with singing peppers, she looked far younger than her years, even with t
he wispy white of her hair escaping from beneath a denim ball cap.

  At the butcher-block end of the long counter, her round-cheeked assistant cook, Dory, said, “Hey, Krista,” and waved a jalapeno. Then she went back to her pile, coring the small peppers and sticking them upright on a custom-made rack. Over the course of the day, the peppers would be roasted, skinned, and turned into Gran’s famous green chili, which had its own page on the Web site, its popularity second only to her sourdough starter, fondly called Herman. Who had his own Twitter account.

  Krista may not’ve had pretend to be bread dough online on her life list, but she figured that you never knew what the fans would glom on to—and when they did, you had to run with it. Given that Herman had more followers than the official Mustang Ridge account, she had gotten pretty good at sharing ranch tidbits from a biscuit’s point of view.

  “Good morning, you two.” She headed for the coffeepot, thinking maybe she should start an account for Marshmallow, too, so kids like Claire could keep in touch with their favorite pony. “How were things yesterday?”

  “Your mom and I did just fine with the guests and vice versa,” Gran assured her. “No problems to report.” Which a couple of years ago would’ve seemed like a miracle. But just as Big Skye had found himself a new purpose in managing the ragtag herd of rescued horses and cattle that had accumulated because Krista couldn’t say no to protruding ribs or a hard-luck story, Gran and Rose Skye had made peace at long last, agreeing to a cease-fire that left Gran in control of the kitchen and Rose in charge of special guest services and events.

  “Is there anyone I should keep an eye on?” she asked. It was Reunion Week, with a full booking of twenty-four guests split up into families, friends, and couples, all looking to reconnect with one another.

  Gran pursed her lips. “Maybe the McConnells.”

  Krista flipped through her mental “Who’s Who This Week” file. “Married couple, looking to put the spark back into things?”

  “Looks more like Mr. McConnell and a new, much younger girlfriend.”

  Krista hissed out a breath. “Well, that’s just . . .”