“Totally not what Reunion Week is for?” Dory suggested.
“We’ll go with that.” Krista took a swig of her coffee, feeling the rich, thick sludge—which was how the old-timers had made it and how her Gran preferred it still—hit the back of her throat. “I guess things must’ve changed since he booked the trip. Oh, well, most of the getting-to-know-you activities are carryovers from Singles Week. Hopefully, they’ll still have a good time.”
“You haven’t met her yet,” Gran warned. “I’ll bet you a biscuit she’s going to kick up a fuss about something. If not the cabin or the food, then how she stepped in manure or broke a nail. Maybe all of the above.”
And Gran’s radar was good like that. Krista nodded. “Gotcha. I’ll keep an eye on her. How about the Nixons? Father and teenage son trying to patch things up.” Before putting down his deposit, Bradley Nixon had quizzed her up, down, and sideways, wanting her to guarantee that a week of trail riding would make him and his son best buddies in the wake of a rough-sounding divorce. That had earned him a yellow flag in the reservation database: potentially high maintenance.
“They didn’t set off any real warning bells,” Gran said. “Randy doesn’t seem like he wants much to do with his dad, but he’s polite enough. He asked if it was okay for him to throw his baseball up on the roof for some practice. I told him he needed to stay away from the horses and the main house, but it was fine for him to use their cabin or your father’s shop.”
Krista grinned. “You mad at Dad for something?”
“No, I just figured it wouldn’t hurt to mess with his bubble. He’s too much like his father for his own good, and your Gramps has been in a mood this past week.”
“I noticed. Is Betty Crocker giving him grief again?” The brown-and-white spotted cow had come to Mustang Ridge after being found abandoned on state land, seemingly shuffled off because she was too old to produce milk anymore. As soon as she’d gotten some food into her, though, and perked up, it became obvious that she was a devil in cow clothes. Someone had raised her as a pet and taught her to come into the kitchen for treats, and now she did it for sport—sneaking away from the Over the Hill Gang, finding her way through the fence, and making a beeline for Gran’s kitchen. Which, given the whole guest-ranch thing, was a big problem.
“He hasn’t mentioned Betty in particular, but I wouldn’t be surprised if something like that hasn’t gotten under his saddle.” Gran patted Krista’s hand. “He’ll settle down. He always does.”
“Or maybe,” Dory put in slyly, “he’s planning something supersecret for your big anniversary. When is it again?”
When Gran pinkened and flapped her towel at them, Krista answered for her. “December tenth. The big five oh. You’re coming to the party. Right, Dory?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world! Especially if Arthur has something up his sleeve.”
Gran touched her hair with a sweet smile. “Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Note to self, Krista thought. Make sure Big Skye comes through with something special. She’d get Jenny to help lean on him. “Is there anything on your wish list?”
Her grandmother’s eyes went dreamy. “Breakfast in Paris, dinner in Venice. You know, the usual. Oh, and the opportunity to kick bug-eyed Billy Bollinger in the nuts for kissing Mindy Cassidy when I was wearing his letter jacket back in tenth grade.”
“Gran! You did not just say nuts.”
“What, you’d prefer a synonym? Well how about—”
“No! Please.” Krista put her hands over her ears, laughing. “I don’t want to know what you call them.”
“I’ve got lots of names for them. How else do you think your grandfather and I made it to forty-nine years and counting?” Gran grinned as she tweaked an oven timer. But then her voice got more serious. “Speaking of exes we’d like to kick in the tender bits . . .”
It took a second for that to sink in, another for Krista to mostly smother the wince. “Jenny told you what happened yesterday.” She had been trying not to think about her run-in with Wyatt. It was too pretty a day to start off with a cloud over her head.
“She wanted me to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” At Gran’s narrow look, she put up both hands. “Seriously, I’m good. Sure, I was surprised to see him again, but it really wasn’t that big a deal.” Over and done with, nothing to see here, move along. A decent night’s sleep—weird dreams notwithstanding—had put things into better perspective, leaving only a residual ache that she figured would disappear once she got into her groove with the guests.
“I don’t know how you can be so calm about it. When I remember”—Gran pressed her lips together, no doubt thinking back to the night of Krista’s college graduation party—“it makes me so mad that he did that to my girl.”
“I was barely out of my teens, Gran. If I’ve learned anything from the guests, it’s that teenage girls do most everything with their emotional volume cranked to ten.” Maybe twenty. “You haven’t seen me like that since then, have you?”
“No, but I also haven’t seen you get serious about anybody else,” Gran pointed out, then lifted her apron to pantomime a kick. It was more shin-high than crotch-level, but it got the point across.
“I’ve been busy.” It sounded weak, even to Krista. “And, hello, I’ve dated.” A little, anyway. “In case you haven’t noticed, the pickings are a little slim in Three Ridges.” It was the sort of place young singles escaped from and retirees escaped to.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Gran parroted, “you’ve got guys parading through here—a fresh crop each week.”
Dory nodded. “If you count out the families, single women, and guys who are too young, too old, taken and/or gay, there are probably, what, two or three dozen legitimate candidates per season? Even if you figure ninety percent of them aren’t a good match, that still leaves a couple of datable guys coming through Mustang Ridge per year.”
Krista blinked at the math. But while she’d certainly had a handful of male guests who ranked up there on the good scenery scale—not to mention ten times that many hookup offers ranging from charming to “eww”—she’d never been tempted. “Sorry, ladies. Besides the whole ‘holy unprofessional behavior, Batman,’ it takes longer than a week for me to get interested in a guy.”
“I’d say it depends on the guy,” Dory said.
She’d had her whirlwind. It hadn’t ended well. “I’m not dating a guest. Period.”
“Fine.” Gran nodded like Krista had made her point for her. “You’ll go on one of those Web sites.”
“Hang on. I didn’t mean—”
“If the local dating pool is too small, then it’s a woman’s God-given right to widen it. At least that’s what Ruth says.” At the thought of Nick’s administrative assistant, Gran brightened. “In fact, you should ask her to help you! Before she met Nick’s father, she was an online dating pro.”
Ruth was also seventy-something, purple-haired, and hadn’t been all that picky. Or maybe it was fairer to say that after losing her husband, she had been ever hopeful that the next first date would turn out to be her new Mr. Right. But whereas Ruth had seemed to enjoy the process, the thought made Krista want to stick her head in one of the commercial ovens. “I don’t know, Gran. I don’t think the online thing is for me.”
“Promise me you’ll think about it?”
“I promise.” Which wasn’t at all the same as promising she would think about it in any sort of positive light. Krista lifted her mug in a salute. “Thanks for the pep talk, ladies, but I need to get going. I told Foster I’d meet him to check out the new horse before things get started for the day.”
“You’ll take him a muffin,” Gran said. “And one for yourself.”
“Thanks.” Krista snagged the muffins and kissed her gran’s soft, sweet-smelling cheek. “You’re the best.” Which went without saying but was still worth saying now and then.
“Poosh.” Gran waved her off. “Go on and
see to your horse. Keep an eye on the clock, though.”
“What, me lose track? Never.” Well, hardly ever.
“And call Ruth.”
“I said I’d think about it, okay? But, and this is just a word to the wise”—Krista fixed her gran with a look—“if I find out you and Ruth put your heads together to make me a profile and chat up random guys on my behalf, I’ll . . .” Okay, she didn’t actually know what she would do—she’d never had to threaten Gran before. She snapped her fingers. “Got it. I’ll post your cookie recipes on the Web site.”
Dory gasped, and Gran’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You wouldn’t.”
No, but when she was twelve, Big Skye had taught her how to win at poker. “If I start getting e-mails like ‘Roses r red, violets r blu, I saw ur profile, and I want to do u’? Count on it.” As Gran and Dory whooped, she waved her way out the door. “Catch you guys later.”
Outside, it was shaping up to be a gorgeous summer day, perfect for a picnic ride up to one of the high lakes with a new crop of dudes. Excited to see the gray mare—she was toying with “Jupiter” as a name—and talk to Foster about a training plan, she jogged down the steps from the kitchen door and headed for the barn. Halfway there, her phone let rip with the Lone Ranger theme, and she grinned and took the call. “Hey, Foster. Sorry. I got caught up with Gran. I’ve got muffins, though, which should make up for it. I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Actually, it’s Shelby.”
Krista stopped dead at the sound of choked-back tears in her best friend’s voice. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“I’m at the hospital.”
Her stomach plummeted. “Shelby! What happened?”
“Foster fell under one of the horses. It’s his knee, and it’s bad. But when it first happened, I thought . . .” She didn’t finish.
“I can be there in forty minutes.” A tangle of half-formed thoughts whipped through her head—Mom can handle the opening remarks. Is the trailer unhitched? Doesn’t matter. I’ll take one of the cars.
“Krista, no! You’ve got guests.”
“If it was me, would you stay home?”
Shelby’s voice strengthened. “No, but I don’t have one less wrangler than I was expecting for Reunion Week.”
The bad thing about doing business with friends was that your friends knew your business. “I don’t care,” Krista said stubbornly, even though Shelby was right, dang it. She had gotten away with being shorthanded all summer—what with Ty going on the road with a country band, and Stace part-timing it while she finished her thesis—but now her inability to find more riders to add to Team Mustang Ridge was poised to bite her in the butt. “Damn. I wish I could be there for you.”
“You are.” Shelby’s sigh echoed down the line. “It looks bad, Krissy. Like surgery and major-time-off bad. We’ll know more after the X-rays and probably an MRI, but . . .” Emotion thickened her voice once more. “One second he and Pardner were pushing the cows back up toward the high pasture, and the next thing, boom. Pardner tripped, did a somersault, and went right over on top of Foster. He was scrambling to get up when I got there. The horse was, I mean. Foster . . . he wasn’t moving. I couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.” She sob-hiccupped.
“God, Shelby.” Krista cradled the phone to her cheek, like that would do anything to bring her friend closer. “Seriously, forty minutes. Or at least let me call Jenny.”
“I already did. She’s on her way.”
“Good. That’s good.” It didn’t make Krista feel any better about not being there, though. “You’ll call me with updates? I don’t care when, how often, or what I’m doing when the phone rings, I want you to call me. Promise?”
“I will. I promise. But”—another hiccup—“you’re going need to make some other calls, you know.”
Krista could’ve sworn her stomach had already sunk as low as it could go. “Don’t say it. Not yet.”
“Sorry, kiddo, but sometimes the truth sucks. And the truth is, you’re going to have to find a new head wrangler to finish out the season.”
5
By the time the weekend rolled around, Krista had proof positive of something she had long suspected: Foster was irreplaceable.
Granted, he could be crabby with the guests, but he had been her go-to guy since about five minutes after she’d taken her first reservation. Now, she was leading the rides herself with Junior bringing up the rear and both of them trying not to blink—because when you mixed horses, greenhorns, and the great wide open, the craziest things had a way of happening. Like when Art Finkle overbalanced in the saddle during a river crossing, made a panicked grab for his estranged wife, and took them both down with a big, messy splash. Or when the Miller family tied their horses to one another rather than the hitching rail in Keyhole Canyon, and Sassy—a chestnut mare who more than lived up to her name—made a high-speed beeline for the green grass of the upper pasture, dragging the other three along for the getaway.
“Smile, sweetie.” Her mom nudged her with an elbow. “It was a good week.”
In the office, maybe. But Krista plastered on a smile as several sets of guests headed for where she and Rose stood with Gran near the shuttle bus, which was packed and ready to go.
“Thank you!” Mandy, a single mom to a pair of sulky preteens who had softened considerably over the course of the week, gave Krista a fervent hug. “This was . . . You’re amazing. All of you. We’ll be back next year, and I’m telling all my friends about Mustang Ridge.”
Krista returned the hug, feeling her smile turn genuine. “I’m so glad you had fun. You’ve got great kids and you’re doing an amazing job with them. I’ll look forward to seeing all of you next summer!”
Even better, she got smiles and hugs from Mandy’s daughters, Bria and Kyle, who had been full of eye rolls and whatevers when they arrived.
“Tell Jenny we said bye,” Kyle ordered. “She’s the coolest.”
“I’ll do that,” Krista promised. “Have a safe trip home and don’t forget to double-check your cinch before you mount up.”
Bria looked mournful. “I don’t think we’ll be able to ride much in Chicago.”
“It’s a metaphor,” Kyle said with lofty scorn, then added, “Duh.”
“I knew that,” Bria shot back. “I was being ironic.”
“You were not.”
“Was so.”
“Annnd, they’re off.” Mandy came around her daughters and herded them up the shuttle steps. “See you!”
Next in line was a rawboned teen, all hands and feet and hair that fell in his eyes. “Hey, Randy!” Krista offered a fist bump and got one in return. “I see you’ve got your rope.”
“You know it.” He patted the coil she had given him, which he wore slung over one shoulder in fine cowboy style. “I’m going to practice every day back home.”
“Not on your brothers or any family pets, okay?”
“How about my stepfather?”
She shot him a narrow look at that one, but Bradley Nixon—who had quickly graduated from potentially high maintenance to type A but a good guy—stepped up and slung an arm across his son’s shoulders. “Actually, Randy and I are going to keep riding. I did some research, and there’s a barn not far from my house that offers lessons.”
“They’ve got team penning, calf roping, and even cowboy-mounted shooting!” Randy put in.
“No guns,” his father said immediately, but then qualified it with, “at least not at first. Let’s get our riding solid, and we can go from there.”
They were going to be okay, Krista thought as they headed for the shuttle. It was nice knowing she had played some part in opening the lines of communication . . . though the horses and the high country should get most of the credit there.
After the Nixons, there were more hugs, more gratitude and promises to return, until the bus filled up and the line wore down to the final two: Art and Amy Finkle, who stood with their fingers twined together, wearing matching smiles.
Krista blinked. “Well. Look at you two!”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Amy reached up and patted Art’s vacation-stubbled cheek. “That dunking in the river got us laughing together for the first time in—God, I don’t know how long. Then we talked a little, and a little more, and, well . . .” She blushed.
“The next thing we knew,” Art said with an eyebrow wiggle, “we were sitting out behind our cabin with a couple of empty wine bottles, watching the sun come up over the mountains.” He kissed Amy’s temple. “It was a pretty perfect moment.”
And so is this, Krista thought. Maybe Reunion Week hadn’t been as much of a disaster as she had thought. “I hope we see you again.”
“Count on it,” Amy promised.
They exchanged final hugs and good-byes, and Krista watched as the Finkles climbed onto the shuttle, with Art keeping a hand on the small of his wife’s back like he didn’t want to let go, even for a second. Then the shuttle door accordioned shut, signaling the end of another week.
As the bus lumbered off, Krista gave one last wave, then turned back to her mom and Gran with a sigh. “One week down, seven more to go before the end of the summer season. I hate feeling that way, but there it is. On the upside, I don’t think the guests suffered.”
“Are you kidding?” Gran said. “That was our best Reunion Week yet. As long as there are horses to ride and cookies in the saddlebags, we can fudge the rest.”
Rose made a face. “I’d rather not have to fudge for too much longer. I’m beat, Eddie is hiding in his workshop, I haven’t seen Big Skye in days, and no offense, Krissy, but you look like death.”
“Wow, Mom, way to rock the tact.” Not to mention reminding her that she had spent most of last night trying to catch up in the office and prep for the new guests.
“You should take a nap.”
“Can’t. Too much to do.”
“Like hire someone to fill in for Foster?”
“Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” Krista tipped her head back and stared up at a fluffy white cloud that was shaped like a sledgehammer. “I feel like Goldilocks.” She pitched her voice to a girly falsetto. “This one can’t ride her way out of a paper bag. This one has the people skills of a lima bean. And this one is just ri—whoops, never mind. He’s staring at my chest.” Dropping her voice back to normal, she added, “I’m not finding a ‘just right,’ or even an ‘I can live with this for a couple of months.’ Foster and I have called in all the favors we can think of, but nobody good enough to do the job wants it. I even tracked Ty down and offered him twice his old pay to come back for a couple of months, but I guess his band is doing really well.”
Harvest at Mustang Ridge Page 4