Harvest at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  Krista crouched down, lips shaping a reluctant curve as she found she could be charmed by the dog while wishing wholeheartedly that she didn’t need his master on her property. “Well, hello there. I guess you know sit and shake, don’t you?” She shook the proffered paw.

  “Along with a few other things,” Wyatt said wryly. “This is Klepto.”

  “Oh?”

  “He has a habit of borrowing things. Don’t worry. I’ll keep him entertained enough—and tired enough—to behave.”

  Great, she thought, knowing the dog wouldn’t be nearly so cute if he was traipsing around with stolen Ray-Bans or a just-out-of-the-box Justin boot. Or, in the case of this week’s guests, dentures and pill bottles, along with the Ray-Bans and boots. But she needed the cowboy, and a good working dog could be a huge asset on the trail.

  She ruffled the wiry gray fur. “Keep your paws to yourself, young man. We’re on to you.” Straightening, she said to Wyatt, “You’ll be responsible for any losses, and he’ll need to be tied if things get bad.”

  “Agreed.” He held out a mug. “Coffee? I’ve got a muffin for you, too.”

  She took a step back before she could stop herself. It shouldn’t have felt like worlds colliding to see him holding the familiar mug. “I take it you met Gran.”

  “Nice lady. She seemed happy to see me. Then again, I didn’t give her my name.”

  “I figured we’d see how today goes before I tell them.” She didn’t like keeping things from her parents and grandparents, but she hadn’t even been sure he would show up. And now that he had . . . well, they would see how it went. The part of her that knew the ranch needed him was deadlocked with the part of her that said this was a bad idea.

  “Your family, your call.”

  Steeling herself, she reached for the mug. The coffee had cooled off some, but his fingers were warm where they brushed against hers, and there was that zzzap again, like she had grabbed on to an electric fence. She sucked in a breath and snatched the mug, sloshing coffee and sending Jupiter back a snorting step.

  “Dang it.” She shook the liquid off her hand, careful not to look at him as her mind shuddered. She wanted to blame the sizzle on after burn from last night’s chili, but couldn’t. Wanted to pretend she wasn’t entirely aware of his darkening eyes and the way his shoulders and biceps strained his work shirt, but couldn’t do that, either. There was something else going on here, something she hadn’t expected, hadn’t been braced for.

  Sparks. Damn it. She shouldn’t be attracted to him, couldn’t possibly be.

  Staring at her with eyes gone suddenly intense, with his nostrils flaring like a mustang stallion scenting his mare, he said only, “Did you burn yourself?”

  “No. I’m fine.” Only she wasn’t fine. Her blood thudded very close to the surface of her skin. Because his expression said that it wasn’t just her feeling the sudden heat. Oh, no. Heck, no. This so wasn’t happening. She took another involuntary step back, because suddenly there was a big gray thing standing there with them, and it wasn’t Jupiter. Hello, elephant in the arena.

  He held his hands away from his sides. “It was just coffee. I’m not going to jump you.”

  She flushed. “You don’t need to be crude.”

  “I’m not. I’m being honest.”

  Taking a deep breath, she said, “This isn’t going to be a problem, right? You and me? This . . . whatever we suddenly seem to have going on here? Which is stupid, right? You agree that it’s stupid?” Why was she even asking?

  “How about we go with ill-advised?”

  “Stupid by any other name is just as dumb.” As was feeling even the slightest hint of disappointment. Not because she wanted to start anything with him, but because she wanted him to want it, so she could throw it back at him, preferably with some heel grinding involved.

  So much for being a grown-up. Gah.

  “How about this?” he said. “The two of us together wouldn’t work these days. I make it a point to keep things uncomplicated.”

  There was no reason for that to irritate her. But it most certainly did. “For all you know, I’m the most uncomplicated cowgirl in all of Wyoming.”

  “I’m going to be working for you and your family, and the two of us have a past. That’s about as complicated as it gets.”

  “Then why were you looking at me a minute ago like you wanted to . . . well, you know?”

  One corner of his mouth kicked up, though there wasn’t any humor in his eyes. “I’m a guy, Krista, and we’re pretty basic when it comes to a beautiful woman. And when two people have got the sort of history we do, there are bound to be leftovers.”

  *

  “Leftovers!” Shelby’s screech vibrated down the line later that evening. “He actually said leftovers?”

  Her indignation went a long way to soothing Krista’s pique. Hunkering down in her desk chair, she nodded into the phone. “Yep. Leftovers. Like I was a piece of day-old broccoli or something.”

  “While undressing you with his eyes.”

  The memory shouldn’t have kicked an echo of heat through her system. “That might be overstating it a bit. But he definitely looked like he wanted to take a nibble.” She shot a look out the door as she said it, hoping that hadn’t carried to the main room.

  “Why are you whispering?” Shelby hissed. “Is he there?”

  “No. But my mom and dad are in the other room.”

  “Do they know who he is yet?”

  “I told them a little while ago. Mom fussed and threatened to go ‘have a talk with him’—shudder—but I think I convinced her not to. Dad muttered a couple of things I don’t think he’d appreciate me repeating, but said he’d respect my decision. Big Skye said Wyatt sounded like an idiot, which I appreciated. As for Gran . . . she didn’t say much, really.” Which had been the hardest to take. Krista didn’t want to disappoint her gran, didn’t want her to worry. “I hope I don’t look back on this and think, Boy, that was dumb.”

  “How was he with the guests?”

  “Amazing.” Which shouldn’t have made her want to slam her head in the filing cabinet.

  “What week is it, anyway?”

  “Golden Singles.” That had been a lucky break, as it was one of their less dramatic themes. The older singles had plenty of opinions and needed to be watched carefully with the horses, but they tended to keep the ups and downs of their romances a little more private than the younger crowd.

  “Foster said he sounded legit when they talked. And you said he’s gone to get his stuff and move into the bunkhouse, so I take it that you guys came to an agreement?”

  Krista’s sigh felt like it came all the way up from her toes. “He’s the right guy for the job. We got everybody in the saddle by eleven, nobody fell off, and even Junior—who wanted the job even though he’s totally not ready for it—admitted that Wyatt rocked Riding 101 and the guided ride. Not to mention that the guests adored him.” On the trail, Wyatt had worked his way up and down the line of horses, turning the ladies into eyelash-fluttering cowgirls and making the guys puff up their chests. “And when we got home, he ducked an offer from a couple of librarians, but managed to do it so they walked off smiling.”

  “And you just happened to overhear this?” Shelby’s voice dropped. “Krista Skye, were you stalking the cougars that were stalking him? What else happened? C’mon. Dish!”

  “I . . . Oh, shut up. I’m not ready to laugh at myself yet. It’s been a long day. Leftovers my butt. I just want to curl up in the peace and quiet of my room, and not think about the fact that my ex is moving into my bunkhouse.” Suddenly, feeling all of the hours of sleep she had missed over the past week, she sighed. “In fact, I think I’m going to turn in. Catch you later?”

  “Anytime, girlfriend.”

  After disconnecting, Krista pushed away from the desk, stood, and reached up her arms in a spine-cracking stretch. Yeah, bed would feel good. Maybe a full night’s sleep would reboot the part of her that had spent the day noti
cing how deftly Wyatt had handled Brutus, one of the trickiest horses in the wranglers’ string, and how his jean-clad thighs had worked to control the beast with shifts of pressure and balance. Yeah. Bed. Oblivion. Deal with it tomorrow. Pretty sure she was on the verge of losing her mind—or at least the logical, rational part of it that she relied on—Krista turned for the doorway. And found it already occupied.

  “There you are!” Gran said, looking expectant.

  “Was I missing?”

  “Oh, you. Here, I want you to take this.” She held out one of the picnic baskets the guests used for romantic one-on-one getaways and short fishing trips down the river. Woven from local reeds and lined with blue-and-white checkered cloth, the baskets were sweet and homey, and had recently been added to the gift line.

  Krista eyed it. “Is this a hint that I’m not eating enough?” Sure, she forgot a meal now and then, but her sweet tooth usually made up for it.

  “No, silly, it’s for Wyatt. He didn’t come up for dinner with the guests, and you didn’t give me enough warning to stock the fridge in the bunkhouse. I want you to run this over to him.”

  Suddenly, the basket got a whole lot less cute. “Gran—”

  “You told us to trust your decision in hiring him, and the job includes room and board.”

  “He went to get his stuff. I’m sure he’ll grab something while he’s out.” But it sounded weak, even to Krista, and she knew that the more she argued, the more Gran would fuss. Or, worse, start getting ideas about her and Wyatt. She held out her hand. “Fine. I’ll take it.”

  Besides, she could always put it on the porch, ring the bell, and run away. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t even be home yet.

  8

  After everything Wyatt had seen so far at Mustang Ridge, the bunkhouse shouldn’t have surprised the stuffing out of him. But unless cowboying had changed a whole lot in the last few years, this was way more than the usual “room” part of “room and board.”

  The long, narrow log cabin might’ve been a lowly bunkhouse during an earlier incarnation, but now it sported a modern-day cistern, solar panels, and its own driveway a couple of miles from the main house—though it was closer if you hiked the trail that went over the hill.

  Inside, the ongoing reno had opened things up with fifteen-foot ceilings and a spiral staircase leading to an enclosed loft. There was a high-end stainless-steel kitchen, a big flat screen over a stone-hearth fireplace, surround-sound speakers tucked into planters that bloomed with greens and purples, and framed landscapes on the walls. The only unfinished bit was the indoor hot tub, which was built into a platform opposite the fireplace, and was surrounded by boxes of tiles and buckets of grout.

  “All the comforts of home, and then some,” Wyatt announced, coming back into the main room with a towel around his hips and another looped over his neck.

  Klepto, snoozing on his bed by the fat leather couch, condescended to lift his head and shoot Wyatt a look of Do I need to react to that? Then, apparently deciding that was a no, he lay back down with a sigh.

  Wyatt grinned. “And thus we prove the old saying: A tired dog is a good dog.” Klepto had surprised him by working up and down the line of riders like a pro, helping keep the horses in their double line. Even better, the dog had been drooping pretty good by the time they got back to the barn, and there hadn’t been any calls of “Hey, has anyone seen my whatever?”

  After collecting his things from Sam’s house, Wyatt had dumped his tools—which hadn’t seen the light of day since he crossed the Wyoming border—in the steel-span building behind the bunkhouse, and hit the no-expenses-spared shower for a hot, steamy soak that left him feeling human again. Now he padded into the kitchen for one of the beers he had bummed off Sam, humming under his breath.

  After a rough start, the rest of the day had turned out okay.

  The horses were a nice bunch, mostly gentled mustangs with decent heads on their shoulders; the assistant wranglers, Junior and Stace, knew their stuff; and the guests were a hoot. Trixie and Tracy—a pair of part-time librarians from Long Island—had attached themselves to him firmly but politely, and had proven to have some horse smarts. Some of the other golden singles seemed to be leaning toward pairing up, including Joe the botanist and Bebe the florist, who had been talking tomatoes the last he’d heard. After the horses were put away for the night, he had spent some time with Jupiter, who had picked up on the idea of targeting with ridiculous ease, almost immediately making the connection that bumping the proffered ball-on-a-stick with her nose would be rewarded by a noise from his handheld clicker followed by a couple of pellets of grain. By the fifth time through, she was looking at him like, Yeah, yeah. Bump, click, treat. Got it. What’s next?

  As for Krista, well, at least things hadn’t gotten any worse than they started. He hadn’t meant to be a jerk earlier—the kick of attraction had caught him off guard almost as much as her asking about it point-blank, and the truth had been out there before he could think to soften it. He had a feeling that had been for the best, though, because it had put some frost in the air between them for the rest of the day. And, when they met up after his training session with Jupiter, there hadn’t been any sizzle to their exchange—just a The job is yours if you want it from her and a Then I guess I’ll go get my stuff from him. Moreover, if today was anything to go by, with her riding drag and disappearing into the house as soon as they got home, he had a feeling he wouldn’t be seeing her that much over the next couple of months.

  “Whuff!” Klepto’s head came up and his ears cocked toward the front door.

  “Need to use the boys’ tree?” Wyatt asked, having given the dog a “don’t you even think of piddling in here” lecture earlier. But then headlight beams cut through the windows and a car rolled up beside Old Blue in the darkness, and he nodded. “Ah. Early warning system. Thanks, buddy.” Not that the dog had given him much lead time, as he heard the car door open and shut almost immediately, followed by boots on gravel.

  He glanced down at the towel he was wearing around his waist, then shrugged. It was probably Sam taking him up on the offer of a beer and a chance to scope out his new digs, or maybe bitch some more about his missing this, that, or the other. So Wyatt hitched up his towel and opened the door just as his visitor hit the porch. “Hey! I was just telling Klepto—” He froze, the words locking in his throat at the sight of a picnic basket and a pair of big blue eyes that flew wide.

  It was Krista. And he was damn near naked.

  *

  Oh, help. It was all she could think as she was confronted by an acre of tan skin and rippling muscle, and surrounded by the scent of freshly showered male and a hint of spicy aftershave. Her boots nailed themselves to the porch and the picnic basket threatened to slip from fingers that were suddenly itching to touch the line of sparse hair that began at his nipples, met in the center and traveled down, thickening as it went. Don’t you dare, she warned her libido, wishing desperately for a flash flood, a lightning strike, or for the couch behind him to spontaneously combust. Something—anything—to send her running. She had seen his body before, granted. But it hadn’t looked anything like this. Pull yourself together, she chastised, trying to channel her inner Shelby. He called you leftovers.

  “Here.” She shoved the basket at him. “Gran didn’t want you to starve. I told them who you are, and they’re trusting my judgment on hiring you.”

  “Good to know.” Expression shuttered, he took the basket and set it aside, then looked over his shoulder to where two leather duffels sat on the couch, open and partway unpacked. Nearby, a sleek little laptop rested beside a half-finished beer. “Come in. Or wait here, whichever. I’ll put on some clothes.”

  “I’m not staying.” She didn’t move, though, and neither did he. And after a nanosecond pause, with her brain clamoring no-no-no-don’t-do-it and feminine insult cheering her on, she added, “But before I go, there’s one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  Pretty sure
that this was one of the stupidest things she had ever done but unable to fight the urge to make her point, she grabbed the ends of the towel he wore around his neck, went up on her toes, and announced, “I’m nobody’s old broccoli.” And she kissed him.

  *

  Wyatt would’ve rocked back in his boots if he’d been wearing any. He didn’t know what this had to do with old broccoli, but that fleeting thought was his last rational one as his brain short-circuited and his body reacted to the kiss.

  His hands came up to grip her hips and take in the feel of denim and a concho-studded belt. His mouth parted her lips, his tongue found its mate, and his senses filled with a light scent that reminded him of riding through a field of wildflowers right after the rain. She tasted sweet and fresh, yet there was a spicy undertone as she moved restlessly against his body, wringing a groan from his throat.

  But at the sound, something kicked back on in his brain like a blown fuse resetting itself.

  What was he doing? This wasn’t the plan. Exactly the opposite.

  Hands off, moron. Remember?

  He yanked away, peeling his body from hers and then grabbing the towel at his waist when it threatened to head south, all of it feeling like a mad scramble for sanity. But with his pulse pounding in his ears and the taste and feel of her imprinted on his neurons, he didn’t think sanity was coming anytime soon. “Sorry about that,” he rasped, because it seemed like he should say something.

  “Don’t be sorry because I kissed you.” Her eyes blazed and twin spots of color rode high on her cheeks. “Be sorry for trying to pretend that this”—she poked a finger from her to him and back again—“was left over from before. Because, news flash, it’s not.”

  Left over. Leftovers. Broccoli. Right. Which wasn’t the point. But what was? “Krista—”

  “I have every reason to have zero interest in you, but I can’t pull it off.” She glared. “I’m attracted to you, and it pisses me off.”

  He should probably pretend that he wasn’t interested, but that would be tough to pull off when he could’ve hung the towel off his johnson. Not to mention that ever since that wretched night eight years ago, he’d made it a point to be honest from the very start—both in business and pleasure—rather than letting things slide until it was too late and people got hurt. “Okay, fine,” he said. “We’ve got some killer chemistry going on, and it’s not just because we’ve got a history. Is that what you want to hear? But we both know that sparks aren’t enough when two people are headed in different directions. And I don’t want to hurt you again.”