Harvest at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

Aha, Krista thought. Gotcha. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you might have left them on someone else’s nightstand?” Bernie’s, perhaps?

  “Young lady! What are you . . .” The indignation trailed off and was followed by a chastened, “Never mind. Thank you,” and the click of a disconnect.

  Krista pantomimed dusting off her hands. “Mystery solved.”

  “She left them at Bernie’s?” her mom asked.

  “Yep.”

  Gran sighed happily. “It’s just like that movie, only they didn’t spend the whole weekend in his cabin together. Just Friday night.”

  “I’m pretty sure Weekend at Bernie’s wasn’t a romance, Gran.”

  “Still, it’s got a ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “So does It’s almost time to load up the shuttle and get Junior on the road. You want some help carrying out the snacks?”

  Gran blinked at her. “Since when do you get all excited about guests leaving? Usually it’s the other way around.”

  Krista went with a casual shrug. “It’s not that. I’m just tired, I guess.” Tired from too little sleep and too much buzzing in her brain. She hadn’t settled until well after midnight, and even then she’d found herself staring into the darkness, thinking about what Wyatt had said.

  It hadn’t all been news to her, of course. She had known his father wasn’t part of his life, and that he’d helped raise his sister until his mom remarried. But she hadn’t known about his father’s drive-through visits or how early Wyatt had started working to help pay the bills. How much time he had spent taking care of his sister. It explained some things, she supposed. Maybe it didn’t excuse them, but it explained them.

  “Krista?” her mom said, with enough concern to suggest that she had missed something. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Sorry. Did you ask me a question?” Wanting to ease their suddenly worried expressions, she tacked on, “Please don’t tell me that Sukie called to say that Bernie’s wearing her dentures, and could we please get them back for her.”

  “Actually,” Gran said, “the question was: Do you want us to handle the good-byes, so you can go take a nap? But I think we should upgrade that to an order.” She pointed to the stairs. “Go on. Shoo!”

  “But I need to—”

  “Take a few hours off,” her mother finished for her. “Nap. Read a book. Take Lucky for a ride. Do something for yourself for a change, will you? We can hold down the fort.”

  She wanted to argue but was afraid she might win, and the thought of an extra hour or two of free time beckoned like green grass on the other side of a fence line. “You’re sure you guys don’t mind?”

  “Go, already!”

  Krista went. First, though, she made a circuit of the cabins to say individual good-byes. Most of them were of the usual “thanks so much for coming, I hope to see you again” variety. Except for Sukie, who complained about the maid using her makeup and didn’t get the joke when Krista said she didn’t think it was Fernando’s color, and Bebe, who pulled Krista in for an extra-long hug and whispered in her ear, “Just remember, sparks don’t come around every day, and neither does a good man.”

  Which was true, she thought as she headed for the barn. Question was: What was she going to do about it? Wyatt had said something last night about it being time for her to have some fun, and her mom and Gran had echoed that just now. And darned if it wasn’t starting to resonate.

  She worked her butt off to make sure the guests were having the time of their lives. When was it going to be her turn?

  Lucky nickered from his run as she came around the corner, bobbing his head as if to say, Are we doing something cool? Are we, are we, huh, huh? But Krista’s attention went to the middle of the arena, where a tall, muscular cowboy in jeans, a work shirt, and a brown hat stood with a gray mustang mare. The sight reminded her of the moment she first saw him, two weeks earlier at the mustang lottery, and the buzz that suddenly ran beneath her skin wasn’t sparks so much as a sense of inevitability, like they had been heading toward this moment ever since.

  As she crossed to the arena fence, he backed away from Jupiter and offered a long, flexible stick with a wad of rag tied to the end. The mare stood stock-still, her ears pricked so far forward that their curving tips nearly touched. Then, when he gave a low-voiced command, she raised one forefoot to touch the end of the stick, then alternated to touch it with the other, then bump it with her nose. Each behavior was rewarded with a click, and when she finished the routine, Wyatt praised her and patted her neck.

  Then, as if he had known all along that she was there—which he probably had—he glanced at Krista. “Well, boss lady? What do you think?”

  The tingle that ran through her suggested he wasn’t just asking about Jupiter’s training, but she wasn’t ready to talk about last night just yet. Focusing on Jupiter, she said, “Not bad, cowboy. Any problems so far?”

  He moved to hitch a boot on the rail and prop his elbows beside hers, so they mirrored each other, one on either side of the fence. “Nothing serious. The one thing I’m noticing is that she doesn’t like being crowded.”

  Like you’re crowding me? But, darn it, she liked having him right there, liked the prickle-heat that skimmed through her. “By other horses, you mean?”

  “By man-made stuff, actually. Gates, stall doors, that sort of thing. She wants to plant her feet and give it a good look, sometimes a snort, like she’s afraid it’ll slam shut on her.”

  “Hm.” She reached out to stroke the velvety nose. “We’re going to need you to be braver than that, big mare. The ride-off has three phases, and I guarantee there’ll be a gate or two in the obstacle course.” Glancing at Wyatt, she said, “We’re going to need to be near perfect on the first two phases if we want to have a shot at winning.”

  His eyes were steady on hers. “And winning is important to you?”

  She hesitated. Then, figuring what the heck, she said, “The prize money is important. I want to start a mustang sanctuary here at the ranch.” Saying it out loud gave her a buzz—part excitement, part ohmigosh, am I really going to do this?

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “I want a whole herd, a family unit.” She waved a hand toward the foothills. “I’ll section off a few hundred acres, maybe a thousand, and see about driving a herd straight from government land. We’d geld the colts—no point in adding more to the overpopulation—and turn them loose.”

  One corner of his mouth kicked up. “The guests would enjoy seeing wild horses roaming the high pastures.”

  “So would Big Skye. He hates how the rangeland is shrinking and the mustangs are getting squeezed out.”

  “Which is why it matters to you.”

  He would see that, wouldn’t he? “Not the only reason. But, yeah, that’s part of it.” She looked past the fencing to where the grasslands stretched all the way to the foothills. “I want him to have something he can get excited about. Maybe even something the two of us could share.” She wished she hadn’t said that last part, but once it was out there, she didn’t take it back. And, when he raised an eyebrow, she added, “Growing up, I was always his little girl, the heir apparent. He bragged that I could ride before I could walk, and my first four words were horse and that darn cow. He always said that the ranch would be mine one day, and that it would be my responsibility to make sure it stayed in the family.”

  “I remember you worrying how he would take your big proposal.”

  It didn’t hurt nearly so much now to remember those long-ago, so serious discussions about her dreams. The balance had changed between them, making the present seem more important than the past. “The family has equal shares, but Gramps was counting on me to preserve our heritage. For the longest time, he didn’t believe that the changeover was my way of doing that and felt like the dude ranch was a betrayal. It’s gotten better in the last year or so, but”—she shook her head—“he’s not happy. I’m hoping that putting him in charge of the san
ctuary will help, but I need the prize money to get it off the ground.” She doubted that it would fix everything between her and Big Skye, but it might be a start.

  He caught a fistful of Jupiter’s long mane and gave it a gentle tug. “You hear that, maresy? You’d better man up where it comes to gates.”

  “Wouldn’t that be ‘mare up’?”

  “That, too.” He looked at her. “It’s a nice idea and a good cause. I’ll do what I can to help.”

  Her throat tightened. “Thanks.” After a moment, she said, “When Big Skye was a boy, he used to sneak up on the herds, belly crawling until he was practically underneath them. Then he’d watch them interact—their body language and pecking order, and how the stallion might show off but the alpha mare really ran things.” Her lips curved. “I think that’s one reason he and Gran do so well together—she might be small and quiet, but she’s fierce when you get on the wrong side of her.”

  Jupiter bobbed her head—no doubt from dust or bugs, but it was like she was weighing in with an Alpha mares, unite!

  Wyatt chuckled at her, but then sobered and said, “I used to think we came from different worlds, as much as two people could when they grew up around cattle and horses.” He glanced around at the homestead. “Now I’m sure of it. You’ve got your own little piece of heaven here.”

  Something shifted inside her, but she kept it light. “Says the famous C. W. Webb. How many countries have you visited?”

  He shook his head. “Places are just places. This is something else. And the next time I sit down with my sketches, I’m going to picture your gramps belly crawling up on a herd of wild horses. That’s the mind-set I need to put myself in, the kind of image I need for the statue. Something that embodies the pioneer spirit.” He tipped his head toward the top of the ridge. “Those marker stones are close—I can picture your long-ago ancestors busting their asses to stack them, so the riders of Mustang Ridge would always be able to find their way home. But I need something else. Something more.”

  The cave, Krista thought, a sizzle running through her as she realized she knew exactly the place, complete with a history that ran all the way back to the wagon trains, maybe even earlier. But it was her place—hers and Jenny’s—and she wasn’t sure she wanted him in it, wasn’t sure she wanted the memories of him to linger there once he was gone. Show him, said the part of her that reveled in the heat of his body next to hers. Don’t you dare, said the part that knew better.

  Pulse racing as she made the decision, she said, “How about you saddle up and meet me up at the marker stones in fifteen? There’s something I want to show you.”

  *

  Ten minutes later, Wyatt swung aboard Jupiter, settled his hat on his brow, whistled for Klepto, and headed out. Was this a bad idea? Maybe. Probably. But right now he didn’t give a rat’s patootie. It was his day off, and he wanted to go riding with Krista. Besides, Jupiter needed the miles. Now that he knew what they were competing for—how could a guy not get behind rehoming an entire herd and setting them free on land like this?—he was even more determined to put some polish on the gray mare, and have her ready to kick some serious butt in six weeks’ time.

  Krista was waiting up on the ridge astride her classy black gelding, who stood beside the marker stones with his neck arched and his ears pricked. As Jupiter drew near, Wyatt called, “The two of you make a heck of a pair. I feel like I should take a picture.” Or sketch them with the fewest lines possible, just the outline of the horse and a few more details of the rider—the way the curves of her straw hat were echoed in the soft hollows of her throat, and how her twin braids turned back the clock and made her look like a teenager, even though her eyes said she wasn’t a green girl anymore.

  “Thanks to Jenny, I’ve got plenty of pictures.” She touched a rein to Lucky’s neck, wheeling him with the barest hint of pressure. “Come on—we’ve got some ground to cover and I want to be back before the new guests arrive.”

  “Lead on, boss lady.”

  She flashed him a grin and they set off, alternating between an easy jog and a ground-covering lope that carried them from ridge to valley, and over the rolling hills beyond. They didn’t talk much, instead falling into the sign-language shorthand of the trail, with gestures like Check out the hawk up there and silent whistles when they came upon the tracks of a huge wolf.

  He had missed this, he admitted as Jupiter picked her way down one side of a dry gulch and scrambled up the other, her head up and her ears always on the move. Missed the inner calm that came from the noisy silence of a couple of horses and no conversation, the feeling that they could be the only two people for hundreds of miles, the only two who had passed this way in decades, centuries. Maybe ever. And how cool was that?

  On the guest trail rides, they had gone mostly west from the homestead. Now they headed north, out of the grasslands and into rougher terrain, where the trees were bigger and the horses had to mind their footing. Eventually, Krista zeroed in on a ragged patch of forest at the top of a rocky incline. Jupiter followed the gelding up the hill and into the pines, and soon the air grew heavy with mist and the sound of rushing water.

  “Watch the branches,” she called, flattening herself against Lucky’s neck as the trees closed in around them. “Just keep coming. It opens up pretty fast.”

  Wyatt sank into the saddle. “Go on,” he told the tensed-up mare. “They won’t get you.”

  Jupiter hesitated, then gathered herself and plunged forward. The trees whipped past, dragging at his clothes, and then they were through, squirting out like a seed from a squeezed lemon.

  Krista raised a cheer. “Brave mare!”

  “She sure is.” He fished in a pocket for the clicker and some treats, and looked around the clearing as the mare munched. The pretty little grotto was edged with greenery and pink flowers, and echoed with the sound of a nearby waterfall. Knowing there was no point in bringing up another, long-ago waterfall, he said only, “Do you bring guests out here?”

  “It’s more of a family deal.” She looped Lucky’s reins over a branch. “Will Jupiter be okay standing tied for a few minutes?”

  “Should be. We’ve practiced it.” Deciding to go with the flow rather than analyzing either of their motives—hers for bringing him to a private spot, his for chasing a woman who didn’t seem to be fully interested in being caught—he tied the mare and whistled for Klepto. When the mutt zipped into the clearing, he pointed to a safe spot. “Keep an eye on these two, will you?”

  The dog flopped down and glared at the horses.

  “He’s a funny one, isn’t he?” Krista said with a small smile. “Not exactly your typical cattle dog.”

  “He was a city stray.”

  Interest sparked in her expression. “I bet there’s a story.”

  “There’s always a story when it comes to Klepto,” he said drily. “This is a good one, though. It was the night of my first show for Damien. There was lots of money, lots of pretense, and after an hour or so it really started getting to me. I stepped out back for a break, and this ugly gray dog came out from underneath a Dumpster and mugged me for my cocktail wieners.” The woman he’d been seeing, Desiree, had been horrified by the filthy, smelly creature, but he’d felt more than a little kinship. “When I said I was keeping him, Damien took pictures and splashed the story, and the show sold out on the second night.” He ruffled the dog’s upturned head. “I wouldn’t say he made my career, but he sure kick-started my popularity. Now it’s up to me not to torpedo things by flaming out on the pioneer piece.”

  “I think I might be able to help with that.” She gestured him to where a trail led into the scrub. “Come on, but watch your step.”

  Wyatt followed her along a corridor of rocks and trees while the waterfall noise went from a whisper to a roar and the air turned damp. Up ahead, two stone slabs leaned against each other, forming a tunnel. He followed Krista through . . . and found himself in a slice of the backcountry at its very best. On one side of the wide le
dge, char marks on the cliff face attested to decades—maybe centuries—of campfires. On the other, a plume of green-and-white water plunged past and down to crash in a boiling pool that carved deep into the stone and fed a winding river. The valley beyond was pure Wyoming, all greens and browns, and bounded by high canyon walls.

  Krista didn’t stop, though. She kept going along the ledge, shot him a sassy smile, and ducked right through the cannonading waterfall. There was a splash and then she was gone. But a moment later, her voice carried back over the sound of the rushing water. “Come on. There’s room for both of us.”

  Adrenaline zinged through him as he followed. Had he told her she needed more adventure in her life? Suddenly, it seemed like she had plenty without him. The rocks were slippery, the mountain-cold water a shock when he plunged through the falls. Beyond, he found himself in a cavern that was lit with an eerie dance of dark and light. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, the hairs on his nape prickled at the sight confronting him. “Whoa.”

  *

  Krista hadn’t been sure about bringing him here, but as she watched him cross to the back wall of the cave and trail his fingers reverently over the words and drawings that had been carved there, she was glad she had. His face was intent in the flickering half-light, his lips parting as he scanned the intricate carvings. Names, dates, and pictures—the marks of dozens of people who had visited the cave, maybe hundreds over the years.

  “I’ll be danged,” he rasped. “You’ve got your own little Independence Rock here.” He drew his fingers across a foot-tall inscription: WILLIAM T 1897.

  He got it, she realized. Of course he did. “This was the Skyes’ version of it, anyway—not so much landmark for the wagon trains, like Independence Rock down south, but more a way for the cowboys of Mustang Ridge to leave something of themselves behind.” She moved up to stand next to him, eyes tracing the familiar names carved in everything from bold block letters to illegible scratches, beside dates ranging from the mid–eighteen hundreds through nineteen-sixty, with a few modern ones carved at the edges. There were pictures, too. Female silhouettes beckoned from rock formations that suggested their curves, and stick mustangs galloped among anatomically improbable cartoon bulls and hump-shouldered bison, the lines working together like city graffiti to create a whole that exceeded its parts. She reached up and trailed her fingers across the letters ROP, which sat alone near the top.