“Not to mention that she’s going to be some darned good advertising. I saw the saddle pads you had made up for today.” White edged with emerald green and embroidered with the ranch’s name and logo. “You’d better hope she behaves.”
“We’ll bail if things get too hairy.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” He was mostly teasing, though. When he first heard about the parade, he just shook his head at the thought of a bunch of half-broke mustangs sandwiched between a marching band and some fire trucks, and quickly losing their furry little minds. He had to admit, though, that it could be a good way to prep Jupiter for the chaos of the Harvest Fair. And putting her in close quarters with the other horses would be a good test of the desensitizing he and Krista had been doing over the past couple of weeks, working the mare through narrower and narrower chutes with gates at odd angles, trying to get her to trust that the rider would always find a way out.
Back in his regular, everyday life, he probably would’ve found it ironic, given that he was a pro when it came to not letting himself get boxed in. But Mustang Ridge had a different feel to it, a different flow, making all that seem less important. Each week was different, and there were so many moving parts to the guest ranch business that every day brought surprises, good and bad. Like the Rustlers Week guests who turned out to be tech geeks for a drone-camera startup company, and had wound up teaming up with Jenny and Shelby to get aerial footage of the overnight roundup. Or when two of the singles turned out to have been best friends back in grade school before one moved away, and rediscovered the old spark—times a hundred—twenty years later.
Wyatt sure wasn’t bored with the work. And he wasn’t looking to get away from Krista anytime soon, either. Their lives at the ranch fit together so naturally that the weeks had stopped counting down in his brain and he’d found himself thinking it wouldn’t be half bad to still be living in the bunkhouse when the snow started to fall. Until he really buckled down to the pioneer piece, which was still doing a slow boil in his brain, he could work anywhere he pleased. And for the moment, he was plenty happy at Mustang Ridge.
“Here we are,” she said, turning in to the strip-mall parking lot that was being used as a staging area for the mustangs. “Let the chaos begin.”
The trailers were parked in parallel rows with enough space between them that the horses could be tied. Right now, though, most of the fresh, over-stimulated mustangs were being led in wide circles as they danced on their toes like racehorses headed for the post parade.
“Hope you brought your crash helmet,” he said as Krista killed the engine.
To his surprise, though, Jupiter and Lucky came off the trailer without too much fuss and stood for their riders to mount up as the speakers atop the Mayor Mobile—a half-ton silver pickup draped with banners advertising the Harvest Fair Mustang Makeover—gave a crackle-whine that sent a couple of the teams scattering. Standing in the back of the pickup, wearing a suit that already looked too hot, the mayor lifted her microphone, beamed around at the shifting sea of horses, and said, “Welcome to the Summer’s End Parade! With eight scratches and several teams electing to keep their horses in their trailers, we have twenty-two competitors marching today, and I’d like to personally thank you for putting yourselves out here to support the competition and our efforts to draw attention to Three Ridges!” She went on to describe the parade route, safety precautions, and bail-out options for the horses and riders.
“What do you think, Lucky?” Krista stroked the gelding’s arched neck. “Do you want to babysit Jupiter here so we can march in the scary parade?”
The big black horse didn’t answer, but he sure looked businesslike.
“Let’s do it,” Wyatt said.
She tapped her toe against his. “You got your seat belt on?”
He settled deep in the saddle and pulled the brim of his hat down, like a bull rider ready to give the gate crew the nod. “Good to go.”
The Mayor Mobile moved out with the mayor standing in the back, followed by the jittering, mincing mob of mustangs and their escorts. Seeing most of the others hanging toward the rear of the pack, Wyatt and Krista moved up to the front by unspoken consent.
Glancing back, she said, “Do you think the others know there are baton twirlers coming in behind us?”
“They will soon,” he predicted.
But darned if the horses didn’t handle the crazy just fine, moving out of the staging area and onto Main Street. There, locals and tourists of all ages cheered from behind ropes and sawhorses, while Mayor Teapot did her rah-rah thing, pimping the Harvest Fair and the Mustang Makeover on the loudspeaker, and tossing peppermints into the crowd.
Beaming, Krista waved at a pair of little boys in the front row. Wearing straw souvenir hats and clutching fat wands of blue cotton candy, they stared up at her, round eyed with awe as the horses passed.
Wyatt grinned at them and tipped his hat. I know how you feel, guys. He found himself staring at her like that now and then, and getting that caught-staring-at-the-sun head spin. In his case, though, there was also the chest-puffing knowledge that when the sun rose in the morning, she’d be in his bed and greeting him with a kiss.
“There they are!” Krista waved up ahead. “Hey, gang! Woo-hoo, go Team Mustang Ridge!”
Her parents and Gran leaned over a sawhorse, cheering. Beside them, Nick stood with Jenny, who was panning the scene with an expensive-looking camera, and Shelby had her arms around a dark-haired, happy-looking kid who had to be her daughter, Lizzie.
Krista gestured to Jupiter with an expression of get a load of our girl! and her family whooped. Lucky puffed up his neck and pranced, not being naughty so much as reacting to his rider’s enthusiasm. Still, Wyatt could tell that Krista was bothered by her grandfather’s absence—early that morning, Big Skye had muttered something about finishing the new fencing up in the high pasture, and rode off with Deke and a couple of the other guys behind him, like the work couldn’t have waited the few hours that the rest of them had carved out to make the parade. Not for the first time, Wyatt was tempted to give the old man a piece of his mind. Couldn’t he see how much the distance between them bothered Krista? Didn’t he care?
Not your family, better to leave it alone, he told himself. They had warmed to him somewhat, but there were limits.
“Yo, Wyatt!” The shout pulled his attention to the other side of the street, and there was Sam, with his arm around a gorgeous blond giggler and a footlong in his free hand.
Krista grinned. “Sam has changed, hasn’t he? I remember when we first met, he could barely look me in the eye, never mind carry on a conversation.”
“He still lives on strawberry Pop-Tarts, though.”
“You’re kidding.”
Wyatt grinned. “Would I kid about Pop-Tarts?”
They waved to the onlookers—many of whom knew Krista on sight and vice versa—and traded quips as the parade carried on, through several traffic lights and past a sea of faces, with the marching band still going strong behind them, though the mayor’s voice was starting to sound ragged. Then, finally, they came around a corner and the horses’ heads came up, and Lucky let out a little “whee-ho-ho-ho” of greeting.
Krista patted his sleek neck. “Can you smell the trailers, buddy?”
As promised, the Lemps had moved all of the rigs to the parade’s end point. To Wyatt’s relief, the horses loaded without issue, lured by the stuffed-full hay bags and relative quiet of the trailer.
He was double-checking the door latches when he heard the sound of high heels tap-tap-tapping behind him, followed by a woman’s voice. “Mr. Webb? Could we have a word?”
He turned to find the mayor standing there, along with a younger version with honey-colored hair and a friendly smile. Where Mayor Tepitt looked overheated, wilted and in serious need of a cold drink, her counterpart looked fresh and cool as she held out a hand. “Mr. Webb, I’m Constance Dewitt. It’s a real pleasure to find a man of your stature here in
Three Ridges.”
As Krista joined them, wearing a look of what’s going on? he wiped his hand on his jeans, and shook. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. But after today I wouldn’t say I’m much out of the ordinary around here when it comes to trainers.”
“But not sculptors.” The woman turned to Krista. “Ms. Skye, I’m a fan of yours as well. You’ve done some really impressive things at Mustang Ridge, both in terms of infrastructure and PR. Not to mention your excellent use of local businesses to implement your guest services.”
Krista shook her hand, putting on a polite, dimple-free smile. “Thank you, Miz . . .”
“Constance Dewitt. But Connie is fine. I’m heading up the Harvest Fair Committee, which is why I wanted to talk to your Mr. Webb here.” To Wyatt, she said, “We met once, during a show at the GearHorse Gallery.”
“Oh?” He had long ago learned not to pretend to remember people—it just led to confusion. He had also learned to wait for the pitch in situations like this. There always was one.
“Yes. It was very impressive, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. The critics either loved it or hated it, both of which are a win in my book, and you sold out within, what, three hours?”
“Nice to hear you enjoyed it. What can I do for you?”
“I was hoping . . .” The coolness cracked a little, letting hope shine through as she said in a rush, “Would-youbewillingtojudgethechainsawcarvings?”
That so wasn’t what he had been braced for—he’d been expecting her to ask for a demonstration or a big-ass sculpture for city hall—that he didn’t get all of it. “Excuse me?”
She took a breath, got the cool back in place, and said, “My apologies. It was such a shock to recognize you riding in the parade, that . . . Well, anyway. I’d like to invite you, on behalf of the Harvest Fair Committee, to judge our chainsaw sculpture competition.”
He relaxed. “Oh, sure. Yeah. I can do that.” Couldn’t think of a reason not to, and after hearing the mayor harangue Sam over donations, he’d rather just say yes and be done with it.
“You . . . Really?” Connie looked like he’d just handed her the reins of a top-notch cutting horse on the eve of the championships.
“As long as it doesn’t conflict with the Mustang Makeover.”
She nodded and whipped out her phone and made a couple of notes. “Where can I reach you to firm things up?”
“It’s a done deal on my end. Just leave a message at Mustang Ridge telling me the day, the time, and where to meet you.”
“Can I get a bio? Maybe some photos? And we’d love to show one of your pieces. . . .”
Yeah. That was more along the lines of what he’d been expecting. But while a few weeks ago he would have ducked having his name connected to Three Ridges, now he thought, Why not? “Call Damien at GearHorse. He’ll hook you up and help get the word out. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to get our horses home in time to welcome the new crop of guests.”
He got another round of I love your work from Connie, which he fielded as genuinely as he could, and then he and Krista beat it for the truck and hit the road.
Surveying the traffic, Wyatt grumbled, “Thanks to them, we’re going to get to sit with five thousand of our nearest and dearest. I should’ve pretended I didn’t hear the mayor.”
“I don’t think that would have gotten you out of it,” Krista said tartly. “That Connie seemed pretty intent on nabbing you.”
Her tone had him shooting a look across the cab. “Are you mad about that?”
“No. Why would I be?”
“I don’t know, but I’m getting a vibe.” And it wasn’t like her to play games. “I was just being friendly, you know.”
“That’s your first shot? That I’m jealous? After spending the last few weeks watching you fend off dudettes and getting to be all smug because I’m the one who gets to wake up next to you? I think not.” But at least she looked amused. And after a moment, she sighed and shook her head. “No, it’s stupid, and it’s not you.”
“I’m not stupid?”
“Well, you’re not, but that’s not what I meant. I’m being stupid, my reaction back there was stupid. It’s just . . . I’ve gotten used to having you to myself. Sounds dumb, because at the ranch there’s always someone around, always people coming and going. But there’s a weird sort of privacy, too.”
“No, I get what you mean,” he said, relaxing a degree. “We’ve got our own thing going on there, and then the real world intrudes.”
“Mustang Ridge is my real world,” she said with a bit of an edge. “But I think I let myself forget that it’s not yours. Seeing you get all professional and schedule-y with Connie, it hit me all over again that this”—she pointed between the two of them—“is an interlude. And the clock is ticking.”
“Krissy,” he began.
“I’m not trying to start a deep and meaningful discussion, promise. In fact, I’d rather just leave it like this. I’m not mad or jealous, I swear. It just hit me that you’re more than my fill-in wrangler as far as the rest of the world is concerned, and that’s my problem, not yours.”
How could a man not react to that? Especially when she was trying to get it right this time—they both were, by being open with each other, honest. Part of him wanted to tell her that he’d started imagining himself in Three Ridges a few months from now, a few years. But he’d gotten caught in that trap before, and gnawed through both of their souls to get free. So instead he said, “Give me until eight tonight before you come over, okay? I’ve got a surprise for you.”
19
That night at two past eight, Krista pulled into her spot beside Old Blue in the bunkhouse parking lot, killed the engine, and sat for a moment as Klepto appeared in the nearest window, head cocked as if to say, What’s with the car? She had driven over, figuring she would celebrate Jupiter’s success at the parade and Wyatt’s promise of a surprise with a flirty skirt and a pair of high-heeled boots that really weren’t designed for hiking.
Anticipation and desire skimmed through her as she got out of the car and headed up the steps, hearing Klepto bark to announce her arrival. She raised a hand to knock, not wanting to spoil the promised surprise if he wasn’t yet ready, but before her fist made contact the door swung inward. And there he was, with his dark hair shower-damp, his plain white T-shirt and worn jeans molded to his body, and his feet bare, revealing the crooked toe that had been broken twice by the same horse.
Smiling, she stepped across the threshold. “The guests are tucked in for the night and Mom is on call, so here I am.”
“So you are. And you look amazing.” He spun her around so the skirt flared away from her ankles, her heels tapped on the polished wood, and Klepto danced like his legs had turned to springs. Then Wyatt drew her in for a kiss and murmured against her lips, “It seems almost a shame to get you naked.”
Heat thrummed through her. “Right now?”
“Well, that’s up to you.” He nudged the door shut and flipped off the overhead lights illuminating the main room. “Come see what you think.”
“What I think about— Oh.” Her mouth fell open at the sight of a dozen fat white candles lighting the tiles surrounding of the hot tub, which had been high and dry yesterday, but now was full and steaming, with bubbles and swirls making the surface dance while ghostly mist turned the air soft and humid. “Oh, wow.” She tightened her grip on Wyatt’s hand as she took in the gleam of mosaic tile, the perfect lines of sealed grout, and the polished wood door that protected the controls and electrical circuits. “You finished it! When . . . how . . .”
He grinned. “Last night. I know you’ll need to get someone to sign off on it for guest use, but I figured we could take it for a test drive.”
As her eyes adjusted to the shock, she saw that the surface was dotted with familiar pink flowers that made her think of the waterfall, with more of their petals scattered on the surround, leading to a bottle of her favorite red wine, open to breathe beside a
pair of glasses. Emotion lumping in her throat, she managed, “You set all of this up for me?”
“I didn’t do it for Klepto.” Wyatt came around behind her, dropped his head, and nuzzled her neck. “You smell better than he does when you’re wet.”
A laugh bubbled up alongside a dizzy rush that made her feel like she had stood up too fast. “Thank you.”
“Well, he’s a dog. They’re supposed to smell like dirty sheep when they’re wet.”
She turned in his arms and found his lips with hers. “I meant thank you for the flowers and the wine. Which you knew perfectly well.”
He kissed her long and deep, sliding his hands down her body, and gathering a double handful of her skirt. “Yeah, but I like making you smile.”
“Is that what the Reddi-wip is for?” She said, tipping her head to where a familiar canister sat next to the drugstore bag she suspected contained a new box of condoms to replace the one they had burned through last night.
“Technically, the whipped cream is for the brownies and strawberries I’ve got in the fridge. I was going to put them on a plate with the wine, but . . . You know.”
“Klepto.”
At the sound of his name, the dog thumped his butt on the floor and cocked his head.
“Yeah, right,” Wyatt said. “We’re so on to you.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Krista whispered. “I’ll share.”
“Later,” Wyatt said, pulling her into him for a kiss. “After.”
“After what?” she said, as if his hands weren’t busy on the buttons of her shirt.
“After I get you out of these clothes and into the water.” He eased back to give her a boyish smile that made her heart shudder in her chest. “What do you say, Krissy? Will you come hot-tubbing with me?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” She shimmied out of her skirt and tossed it on a nearby chair. That left her standing in her open shirt and the skimpy panty and bra set she had bought in town on her last supply run, imagining his face as Kitty bagged her purchase. Now, in the flickering candlelight, his expression was everything she had imagined, and then some. Eyes gone black with desire, he trailed a finger along one of her collarbones, down between her breasts, and across to toy with one sensitized nipple through the lace-edged fabric of her bra.
Harvest at Mustang Ridge Page 18