Damn, damn, damn. But there was nothing they could do about it—Nick’s practice covered a huge area; the other large-animal vet was strictly a cow guy; and the nearest equine hospital was a long, hard drive away. “Okay. Let’s get some Banamine into him and some cold water on those feet. Clear the broodmare stall and bed it deep enough to swim in. If nothing else, we can get him more comfortable than he is right now.”
Bracing herself for a knockdown, drag-out, she turned back to Big Skye.
He was cradling Bueno’s head against his chest, with tears running down his weathered cheeks and a lost look in his eyes, like a cowboy who’d gotten launched off a bull and hit the dirt hard, and wasn’t sure how he’d gotten into the middle of a big arena with a scoreboard that had two-point-five seconds on the clock.
Except in this case, she was afraid it was more that the clock had gone past the eight-second mark and the buzzer had sounded. Or maybe it had been more gradual than that—a gentle slide, like when an old dog started to show its age and you didn’t consciously notice it until you came across a picture from years ago and saw the difference.
She didn’t want to give it a name, even in her mind. But, oh, the ache.
When their eyes met, he said, “Save him.” On the surface it was an order, but there was grief and guilt in the way his big-knuckled hands stroked the grizzled muzzle, and Big Skye’s eyes held a shattered sort of understanding.
She wanted to wrap her arms around him like she had done with Gran, but she didn’t know how to anymore. So instead, she dialed another number, hoping it had the bars to go through.
Wyatt picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey! Sorry, I got caught up working in the shop.” Led Zeppelin was playing in the background, with Robert Plant singing about rambling on.
Heart tugging—that he was there, that he sounded happy—she said, “You’re not late. But we’ve got a situation up here, and I need your help.”
“Name it.”
“Bueno is foundering and Nick is tied up. Can you get his feet stabilized?”
“I’m on my way.”
*
It took Wyatt two sweaty, backbreaking hours to pull the ailing horse’s shoes and build makeshift stabilizers from the materials he had on hand, but by the time he killed the forge and stripped off his gloves, the gelding had a glimmer of life in his eyes as he picked at the hay Krista’s grandfather was holding up for him, a handful at a time.
That didn’t mean they were out of the woods, though.
“Thank you.” Krista tipped her head against his shoulder. “He looks much better.”
“Once we’ve got some X-rays to look at, we can see how much his coffin bones have rotated, and work on leveling them off. Or, at a minimum, keeping them from sinking any further.”
“Fingers crossed,” she said, because they both knew they might not need a treatment plan. “At least we should be able to move him into the main barn now.” A glance at her phone brought a wince. “And you and I have a ride to lead—there’s no way Junior can manage this week’s crowd by himself.” The twenty guests were all executives, friends from a big IT company who vacationed together every other year and seemed to exist solely to one-up one another with little regard for collateral damage.
It was the first time he’d seen her sigh at the thought of riding out with her guests, like it was a chore rather than a pleasure. She was worried, not just about the horse, but about her grandfather and the decisions she and her family were going to have to make. Even standing there, Big Skye looked drawn and deflated, like someone had let out a few pounds of air.
“Junior and I can handle them,” Wyatt said, nudging her toward her grandfather. “I’ll take Deke to ride sweep. You stay here.”
It was a sign of just how bad things were that she didn’t argue. She just reached up on her tiptoes and brushed her lips across his. “Thank you. Good luck with them, and I’ll see you tonight.”
Those last four words were ones a man could get used to, he thought.
*
Wyatt was done with the guests and back waiting with the others by the time Nick showed up near dinnertime, harried, exhausted-looking, and deeply apologetic. Jenny was there along with Krista and their parents and grandparents, all of whom wore the game faces of longtime ranchers—the ones that said whatever comes next, we’ll deal with it. When Bueno hobbled out of the oversize stall, looking like a cyborg in his cobbled-together therapeutic shoes, Nick gave a low whistle. “That’s a heck of a MacGyver, Webb.”
“Want me to take them off for the X-rays?”
“Please.” Nick stood back while Wyatt got to work unbolting the cuffs and working them off. “Any idea what brought this on? Did he get into the grain or some unusually lush grass?”
“No grain, no grass,” Krista said. “Big Skye and I have gone through it and we can’t think of anything that could’ve triggered this.”
“When did you first notice the problem?”
There was a pause, then Big Skye said, “A few days, maybe a week. I . . . er, harrumph . . . I thought he was just getting older.” His voice sounded rusty, like it was the first thing he had said in a while.
Nick jotted it down. “He’s got some age on him, it’s true, but he’s fit and healthy. We’ll run some blood tests and see if his thyroid is slowing down. If so, we can medicate to keep this from happening again. In the meantime”—he pushed away from the wall—“let’s get a look at what’s going on inside these feet of yours, old man.”
As he got to work, Wyatt leaned back against the wall next to Krista, very aware of when she took his hand and twined their fingers together.
It was the first time he’d been around all of the Skyes at once, the first time he’d really been face-to-face with her father since he and Krista started sleeping together. And, even though he’d gotten some very sincere thanks for his work on the welcome sign, he still wasn’t sure where he stood with the Skye family. It wasn’t easy to keep his distance when their lives were so intertwined with Krista’s, and when the things that hurt them took a crack at her, too.
Like the bay mustang that sagged on the crossties, and the old cowboy standing there, stroking the droopy muzzle as Nick studied the digital X-rays on his laptop.
“Well?” Big Skye demanded with a hint of his usual tone.
“His coffin bones have rotated and dropped,” Nick reported, “more on the right than the left. He’s got good sole depth to work with, though. If we can stop the progression right where it is, he’s got a good chance to be pasture sound, maybe even go back under saddle with the right shoeing job.”
Big Skye let out a long, gusty sigh. “Thanks, Doc. Appreciate it.”
“Thank Wyatt, here. He’s the one that got the rotation stopped. The way you guys described it, I have a feeling this would be a very different conversation if he hadn’t been here.”
Wyatt suddenly found himself at the center of a whole lot of attention, ranging from Krista’s proud smile to her father’s oh, hell look of resignation. Holding up both hands, he said, “I did what anybody would. He’s a nice horse.”
But Ed straightened reluctantly and said, “Not everybody would’ve had the skills to help like you did.” He held out a hand. “Thanks. Mustang Ridge owes you one, Webb.”
“You don’t owe me—” Wyatt broke off at the determined look in the other man’s eyes, the wistful one in Krista’s. Knowing that it would matter to her, and that she’d already had a hell of a day when it came to her family, he shook her father’s hand. “Appreciate it. And you’re welcome.”
And what do you know? Instead of closing in on him, the barn walls stayed right where they were.
22
That evening, with Bueno resting as comfortably as they could manage and Krista putting in some time with the guests, Wyatt gave Klepto the usual “don’t even think about misbehaving” lecture—which was starting to feel overkill, given that the dog hadn’t put a paw wrong in the past few weeks—and headed out to meet Sam at
the Rope Burn.
The place was weeknight quiet, with the DJ booth empty, the mechanical bull doing a mechanical snooze, a small crowd at the bar and maybe half of the tables occupied. The bartender lifted a hand when Wyatt came in. “Howdy, Webb. What can I get you?”
He’d never been big on having a regular dive before—once the servers knew his name, it started feeling like a routine—but the options were pretty limited in Three Ridges. And, besides, the way this place changed depending on the night and the entertainment, it hadn’t started feeling stale yet. “Hey, J.J. How about a longneck and some loaded nachos? And let Sam know I’m in the back room when he gets here. There’s a dartboard calling my name.”
“Will do.”
Ten minutes later, Wyatt was seeing how many darts he could bury in the bull’s-eye—he was up to three, with a couple of others scattered in the inner ring—when Sam came through the door, carrying the nachos and a couple of longnecks.
Wyatt held up the darts. “Bull’s-eye baseball?” It had been their college go-to.
“I dunno. It’s been a while, and it looks like you’ve been practicing.”
Without admitting that he had a dartboard over the sink in his shop, Wyatt said, “I’ll give you a handicap. You can start with the third inning.”
“Deal.” Sam waited while Wyatt cleared the chalkboard and set up the scoring grid. Then he took the proffered darts and, without missing a beat, sank two in the thin outer ring of number three, two in the middle ring, and one in the bull’s-eye, all within a ten-count: thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.
Wyatt groaned. “I did not just let you hustle me.”
“Hey, I didn’t wrangle you into making a stupid bet first, did I? Say, five hundred bucks that I couldn’t pick up that barrel-racing brunette? You know, the one I later found out you knew darn well had a boyfriend who moonlighted as a bouncer?”
“Ah, good times.” Wyatt got his bull’s-eye, but only racked up three runs in the number one slice of the dartboard. “You should move on. I know I have.”
Taking his place, Sam sighted along his first dart. “Speaking of moving on—or in this case, circling back—how’s Krista?”
“She’s good.” He propped an elbow and dug into the nachos. “We’re good. Had some excitement at the ranch today, though.” He told Sam about Bueno, skimming over the family stuff.
“Sounds like you saved the day.” Sam nailed the bull’s-eye along with some real estate in number four. “Also sounds like you’re settling in up there on the ridge. You thinking about extending your stay? It’s real pretty up there in the winter.”
“There’s no heat in the workshop, and I’m not interested in freezing my balls off. Besides, we said all along that it was only for a couple of months.” And he wasn’t ready to admit he’d been thinking otherwise. He took the darts. Missed the bull’s-eye. “Crap.”
“We said or you said?”
Wyatt handed over the darts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sam leaned back against a nearby pool table. “It just seems to me that you’ve got a pattern. Remember Tricia? And what was her name, Desiree? Seems to me you were a whole lot more on board with the ‘keep it short and simple’ than they were.”
“Desiree didn’t like dogs.”
“Which is why you got a dog.”
“I like my dog.”
“He’s a menace. But weirdly brilliant, I’ll admit. I found my stuff stacked in a circle in the sun room. It was like Stonehenge or something, only made of unopened condom boxes, water bottles, and four left sneakers.”
“Send me a picture.”
“I will. And you’re changing the subject.”
“For the record, Klepto seems to have put his thieving behind him. Most days he’s so tired from riding out with me that all he does is thump down and sleep. I’m even thinking of changing his name. To Brillo, maybe, or Unibrow.”
Sam chuckled and took his turn with the darts. “Sounds like he’s right at home. How about you? Because I gotta tell you, bro, I’m not getting a really strong ‘I’m outa here in ten more days’ vibe.”
Ten days? Seriously? Wyatt did the math in his head, caught himself frowning. “Is there any particular reason why you’re busting on me when there’s a steady stream of women in and out of the mansion?”
“Because I think you’ve got it bad for her. And I’m kind of having fun watching you squirm on the hook—sort of a better you than me deal.”
Wyatt’s dart went thunk and stuck, quivering, in the wood paneling beside the board. He shot Sam a disgusted look. “You’ve been watching the Lifetime channel again, haven’t you? Or is this your version of trash talking?”
“Just calling it how I see it.” Eight more darts and Sam had run the board and the game was over. He toasted Wyatt with his beer. “You lose.”
“Bite me.” But as they set up for another game and the conversation moved on to the newest Aliens vs. Lunchmeat or whatever the hell game Sam was into this week, Wyatt found himself thinking maybe his friend wasn’t all that wrong. Not that he was squirming on anybody’s hook, but he wasn’t counting down the days, either, and the grass on the other side of the fence didn’t look any greener than the stuff he was munching. So to speak.
Which meant . . . what? He didn’t know, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to talk to Mr. Lunchmeat about it. But as he took his spot for game two, he couldn’t help thinking that the buzzer still felt a long ways off, and wondering what Krista would think about extending their ride past the Harvest Fair.
*
Early the next morning, Krista slipped out of bed before dawn.
Wyatt stirred and said thickly, “Hang on a minute. Klepto and I will walk you over.”
“I know the way. Get some more sleep. You earned it last night.” She dredged up a wink, though it was tough to feel sexy when she was staring down the barrel of a family meeting.
He snapped on the light and scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving it adorably hedgehogged. “I thought I would work with Jupiter for a bit this morning.”
Knowing that meant he wanted to drop her off at the family meeting, wanted to be nearby when it was over, she leaned in and kissed him. “Last one in the shower is a rotten egg.”
Half an hour later, more waterlogged—and water-loved—than showered, but far more relaxed than she had been when she awakened, Krista let herself into the main house and headed for the dining room. There, the photos had been piled on the sideboard, and her parents, Gran, and Jenny were already at the table, sipping coffee and nibbling on cupcakes.
Jenny toasted her with pink-and-sprinkles. “Morning. Have a frosted sugar muffin.”
Krista took the empty chair beside her. “Is that what we’re calling them?”
“Yep. It sounds more breakfast-y than cupcakes worthy of a Barbie-themed birthday party, don’t you think?” Despite the quip, though, Jenny looked tired. They all did, especially Gran. And Krista had seen the stress-circles under her own eyes in the steamed-up bathroom mirror.
Taking a cupcake and peeling away the paper, she looked across the table at Gran. “How did he seem last night?”
“Quiet. He apologized for being an ass yesterday morning.”
“Anything else?”
“Said he was tired and he was going to bed.” She blew across her coffee, but didn’t take a sip. “I still can’t believe he was riding Bueno in that condition. If you hadn’t seen them . . .” She shook her head, expression hollow. “Being cranky with us is one thing—we’re family, we can either take it or tell him to stuff it. But the animals can’t. They won’t. Which means that it’s up to us to make sure that things like this—or the Betty Crocker incident the other week—won’t happen again.”
“But how?” Jenny said.
“He needs to see another doctor,” Rose said firmly. “A specialist, someone who’ll be able to tell the difference between dementia, senility, Alzheimer’s, and just plain getting older and slowing down.”
“If we sit him down as a family, yes. Which is what we’re going to have to do anyway.” Rose hesitated. “I’m not sure he should ride out alone anymore. If he’s missed something as obvious as founder, who’s to say he wouldn’t walk right under a tree that’s got a wildcat in it? Or worse?”
Krista didn’t want to know what would qualify as worse in her mom’s book, any more than she wanted to think that she was once again going to be taking things away—his horses, his job, his sense of freedom . . . God. Was it really better this way?
“What if we assign him an assistant?” she suggested. “Somebody who’ll follow his orders, but also keep a good eye on things. Deke, maybe.”
“We can work out the details later,” Gran said. “For now, he needs to know that we don’t want him riding out alone until after he’s been to the doctor. Once we know what we’re up against, we’ll have a better idea how to deal with it.” But while her voice was steady, her hand shook slightly as she lifted her mug and took a sip.
The sight nearly broke Krista’s heart. Abandoning her seat, she came around behind Gran and wrapped her in a hug, followed moments later by Jenny, so the three of them rocked together in sympathy. “It’ll be okay,” Krista said against the soft white hair at her gran’s temple. “We’ll get through this. We always do. We just need to sit him down and lay it out, and then we’ll go from there.”
But Jenny said, “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”
“Why? What do you have in mind?”
“I don’t know, but it seems to me he doesn’t do well with the whole hey, Gramps, we voted and you lost thing. Maybe instead of a family meeting, he should hear it from just one of us.”
“From who, you?” Krista shook her head. “Don’t, Jenny. He loves making movies with you, and I’d hate to see that go away, too.” And not Gran, either, because they already had their own issues to work through, or her parents. Which left them with—
Harvest at Mustang Ridge Page 21