He shifted, not comfortable being anyone’s brilliant. “The horse thing started with you and Gertie. I just came at it from another angle, that’s all.”
She glanced over. “You don’t want me to be grateful?”
“I . . .” Yes. No. I don’t know. This was why he did better on the range. Horses and cattle spoke with their faces and bodies, simple conversations like “Give me that” or “Scratch me here” and the species-transcending “Go away, she’s mine.” Basic emotions, basic concepts.
Problem was, humans expected more than that. At least they did once you got past talking about the simple things, like horses and the weather. And it wasn’t so easy for a guy to say, “I want you” or, “Touch me here.” Things like that came with strings, expectations, pressure, and he wasn’t up to any of that. Been there, failed that.
Which he probably should’ve kept in mind last night.
Chest tight with the pressure of wanting to get this right, he said, “Look, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I’m not . . . I don’t want you to think I’m paying attention to Lizzie to get in with you, or to be part of, you know.”
Her smile vanished. “An instant family?” she filled in for him.
“Yeah. That. You should know I’m not looking to start something serious, or step into the daddy role, or anything like that.”
“You think that’s what I want?” Had he heard her voice this cool before? He didn’t think so.
He tugged at his collar, even though it was already undone by a couple of snaps. “I believe I mentioned how much I suck at this.”
That got a quiet laugh out of her, and then—even better—the kind of sigh that said she was breathing rather than staying tensed up. The kind that, when he was working with a greenie, said he was okay to move on, there wasn’t an explosion brewing.
After a moment, she said, “Yeah, you did mention it, which is why I’m going to let you off whatever hook you’ve put yourself on. Because here’s the thing—I was going to tell you something along the same lines this morning.”
His gut gave an odd lurch. “You were?”
She lifted a hand. “Scout’s honor. See, here’s the thing. I had it all worked out in my head: I was going to say that, as fun as it was kissing you last night—and, hello, ‘fun’ is an understatement—we probably shouldn’t get involved. We’re coming from two different worlds here, and I’m going back at the end of the summer. Besides, Lizzie is my priority, period, full stop, do not pass Go.”
He shifted to face her. “You were going to say that. Past tense?”
“Caught that, did you? Okay, yeah. After this morning . . . Let’s just say I had a change of heart. Not because of gratitude or the whistle breakthrough, or even because you were so darn cute with the foal, but because I saw what Krista told me the very first day I got here.”
“Which is?”
“You’re a sweetie.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. He knew what folks said about him, that he was distant, cynical, closed off, better with horses than people. Or, if they were members of his family, they called him overprotective, even when they should’ve been blaming him for how things had gone down. But a sweetie? No way. “Excuse me?”
“In your own gruff sort of way, yeah, you’re a sweetie. With the horses, with Lizzie, and yes, even with me.”
He must’ve swallowed a disbelieving laugh wrong, because there was a funny pressure in his chest. “Which means . . . ?”
“That I like you, in a warm, fuzzy, and friendly sort of way . . . and that I’d like you to kiss me again, with a bunch of feelings that aren’t at all fuzzy or friendly.” She hesitated, then said, “And now I’ve gone and shocked you.”
And then some. But he shook his head. “It’s not that. Well, maybe it is, kind of, but not in a bad way. I just can’t remember ever talking to another woman like this.”
“Like what?”
“Not having to guess what she’s thinking, and losing points when I get it wrong.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I guess it’s a city girl thing.”
Not in my experience. “It’s a you thing, and I appreciate it. In fact, I appreciate a whole lot of things about you, from the way you are with Lizzie, to the way you look in the moonlight.” He touched her cheek, using his knuckles rather than his work-roughened fingertips. “And especially the way you say what you mean rather than expecting me to read your mind.”
Her lips curved. “I thought you said you were bad at this.”
Seeing the invitation in her eyes, he leaned in. “I am.”
“Not the way I see it.”
“Then I’m a lucky guy,” he said, and closed the last small distance separating them, and kissed her before she could rethink things.
And, man, what a kiss.
Her skin started off cool but quickly warmed against his as the kiss went from warm to hot to supernova in the space of a breath. His skin tightened, his body hardened, and all of the aches of a long day fled in the face of desire. He skimmed a hand over her hair, down to where it ended in curls at the middle of her back, the softness echoing through him as if he were stroking her bare skin.
She smiled against his lips. “Sayonara Rule Twelve.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Do that again.”
He brushed his lips across hers, but then shifted away and rose, collecting both their boots and holding out a hand. “Come with me?”
She didn’t ask where they were going, just let him lift her and lead her along the dock, which dipped beneath them, making him feel like the ground wasn’t at all solid under his feet.
Or maybe that was her. He wasn’t sure anymore.
• • •
With the very few guys she’d dated since her divorce, Shelby would’ve asked where they were going, or braced herself for the “no, we’re not going back to your place now” conversation. But with Foster, she simply followed him down the dock and onto the sandy lakeshore, thinking it was strange how much she trusted him, how much she felt as though she knew him, even when she didn’t, not really.
They didn’t go far, just a short distance up the slope leading away from the lake, where he stopped and tugged her down. There, she settled beside him in a soft dip that caught the contours of her body, a natural lounge chair of ground that urged them together. The wispy grass was cool against her hands but warm against her chilled feet, where grains of sand stuck to her wet skin. The rest of her was warmer still, heated where their bodies pressed together.
“Here.” He curved an arm around her, pillowing her head against his shoulder and urging her close.
It was natural to turn in to him, natural to meet his lips with her own. And oh, so wonderful to feel the heat that poured into her bloodstream, the tingles as once-familiar nerves reawakened, sending her messages of pleasure and yes, oh, yes.
They kissed urgently, endlessly, tasting and touching. He gripped her waist, skimmed his free hand up her body to her shoulder and back down again to trace her waistband. She was tempted to tug her shirt loose, wanting his hands on her breasts, her belly against his, their bodies pressed skin to skin.
But at the urge, nerves zinged through her, bringing the sudden knowledge that this was too much, too fast—and yet a big part of her didn’t care. Should she pull back now? Keep going? She didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to tease, didn’t want to get in deeper than she’d intended. And she was definitely on the verge of “deeper.”
As if he had sensed her sudden anxiety—and maybe he had, he was that well tuned to her body language—he eased the kiss and settled back, tucking her close to his side. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. He just held her as both of their breathings slowed and the world came back into focus around them.
After a moment, she said, “It’s lovely out here.” She didn’t know if she meant their little niche, the lakefront, the ranch, or the entire high country. All of it, really.
“I like
to come out here sometimes, just me and Vader, and look up at the sky.”
Cuddled up against him with her heart thudding against her ribs, she followed his eyes up to the shimmering curtain of stars overhead, and couldn’t decide whether it made her feel very small and insignificant, or somehow larger than herself. And whether she could feel both at the same time. “Do you have a favorite constellation?”
She felt him look at her, as if surprised by the question, but then he shifted to tug her closer, so their heads were right next to each other as he pointed. “See that bright star there? Then a few degrees to the right, five more that make almost a right angle?”
Squinting up, she said, “Um. Maybe?”
He chuckled. “Tonight’s not perfect for it—they’re pretty faint, especially with half a moon. But that’s the Cowboy’s Boot constellation. You can see how it makes the outline of a boot, complete with a big spur hanging off the heel.” He sketched it with a finger, bringing it alive.
“Oh, I see it!” She grinned up at the night sky.
“And those three next to it are called the Arrow. Behind it is the Little Horse, and they’re chasing Vulpecula, the Little Fox.” He drew finger pictures as he spoke, drawing out a line of pursuit. “But since they’re all at fixed positions relative to each other, it goes on forever, without the arrow or the horse ever catching Mr. Fox.”
“What’s the connection between the boot and the fox?”
“Besides proximity? I’m not sure there is one.” There was a smile in his voice. “The boot just is what it is. Though if you follow where the toe is pointing, you can find the Dumbbell Nebula. If you’ve got a dark night and a decent telescope, that is. The nebula has all these cool colors in it, and looks three-D, like you could just reach out and touch it.” He paused. “I’d ask if you wanted to come see my telescope, but I’m afraid it would sound like a bad pickup line.”
“It’s better than asking if I wanted to see your etchings,” she said lightly. Astronomy. Who would have thought? “Were the constellations used for navigating across the open country?”
“Not that I’ve heard tell.”
“Then what are they good for?”
A laugh rumbled in his chest. “Being a decent story, I guess. Or maybe making a man feel less alone when he’s wrapped up in his bedroll next to a banked fire, hearing the wolves in the distance and knowing there isn’t another human being for miles and miles.”
She thought about that for a moment, tried to picture it, and found that it was impossible, even lying out in the open with him, under the big night sky. “We really do come from different worlds, don’t we?”
His shrug shifted her closer. “That’s one of the nice things about Mustang Ridge. While you’re here, you’re part of this world, living by the code, more or less.”
Which sounded good, but there was a big difference between dude-ified trail rides, comfy beds, and buffet meals and the kind of life he was describing. Which seemed very lonely to her, very cold. She shivered.
“You getting chilly?”
Not really, but she also wasn’t sure it was a good idea to stay where they were and keep doing what they had been doing—or were on the verge of doing. “I should go,” she said, only part of her meaning it.
He didn’t argue or try to talk her out of it, just climbed to his feet, drew her up, and then pulled her into his arms for a long, thorough kiss that chased away all vestiges of chills and loneliness, and brought back the excitement. It reminded her not just that she wanted to stay right where she was, but also why it was a really good idea for her to leave.
Too much, too soon. And very tempting.
When they parted, he leaned his forehead against hers, breathing deeply. There was a rasp in his voice when he said, “Seems to me I still owe you a trail ride.”
Pleasure bubbled up inside her. “Is that the cowboy equivalent of a coffee date?”
“Something like that. I’m leaving tomorrow for the summer mustang gather, though. I’ll be gone a week, maybe ten days.”
She wouldn’t let herself be disappointed. “Then I guess I’ll see you when you get back.”
“That’s a promise. And, Shelby?”
She smiled up at him, relieved that it could be this easy when two people were on the same page—no fuss, no drama, just a man and a woman sneaking up on the idea of enjoying each other’s company. “Mm?”
“It wouldn’t hurt if you thought of me a time or two. Because you can bet your shiny new boots that I’ll be thinking about you.”
9
Beans, beans, they’re good for your heart . . .
Toward the middle of the following week, on day four of Foster’s being off at the gather—not that Shelby was counting or anything—there was a stir at the side door leading to the kitchen, and Junior clumped in, carrying a salt-cured something or other that very much resembled half a pig.
“I’ve never seen so much bacon before in my life,” Shelby announced, staring in horrified fascination as he carried it into the cold room. “I think my arteries just hardened. Atherosclerosis by osmosis, with a side of a sodium spike in my blood pressure.”
“Stuff like that doesn’t count on a roundup,” Gran said complacently. “It’s a clinically proven fact.”
“Baloney.”
“Nope, bacon.”
The rest of the statement caught up with Shelby and she let the cold-room door thump shut. “Wait, did you say roundup?”
“I sure did!” Gran scooped Herman’s bowl off the counter and did a little twirl that made her ruffled blue apron flare out. “We’re taking this show on the road next week, baby!”
“But I thought the roundup was . . .” Oh, wow. The Fourth of July. Where the heck had the rest of June gone?
Gran dimpled at her. “Days and weeks aren’t that big a deal out here, at least not the way they are for some people. We’re more worried about seasons.”
“But Lizzie and I aren’t even close to being ready for the roundup.” When she’d first talked to Krista about the summer schedule, it had seemed that the timing would be perfect for roundup week—they would’ve been there for almost a month, plenty of time to get Lizzie ready to ride out with the group, while Shelby would ride in the chuck truck with Gran, driving ahead to each overnight camp so they could have a hot meal waiting.
A month, check. Ready to ride, not so much.
“There’s room for three in the chuck truck,” Gran assured her.
Not that it was open for discussion, really. If Gran was going, then so was Shelby, and by extension, Lizzie. “Okay. Right. Roundup week. Thus, the half a pig.”
“There’s also a fifty-pounder of beans and two big bags of flour in the pantry, and most of a cow in the freezer.”
“What, no butchering on the trail?”
“Health codes,” Gran said, looking mildly disgusted. “That, and we’ve found that the guests prefer not to know where their meals come from.”
Trying not to let on that she fell in that category, Shelby said, “Okay. Flour, bacon, beans, beef. What can I do to help get things ready to roll?”
“Nothing right yet. It’ll be business as usual until midday Saturday, when we pack up the wagon and ride out.”
“No orientation?”
“The roundup is for returning riders, by special invitation only.” Pride shone in her face. “Krista and Foster have turned this into such an event that there’s a waiting list.”
“Nice.” Shelby didn’t try to ignore the warm shimmies that came at hearing Foster’s name; she enjoyed them, instead. After all, wasn’t that the point of them having agreed to a summer fling—or at least a summer flirtation? “He’ll be back from the gather in time?”
“Last I heard. If not, he’ll catch up with us. Krista and the wranglers can handle the ride out to the high pastures, and the first couple of gathers. It’s the way home that can get tricky, once all the cattle are lumped together and not convinced they want to be going where we want to put the
m.”
“I’m not sure I blame them.”
“We’re not bringing them all in. Mostly the wranglers will just be microchipping the latest arrivals and snipping the new crop of bulls. That can happen up in the high country.”
“Like I said.” Shelby grinned. “Anyway. There’s got to be something I can do to help between now and then.”
Gran waved her off. “Go ride your horse.”
“Loco?”
“Yes, Loco. He’ll sulk if he gets left behind, and it’s never pleasant to see a handsome man sulk.”
“Hello, anthropomorphism.”
“Fine, don’t practice. Then see how you feel when you fall off in front of the guests.”
Forget the guests, she didn’t want to fall off in front of Foster. The idea of riding with him, though, out on a roundup, no less . . . Okay, that was seriously cool. “But I’m not going to be riding with the group. There’s no way I’m abandoning you to cook while I play greenhorn.”
“We’ll figure something out.” Gran slid a pan of brownies onto the cooling rack. “Right now it’s our turn to get Lucky.”
Shelby didn’t bother trying to work out if that was meant as a joke; she just went with it. Krista had christened Sassy’s foal “Lucky Bugg,” combining his sire’s name, Ima Bugg, with her own optimism. Thus, the little guy had become “Lucky” by default, and also as something for him to live up to. That hope was starting to wear thin, though, as days passed and the little guy still couldn’t get up or figure out how to nurse on his own. Every time, they used their fingers to push his tongue into the curved shape needed for suckling . . . and every time, he just stood there, letting the milk run down the back of his throat.
Still, he had gained some weight. Enough that Shelby was starting to feel the strain of lifting him onto his feet and supporting him while he nursed. And if she was feeling it . . . “I could go find Tipper—”
“And rob me of my chance to get my hands on all that squishable baby cuteness? You wouldn’t dare.”
Summer at Mustang Ridge Page 12