Having learned not to argue when Gran got that look in her eye, Shelby held up her hands in surrender. “Just a thought. Come on, then. Let’s go get Lucky.”
“Now you’re talking.”
The barnyard was quiet, but as they approached the main doors, Shelby slowed and cocked her head. “Do you hear that?”
Gran cocked her head at the pinging noise. “Someone’s phone, maybe? Or it could be birds. They like to nest in the eaves, and the hatchlings peep like crazy.”
But when Shelby got inside, she saw instantly that it wasn’t either of those things. It’s not a bird, it’s not a phone, it’s . . . Lizzie!
Wearing pink play clothes, with her flyaway brown hair tamed back in a matching scrunchie, she sat on an overturned bucket. The stall door was open, the web guard at half-mast because Lucky wasn’t about to escape and Sassy wasn’t going anywhere without him. Bent over her iPad, gaming away, Lizzie didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the horses . . . except she’d turned on the volume. More, she had turned it up all the way, so the chirpy pings, pongs, and sproinngggs of whatever she was playing reverberated through the barn.
“Look at them,” Gran said softly.
“I see.” Lucky lay on his chest in the soft shavings that had replaced the birthing straw. He was curled up with his long legs folded under him, as he so often was these days—which was an improvement over lying flat out, but still not normal for a five-day-old foal. But where Shelby was used to seeing him with his nose buried in the shavings, propping him while he snoozed with his eyes mostly closed, now his head was up and his little radar-dish ears gave little twitches with each digital noise. Sassy seemed intrigued, too, and stood over Lizzie as if watching the game.
Progress, Shelby thought, feeling a wide smile split her face. “Hey, Tizzy Lizzie!” Her voice nearly broke on the words, but she forced herself to hold it together, keep it casual. “Is Mr. Lucky ready for his threesies?”
She didn’t get a yes or no, but Lizzie got up, moved her bucket aside, and unclipped the stall guard the rest of the way, then held it open with a Vanna flourish.
“Thank you, young lady.” Gran sailed through, smiling widely when little Lucky gave a soft whicker. “And you, too, young man. Isn’t that a nice, hungry sound? What do you say we do something about that empty tummy of yours?”
She and Shelby got on opposite sides of the foal, linked hands, and gave him a “One, two, three, hup!” And even though Shelby tried to take most of the weight as they stood, she saw the strain in Gran’s face and felt a few protesting twinges in her own back.
“Come on,” she urged, juggling the foal a little in the hopes that he’d get a clue and lock his legs for stability. “You can do it.” But it was like trying to prop up a sawhorse on pool noodles.
“Over we go,” Gran said, shuffling in the shavings so Lucky was pointed toward his mama.
“Tipper could—”
“March!”
Shelby marched, and together they got the little guy lined up with the taps. He still wouldn’t take the teat himself, so Shelby kept him propped up while Gran held his head and squirted milk in his mouth, more or less. Unlike the first few days, though, when he’d hung limp, now he tried to crane around and take a nip at his mother, or look back at Shelby with adorable eyes that made her say, “Awwww,” even when she wanted to noogie him for having the attention span of a flea.
“Stop wearing it and start drinking it,” Gran said with some asperity. “Better yet, stop lying around like a man, waiting for someone to bring you your yummies. I thought you said you were hungry.”
“Sing it, sister.” Shelby was a little out of breath. “Ouch. Get off my toe. Seriously, if you can be this squirmy, you should be able to do this yourself.”
Lizzie hovered in the doorway, looking more like an overprotective mama than Sassy, who stood quietly, having gotten used to the fuss.
“That’s it!” Gran said suddenly as he made a grab for her fingers and found Sassy’s udder, instead. “That’s where it’s coming from. Just latch on and—good boy!” Her crow was soft, so as not to startle the little foal, but her eyes shone. “What a fine fellow!”
Shelby grinned over at Lizzie. “He’s nursing!”
Okay, maybe that was a bit of an overstatement, as he only made it a few gulps before he lost his grip—or his train of thought—and they had to get him organized all over again. And he didn’t make any real effort to hold himself up while he nursed. But baby steps counted, and the mood was high by the time they lowered him back down to a soft nest of clean shavings.
“I’m going back to the kitchen to play with my potatoes,” Gran announced, but then pointed at Shelby. “And I don’t want to see you in there any earlier than five tonight, got it? Everything’s under control and you’ve been doing more of your share this week.”
“Hello, pot? This is the kettle speaking.”
“Well, the pot is the boss, and she says five.” With that, Gran swept out, head high, but moving slower than before.
Shelby looked back at the little foal. “How about you cut her some slack and start finding your eats on your own?” Either way, she was going to have to talk to Krista about getting Gran even more relief in the kitchen, not just assistance but actual shifts off, days off. She had been delaying, not wanting to tattle, but enough was enough.
With that decided, she had a couple of hours free, and a roundup on the horizon. Glancing at Lizzie, she said casually, “I’m going to take Loco out for a loop around the ranch. You okay keeping an eye on these two?”
Not only did she get a nod, but Lizzie stayed put on her bucket while Shelby put Loco on the cross ties not ten feet away. Progress, indeed.
• • •
Shelby was just finishing up her ride—it was so nice out that one loop around the ranch had turned into three—when Loco’s head came up and his ears whipped forward, his attention fixing on the main trail coming down off the ridgeline.
“Not today,” she said, taking in a little rein, just in case. “We’re sticking close to home. No getting crazy until next week’s roundup, okay? And preferably not then, either.” She still couldn’t quite believe this was her life, and that she would be riding out in the backcountry—maybe even herding some cows—and cooking bacon-flavored beans over an open fire. It seemed like it should’ve been something she heard about secondhand over extra-foam-please lattes, the kind of story that made her promise herself a vacation that would soon be forgotten in the face of three frantic clients and a call from one of Lizzie’s teachers.
Loco’s head stayed up and he took a dancing step to one side. “Easy, buddy,” she crooned, tightening the reins further but making sure the rest of her stayed relaxed. “Easy, there.” But then dust stirred at the top of the ridge and a horse and rider came into view, walking flat-footed. The blaze-faced horse whinnied, and Shelby relaxed the reins. Loco had just been trying to tell her there was company coming. “Okay, you win. Let’s go see what’s up.”
When they got close enough, the woman waved and called, “Hey there! Hi! You’re Shelby, right?”
“That’s right.” She was a little surprised at being recognized, but then again, this week’s guests—a large group of women who knew each other through an online equestrian message board and had met up annually at Mustang Ridge for the past five years—knew their way around the ranch, its people, and the horses.
“I’m Dana. Cabin Six.”
“You’re back early. Everything okay?”
“Justice here threw a shoe, and without Foster to do his fix-a-flat routine up in the high country, I decided to come back down rather than risking a bruise.”
“Bummer,” Shelby sympathized. “It’s a beautiful day for a ride. Come on, we’ll walk you in. I was headed that way myself.”
“Thanks.” She glanced over as Shelby reined around to fall in beside her, and did a sudden double take. “Is that Loco?” She gave a low whistle. “Wow, girl, you rank.”
�
��Why, is he the barn favorite?” She had guessed something of the sort based on his buttery soft bridle and memory foam saddle pad.
Dana gave her a funny look. “No, he’s Foster’s.”
Shelby’s stomach gave a shimmy. “One of his projects, you mean.”
The other woman shook her head. “Nope. His own personal horse.”
“But he has others. Like, a string.”
“Just one. I once heard him say that Loco and his saddle were the only two things he brought with him when he came here, the only two things that mattered.” She smiled, not unkindly. “I take it you didn’t know.”
“He told me . . .” Shelby cleared her throat. “Um, no. He didn’t mention it.”
In fact, he’d let her believe Loco was one of Krista’s rescues. Her pulse stepped it up a notch at the realization that she was riding his horse, using his equipment. And he’d handed it all over before they got involved. But why?
Head spinning, she patted the glossy bay’s neck and fought to steady her voice, keep it light. “You’ve been holding out on me, huh, Loco? I’m guessing you’ve got a few stories to tell.”
“I’d say. He was the RRC’s horse of the year three years running.” At Shelby’s blank look, Dana elaborated, “It’s a circuit of ranch rodeos—they’re rougher and more hard core than the professional rodeos, strictly for working cowboys.” She looked around and lowered her voice, though they were very alone. “Foster doesn’t know that a few of us recognized him. We figured if he doesn’t want to make a big deal of it, then we won’t, either. Back in the day, though, he and Loco were the best of the best.”
I’m not a gossip. I’m not a gossip. “How long ago was the day?”
“Eight, maybe ten years ago?”
Before he had come to Mustang Ridge, then. Shelby patted Loco’s neck again. I wish you could talk. Did it count as gossiping to ask a cowboy’s horse about him?
Dana had followed the gesture. “So . . . what’s he like to ride?”
“Very kind and smooth. Soft-mouthed, too.”
Dana’s smile went a little wicked. “We’re talking about the horse, right?”
“Yes,” she said too quickly. “Absolutely. Foster . . . he’s just helping me out with my daughter.” And giving her his personal, prized horse to ride, pretending she was doing him a favor. Her body buzzed with pleasant tingles, even as she reminded herself not to take any of this too seriously. For all she knew, it was the Wyoming equivalent of him having the waiter bring her one of whatever she was drinking.
“Your daughter’s the one who’s been sitting with Lucky?”
“That’s my Lizzie.”
“Cute kid.” Dana shot her a sidelong look. “Seems to me, a man who’s good with animals has daddy potential. Always wondered why Foster didn’t have a family.”
“It’s not like that.” And even if it was maybe just a little “like that,” she didn’t want to talk about it, not with Dana, not with anyone. He was too much of a presence. Krista relied on him, Gran baked him chocolate chip cookies with extra nuts even though she didn’t think nuts belonged in cookies, and Stace worshipped him as a big-brother-slash-mentor and started every other sentence with “Foster says.” And then there were the guests. Some of the men tried to outcowboy him, while others tried to be him, and more than half of the women Shelby had seen so far, from eight to eighty, batted their eyelashes and sighed after him when he passed. They all wanted his attention, his approval, and she didn’t want to be part of the herd. It was like seeing a picture of Clive Owen in a coworker’s cube and being annoyed because Clive was her celebrity crush and she didn’t want to share, only so much worse, because Foster was real. More, she didn’t want to upset the balance that worked so well at Mustang Ridge.
Then again, Krista knew he’d lent her Loco, and she hadn’t said anything. Why? Did she approve? Disapprove? Or was Dana wrong that it was so unusual for him to lend out his horse?
As they reined up in front of the barn, the other woman shot her a dubious look. “Should I have kept my mouth shut? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t. I’m not.” Shelby wasn’t sure what she was, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. “At least now I know that Loco’s an old pro.”
“You couldn’t be in better hands, horse or man.”
There it was again, that sense of familiarity. And a spurt of jealousy that made Shelby want to bare her teeth at the other woman. Which wasn’t cool, considering that she and Foster were just having fun.
“Well, it was nice chatting with you,” Shelby said as she swung off Loco. “I hope Justice—” FWEEEEET! FWEEEEET! The shrill whistle cut her off and sent her stomach plunging. “Lizzie!”
“I’ll take care of Loco.” Dana held out a hand. “Go!”
Shelby didn’t argue. She tossed the reins and bolted for the barn.
Lizzie stood at the back, just outside Sassy’s stall, waving her arms in a come on, come on, come on gesture. Shelby flew to her side, heart pounding. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
But the moment she saw her daughter’s bright, happy face and looked over the web gate, she saw that it wasn’t something wrong, so much as something very right.
Lucky was standing on his own, with his head under Sassy’s belly and his little broom-wisp tail flipping back and forth as he nursed.
“Oh!” Shelby breathed. “Look at him!”
He only took a few more gulps before losing interest, but even then he stayed on his feet, wandering around and poking at the corner feeder and shaking his head now and then as if to say, “Okay, it took a few extra days, but I’m ready to go now.”
As her adrenaline started to drain, Shelby hugged Lizzie closer. “Oh, sweetheart, you just about gave me a heart attack.” She didn’t care, though. Not when it looked like Lucky was going to be lucky after all. And not when her daughter had called her to come and see.
10
If Shelby hadn’t been involved in packing for the roundup, she never would’ve believed that so much of Mustang Ridge could go mobile, and look good doing it.
Bright and early Saturday morning, the twenty-eight riders—eight from the ranch and the twenty invited guests—were mounted and waiting in the parking area. The chuck truck was parked off to the side; the converted military transport was stuffed full with food for man and beast, along with bedding, cookware, camping gear, first aid, and entertainment, in a stripped-down version of the usual dude experience. They’d be camping in boo-yah luxury compared to how it would’ve been back in the day, when everything that couldn’t be packed on a cowboy’s saddle would’ve been jammed into the mule-drawn chuck wagon, or left behind. Still, Shelby was feeling very pioneerish as she settled into the crawler, riding shotgun beside Gran, with Lizzie strapped into a rumble seat behind them.
They didn’t have airbags, AC, or, she suspected, any real suspension. Yep, pioneering in the twenty-first century.
Gran glanced back. “You two comfortable back there?”
Lizzie nodded. Herman, who had been moved to a tall, insulated Tupperware container with holes punched in the lid, was Bungee’d into the rumble seat next to her, wearing his red-and-white-checkered towel at a rakish angle.
“They look good to go,” Shelby said, shooting Lizzie a “roll with it” wink and getting back a small smile that warmed the heck out of her heart.
It wasn’t the big breakthrough she’d been hoping for, the one all the experts had warned her not to expect, where Lizzie would wake up one morning singing the Toastee Krunch jingle, but she didn’t have to wait long for the nods or head shakes now, and the iPad’s volume had stayed on. Lizzie had tucked the whistle back away, but Shelby wasn’t letting that bother her. Not when she was getting the occasional look, wink, or smile, those small interactions that had been missing between them for so long.
Gran leaned out the truck’s giant window side and called, “What do you say, boss?”
Krista, sitting astride a lean, mottled gray gelding
with one blue eye and one brown, shook her head. “No boss here. I’m just the temp.”
Foster hadn’t made it back yet, but nobody seemed to be worried. Krista said that the gather could drag on if the weather wasn’t right, or he might stay an extra day or two if there were some particularly promising horses in the group. Shelby kept reminding herself that he hadn’t promised to call, didn’t have her number, and might not even know where his phone was. So there was no point in feeling as if he’d been gone for a really long time. Still, she’d kept an eye out for his truck, hoping he would make it back for the roundup. She wanted to tell him about Lizzie and the whistle, wanted to tell him how much Lucky had improved, wanted to ask more about Loco’s history, wanted to know more about him.
He’d told her to think about him, and she was sure doing that.
She only hoped he had done the same.
“He’ll be along,” Gran said, and Shelby thought it was aimed at her.
Krista stood in her stirrups, took off her hat and waved it in a wide, sweeping motion. “Okay, gang, listen up! Foster wouldn’t want us to waste such a gorgeous day waiting on him, so I declare this Fourth of July roundup officially on! We ride out in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”
Everybody yelled, “One!” And, laughing, they headed out of the parking area, following Krista’s lead through the gate and onto the dirt road leading up the ridgeline. The crowd bottlenecked at the opening, so some of the horses stood for a minute, excited but obedient as they waited their turns. Then they, too, picked up a slow trot and started off on the journey.
“Not exactly the Snowy River cavalry charge I was expecting,” Shelby said drily.
“Walk the first mile out and the last one back,” Gran said piously. “Unless, of course, you’re driving.” She patted the cracked dashboard.
Shelby gave the aged dials a dubious look, but didn’t argue. She figured that, worst case, they would break down and the riders would circle back around to find them. In the meantime, they certainly wouldn’t starve, as they were the ones with all the food. Besides, it was too beautiful a day to worry, and with Lucky out of the woods and the kitchen gone mobile, it felt like they were ditching school, skipping work, and heading out on an adventure.
Summer at Mustang Ridge Page 13