Summer at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  More heat, more touches, more desire.

  On Monday night, after a long day of collecting cattle on his part and cooking on hers, they snuck away again and rode out to a bubbling spring that held the sweetest water she’d ever tasted, and a mossy carpet where they cuddled and looked up at the stars. They were both bone tired and didn’t talk much, but where silence so often made her feel like she should jump in and fill it with something, now she relaxed and enjoyed the quiet, the night. The man.

  They breathed. They touched. They kissed. And when the air cooled, the horses grew restless, and they headed back to the campsite, she was utterly, bonelessly relaxed. They would have tomorrow, the day after that, and the day after that.

  I’m on vacation, she thought, and tried not to grin like a fool.

  On Tuesday he got Stace to cover the dinner service, and brought Shelby to another waterfall while the sun still hung in the sky. This waterfall was taller and narrower than the first, a long, thin cascade that bounced off rock after rock, turning almost entirely to mist by the time it hit bottom. There, a pebbled shore stretched up past where the mist turned everything wet, offering a perfect spot for the picnic he drew from an oversize saddlebag. After spreading a wool blanket and guiding her down, he dug into the provisions and produced a bottle of wine, pale and slender, and gleaming yellow in the sun. “I filched a nice Chardonnay from the truck, if you’re in the mood.”

  She almost hid the split-second hesitation. “Ah . . . sure.”

  “Or not,” he said easily. “I brought lemonade, too, in case alcohol’s not your thing.”

  “No,” she said softly. “I’d like the wine.”

  He paid too much attention to pouring. “I take it that you’re not exactly a party animal? City girl like you?”

  “City girls aren’t all the same,” she said with some asperity. “That’s like saying everyone who lives in Wyoming is a cowboy.”

  “Bite your tongue.”

  “Like I said. But you’re right, I don’t party much. I like a little wine now and then, though, with . . . friends.”

  This time the look was longer, and didn’t slide away. “With someone you trust, you mean. Someone you know won’t go overboard?”

  She wasn’t sure she liked how easily he read her. She enjoyed being the focus of his attention, but some things didn’t have any place in a romantic picnic under the wide-open sky, with a handsome cowboy who made her feel special. She wasn’t ashamed of this part of her life, though, at least not anymore. So she nodded and said, “Something like that. Which means that yes, I’d like some wine, thanks.” Leaning back, hoping that would be the end of it, she looked up at the waterfall. “Is that a cave up there?”

  He handed her a plastic cup. “Yep. About fifteen feet deep, though it gets pretty low in the back. A big mama cat used it a few years back, though there hasn’t been any sign of her in a while.”

  Her heart shimmied. “You actually climbed up there to see?”

  “Once or twice a year.” He grinned. “It’s part of my job to keep track of the local predators, make sure they don’t get too many cows. Or dudes, for that matter.”

  “I’m going to file that under ‘things I don’t want to think about,’ thank you very much.” Just like she didn’t want to think about him playing Spider-Man up on the wet rocks and sticking his head in a mountain lion’s den.

  “So . . . I take it your ex was a drinker?”

  Apparently, that wasn’t the end of it after all. She made a face, but said as easily as she could, “My ex, my father. I’m a flipping generational cliché, though I tried hard not to be.” Patrick had seemed like all the things her father wasn’t—ambitious, upwardly mobile, family-focused. It wasn’t until later that she’d seen the familiar patterns, the frustrations and missed opportunities, and how every setback was always somebody else’s fault. The boss, the supervisor, her. She shrugged. “Wounds healed, lessons learned, blah, blah. And it’s way too pretty a night to dredge that stuff up. Let’s just drink our wine, have our picnic.”

  “Of course.” Foster took a swallow and looked out over the falls. In the fading sunlight, the mist made shimmering rainbows that seemed suddenly magical, as if the evening had taken on another dimension. “I just wondered . . .”

  Darn it. “Go on.”

  He hesitated, choosing his words. “Sometimes people send me retraining projects, horses that have gotten labeled rogues or broncs, or just bad actors for one reason or another. With some of them, they’ve got holes in their educations, steps that got skipped along the way, and I just have to backtrack and fill in the gaps. Other times, though, there’s something in their history, some bad experience that’s made them stop trusting humans. Not always, mind you, but enough so I have to ask.”

  “Oh.” Her fingers tightened, denting the flimsy cup. “Right. No, it’s nothing like that.” She had done her best to shield Lizzie from how bad things were getting toward the end of the marriage. And in his own way, so had Patrick.

  “Still. I’d like to hear the story if you wouldn’t mind telling it.”

  She didn’t want to bring the past into this pretty place, didn’t want it to intrude on their time together. But he was asking for Lizzie’s sake. “There’s not much of a story, really. There wasn’t any violence, no drunken rages or big, spectacular fights. I didn’t even realize how bad the drinking had gotten until after Patrick left, when I was clearing out the old house and found all these stashed bottles and crossed-out receipts, like hiding it from me had been some sort of game.”

  “Maybe he was hiding it from himself, too.”

  She turned up her palms. “It’s a disease, and it’s nothing I could’ve fixed even if I had known how far it had gone. Trust me, I get that. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling stupid that I didn’t catch the signs.” More, she hated that she hadn’t been the one to walk away, which was just dumb.

  “It’s usually easier to see the trail you’ve already ridden than the one in front of you.”

  Reminding herself that she had needed to get through it to be where she was today, and that for all the heartbreak at the end, Patrick had given her Lizzie, she found a grin. “Seriously, I could do a year’s worth of advertising just using the Cowboy Code.”

  “Your average minivan doesn’t need to be walked the first and last mile of every trip.”

  “I could work with it.” She dropped her voice to announcer level. “Buy Velveeta for your little buckaroo . . . because real cowboys don’t eat funky cheese.”

  “You might have something there.”

  “Or not.” She shrugged, relaxing some, because Foster was easy to talk to, even about this. “Anyway, there wasn’t a big triggering incident for Lizzie’s SM, although I have no doubt the divorce factors into her confidence problems. There’s nothing I can see that we haven’t dealt with as best we could. And trust me, I’ve been over it a million times.” In her head, with Lizzie, with the therapists.

  “I don’t doubt it for a second,” he said firmly. “And if it came across as an accusation, or like I thought you’d missed something, I’m sorry. That wasn’t how I meant it.”

  “No, not really. I guess I’m still touchy about it, even after all this time.” Then again, it hadn’t been that long, really. Only a couple of years since Patrick walked out, a year or so since she had found her way back to being her real self, someone she was proud of. But at the same time it seemed like forever ago, as if parts of her marriage had happened to someone else.

  “You’ve got the right to be touchy there,” he said with a faint nod. “And like I said, I didn’t mean anything bad by asking. I’m just feeling my way.” He paused, then asked, “Does Lizzie see much of her grandparents?”

  It took her a second to catch up to the subject change, another to squelch the frustration. It was a beautiful sunset, with wine and a picnic, and she didn’t want to talk about this anymore. Which made her feel selfish, and as if she was in danger of losing some serious mom points.
But hadn’t Krista—and even Foster himself—told her she needed to take some time for herself? Although in all honesty, Lizzie had her worried today. She’d seemed happy enough the first couple of days, helping set up the corrals, toting tack and water for the riders, and pitching in with the cooking. But yesterday the glow had notched down and today she’d been moody and withdrawn, mostly sitting by herself and thumbing through a worn book.

  She’s just tired, she told herself, as that had been Gran’s diagnosis, too, as the folding cots and thin tents made for some uneasy nights even in the safety of camp. Not to mention that Lizzie’s electronics were out of juice, which was guaranteed to get a scowl from just about any modern-day kid.

  But at the same time, it was hard not to wonder whether some—or all—of the issue was that her mom was kind of dating. Lizzie had waved it off when she asked—no big deal, whatever—but still.

  “Shelby? You okay?”

  She focused on Foster and wondered if she was making a mistake. “Yes, I’m sorry.” What had he asked again? Oh, yes. “We don’t have any contact with my parents. Like I said, my father was a drinker.”

  “Was. He quit?”

  “He died,” she said flatly. “Eight years ago. Heart problems, liver failure, you name it, he had it by the end.” Six decades of abuse, and his body had finally given out.

  “Any other family?”

  “My mother and sister. We’re not close.” Hello, understatement. “Or, rather, they’re close to each other, but not to me or Lizzie. She only met them a couple of times when she was very little, and I haven’t seen either of them since the funeral. Honestly it’s better that way.”

  That got her a long look, but he said only, “What about her grandparents on the other side?”

  She let out a breath. “Sally and Paul. They’re good people, and first on my ‘in case of emergency’ list. They live outside Seattle, though, and aren’t in the best of health, which makes it hard to stay close. I take Lizzie out to see them at least once year, but it never feels like enough.”

  “I bet it’s not easy to keep up a long-distance relationship without talking on the phone, or at least e-mailing.”

  “We try. I put their calls on speaker, and the three of us chat about what we’ve been doing while Lizzie listens in, and I e-mail them photos at least once a month, but . . .” She shrugged. “It’s okay. All we can do is our best.”

  “Sounds lonely.”

  “She’s got some friends at school, a couple in our building. I make sure she gets out and interacts even though she’d rather stay in by herself and read or play games. She likes gymnastics, though, and dance.” She tried not to sound defensive.

  “That’s good, but I wasn’t talking about just Lizzie.” When Shelby stiffened, he shifted over and wrapped an arm around her, so they were sitting side by side, staring through the mist. Which made it easier to hear the husky sympathy in his voice when he said, “Shelby, darling, it sounds to me like you do a whole lot for everyone around you—especially that sweet little girl of yours. But who’s going to do nice things for you?”

  She didn’t let herself pull away, but her voice gained an edge. “I don’t need anybody. We’re fine, just Lizzie and me. We can take care of ourselves.”

  “No argument here. I just hope that if you take anything away from Mustang Ridge for yourself, it’s that you need to have some fun of your own now and then. You’ve been down a hard road and come out the other end in one piece.” He tightened his arm. “Be good to yourself. You’ve got a great life, a great kid. Make sure you enjoy them.”

  The reminder of that life—and the fact that they wouldn’t always be sitting together, out here in the middle of nowhere—brought a quiver. “I . . .” She blew out a breath, made herself relax. “I’m trying. I’m out here with you, aren’t I?”

  “Yes. That you are.”

  “And I’m doing things like this.”

  He arched a brow. “Like what?”

  Determined to dispel the gloom that had come with talking too much about the past and future rather than the glorious now, she turned and rose on her knees beside him. “This.”

  For the first time she initiated a kiss, leaning into him to press her lips to his, hard and ardent. His mouth opened beneath hers and she delved in, aroused by the hint of wine and the clutch of his hands on her arms, her waist. She pressed against him, feeling wanted, feeling powerful. Maybe she was on her own in the real world, but right here and now, she was with him.

  When she pulled away, heart pounding, he tightened his fingers and let out a low growl. “Do that again.”

  She wanted to—wow, did she want to!—but didn’t dare. Not now, after a conversation that had left her feeling a little off balance and more than a little vulnerable. “Maybe later.” Smiling, she retrieved her wine and sipped, enjoying the flavor and the faint tingle against her tongue. “Tell me you have chocolate to go with this.”

  “Dessert before dinner?”

  “Or for dinner. Don’t tell me you’ve never dined on chocolate chip cookies and root beer?”

  Grinning, he reached for the saddlebag. “Chocolate cupcakes do it for you?”

  “Always,” she said, and settled in beside. By unspoken consent, they stayed away from serious things while they watched the sun go down. Instead, they munched on junk food and talked about small, silly things long after the rainbows blazed red and gold, then faded to night. And it was perfect.

  • • •

  The following evening it rained, not just a soaker, but ominous thunderstorms that rolled through, blackened the sky, and sent wind whipping across the campsite. There wasn’t any question of Shelby and Foster sneaking away—she stayed put with Lizzie in their tent, playing gin rummy by camp lantern and working not to flinch when lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Lizzie’s eyes stayed wide and worried, though, and Shelby sometimes had to prompt her when it was her turn.

  The thunder moved on after an hour or so, but the rain and wind stayed put, as did the scared expression on Lizzie’s face. When the third gust hit their tent in as many minutes, making the canvas boom around them, Shelby threw up her hands. “Enough! Uncle!” As Lizzie stared, she gathered up their sleeping bags and pillows. “Come on, kiddo. Grab Mr. Pony and let’s go. We’re sleeping in the truck tonight.” It was late enough in the roundup that most of the back was clear of provisions. There would be plenty of room for them to stretch out, unless too many other people had come to the same decision.

  A little to her surprise, they were the only ones to take shelter in the truck. And yeah, maybe bailing out of the tent confirmed that she was a city girl despite the boots and jeans, but when Lizzie crawled into her arms and curled up in her lap, Shelby decided she didn’t care. For tonight, the most important thing was being a safe place for her daughter.

  On Thursday night, their last night on the trail, things cleared up again much to everyone’s relief, and Shelby and Foster slipped away for some more alone time. It was late but the moon was bright, letting the horses pick their footing up a steep, rocky hill to a grassy plateau, where he left the hobbled horses to graze, then led her over to the edge and down a narrow trail that took them partway down into a moonlit valley.

  “We’ll sit here.” He guided her to a wide, flat ledge, where rocks encircled a scorched spot and a split log made a bench. Sitting beside her, he dug into his saddlebag and pulled out a sloshing canteen and their evening snacks. “Pixy Stix and Kool-Aid?”

  She laughed. “I’m so going to have to detox after this week.”

  “Is that a ‘no’?”

  “I didn’t say that. Hand them over.” She looked around, not really sure why there was an evidently well-trafficked viewing spot right here. The valley was soft and rolling, the distant mountains were pitch-black against the moon-blue night, and the stars spread around them like a canopy. But all that could be said for tonight’s campsite, too. “What are we— Oh,” she breathed, “mustangs!”

  The horses
appeared out of the darkness like ghosts, floating across the valley floor, their hoofbeats inaudible from the humans’ vantage point. There were twenty of them, maybe more, three of them mares with foals tagging more or less at their heels. Or, rather, scampering from side to side with little hopping bucks, like the ones Lucky had started to throw in when he and Sassy went out in their paddock.

  “See the dark one out front, keeping an eye on everything? That’s the alpha mare.” Foster kept his voice low, his mouth close to her ear, making the moment even more intimate, more special. “She bosses the herd, leads them, keeps them safe. She’s chased off all of the bachelor stallions except for that guy over there—the stocky fellow with the high whites on his rear legs, bringing up the rear of the group and keeping them safe.”

  “They’re beautiful,” she breathed. “And so different! I thought that they would look like the ranch horses. And they do . . . but they don’t.”

  “Nope,” he agreed. “The wild ones have an extra something to them. An air of freedom, maybe, or an extra layer of cautiousness. Whatever it is, it gets inside you and stirs the blood. At least it does me.”

  “Me, too.”

  He cocked his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You like it here?”

  “I love it. Thank you for bringing me.” She leaned in and brushed her lips across his. “I can’t think of a better way to spend the last night of the roundup.”

  “Watching wild horses with my lady? I can’t, either.”

  Even as the thrill of his words shot through her at the pleasure of being his lady, if only temporarily, he returned the kiss, deepened it, and amped up the sizzle a hundredfold. A thousand. She murmured and crowded closer, loving the feel of his arms around her, his body hard against hers. His lady. Yes. She’d take that.

  From below, one of the mustangs whinnied. From above, one of the saddle horses answered.