The rainbows were gone and the clouds overhead were breaking up and letting dusty rays of sun shine through, turning the fields into patchworks of dark and light.
Shelby let out a happy sigh. “It’s gorgeous.”
Foster met her eyes, and his voice dropped a notch when he said, “It sure is.”
Brutus laid back his ears and faked a nip in Peppermint’s direction, and the pony made a face and squealed without moving his feet an inch.
Shelby laughed. “I think that’s our cue to stop gawking and get moving.”
“That, or run Brutus here up and down the hill a dozen times and get out some of the ya-yas,” Foster said drily.
“I vote we all take a run down the hill—or at least a decent jog. So . . . where to, trail boss?”
“That’s up to Lizzie. What do you say, kid? You want to ride into the backcountry and have lunch at this really cool lake where you can sometimes see wild mustangs, or do you want to head to the next ranch over and check out their buffalo and ostriches? Which, by the way, are also really cool.”
The big straw hat ducked a little, but then she looked up at him and said, “The l-lake, please. I’d l-like to see the mustangs.”
Shelby had more or less stopped tearing up at the sound of her daughter’s voice, but she didn’t try to stop the grin, or the warmth that ran through her when Foster met her eyes over Lizzie’s head. He’d been the one to point out that it was time to stop with the yes-no copouts and start asking questions that required actual answers.
Progress.
“Then the lake it is. I can’t promise you mustangs, but thanks to Gran and your mom, we’ll get a rocking picnic either way.” He reined Brutus around and pointed to a narrow trail that snaked down the ridge. “That’s the one. You and Peppermint can lead on.”
With the sun beaming down on Shelby, her cowboy at her side and her kid leading the way astride a fat gray pony, she could only let her head fall back and laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Foster asked.
“I’m happy, that’s all. Really, really happy.”
He nudged Brutus over, leaned in, and kissed her, quickly but thoroughly. “Me, too.” Then he straightened up in his saddle and gave Loco a playful slap on his rump. “Okay, you two, stop dawdling. Let’s ride!”
They rode for most of the day, going slowly to account for Lizzie’s inexperience and Peppermint’s height challenge, but still covering a good amount of ground out to the lake. There weren’t any mustangs at the watering hole, but they saw a pair of eagles and a rangy coyote while they ate thick turkey, bacon, and sourdough sandwiches with homemade half-sour pickles. On the way back, they saw the dust trail of a distant band of mustangs, rounding out Lizzie’s day. It was a long one, though, and by the time the three-boulder landmark came into sight, her straw radar dish was bobbing tiredly in time with Peppermint’s steps.
The horses had all been lagging for a bit—even Brutus had gone flat-footed—but they picked it up as they started down the hill for home. As the ranch came into view, though, Shelby frowned at an unusual commotion in the parking area. “What’s going on down there?”
Foster tipped back his hat and frowned. “Please tell me we don’t have a bachelor party booked for this week.”
“No, it’s the NeverEver package, all newbies, four big families, and some couples. Why a bachelor party?”
“Because it looks like somebody brought a party bus.”
“Is that what that is?”
“Or maybe an RV. Something . . . Uh-oh.” Brutus’s head came up, as if his rider had just clamped on, and Foster’s voice dropped an octave. “Dang it, I think that’s the Rambling Rose.”
• • •
When they reached the barn, Foster waved Shelby off toward the main house. “Lizzie and I can see to the horses if you want to go make sure Gran is okay and Krista isn’t homicidal yet.”
Gratitude washed through her. “I owe you one.”
“Just doing what I can to help out without getting in the line of fire.”
“You’re not making me feel any better.”
“Sorry. Rose is a bit on the scary side.”
This coming from a guy who called an eight-inch scar a love tap. “Oh, great.”
“You can take her. And Gran could probably use the backup. Krista does her best, but . . .”
“Rose is her mom.”
“Bingo.” He pulled her in for a quick kiss. “Go get ’em, Mama Bear.”
Out in the parking area, the huge RV dwarfed Krista’s big dually truck. The size of school bus plus a little, it was a deep, sparkling bronze color with white and purple waves streaking the sides. And, sure enough, RAMBLING ROSE was painted above the waves. The open cargo hold was half-full of big pink plastic bins and several more were stacked outside, along with a few pieces of matched luggage, suggesting that Krista’s parents had started unpacking, but then stalled.
Shelby wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
Telling herself to give Rose the benefit of the doubt despite the stories she’d heard, she headed up the stairs and through the front door. She hadn’t gotten more than two steps down the hallway leading to the kitchen when she heard raised voices.
“Well, for goodness’ sake, Barbara,” said a woman in an “I’m trying to be reasonable” tone. “This is how they do it in Paris.”
“Oh, poosh. You’ve never been outside North America.” That was Gran’s voice, clipped. “And my way is fine.”
“Is that what you’re going for here? Just ‘fine’? No, of course not. Let me show you again. You just—”
“Mom, you must be exhausted.” That was Krista, sounding harried. “How about we—”
“Oh, no,” Rose trilled. “Eddie drove the last leg so I’d be all rested and ready to hit the ground running!”
Shelby hesitated and gave serious thought to hiding out in the barn, instead, but then took a big breath and stepped into the kitchen doorway. Her stomach dropped at the sight of two plastic bins in the far corner, one of them open to reveal expensive copper pans. Gran and Krista stood on one side of the butcher-block counter, facing off against a formidable, steel-haired woman who looked like the Nurse Ratched version of Krista, with a little Julia Child thrown in around the edges. A couple of inches taller and wider than her daughter, Rose was wearing a red-edged white apron and a matching toque that made her tower over the other two. And it didn’t take a body-language expert to see that if there wasn’t already a problem, there would be soon.
Here goes nothing. Stepping through the door, Shelby said brightly, “Hey, guys, I’m back. Want me to get started on the cookies for tonight?”
Rose looked over, then blinked in confusion. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“The sous chef.”
She took an obvious glance down. “I thought you were due any day.”
Moving to stand right next to Gran, Shelby said, “That’s Bertie. I’m her fill-in, Shelby.”
“You can’t be.”
“Excuse me?”
Rose turned on Krista. “You didn’t tell me you’d hired another cook.”
“Um. Yeah, I did.”
“Don’t be silly. Well, anyway. I’m sure it’s a pleasure to meet you, Sherry.”
“Shelby. And thanks.” Sort of.
“You’re just in time. I was just about to show Krissie and Barbara how to make the most amazing Béchamel sauce, just like they do at the Cordon Bleu. That’s in France, you know. It’s a cooking school.”
Krista moved around the counter to touch Rose’s arm. “Mom, why don’t we—” A clatter from the hallway interrupted, and a big bear of a man in denim and plaid came through carrying two of the plastic bins. He had hair that was more salt than pepper, a goatee a couple of shades darker, and a pencil stub stuck behind one ear.
Peering around the bins, he navigated the counter without missing a beat. “Rosie, these are from the pasta class you took in Dubuque.”
Rose beamed. “T
hank you, sweetie. Just put it wherever there’s room. We’ll get things organized around here later.”
“Dad—” Krista began.
He ducked his head to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Sorry, sweetheart. I already tried. If I had my way, we’d be touring the Hoover Dam right now.” With a wink at Shelby, he headed for the door.
“Oh, you. Such a tease.” Rose waved him out, calling after him, “I also need the green pans and the box with the hand mixers in it.”
“Mom—”
“Now, where were we? Hollandaise, right?”
“Mom!” Krista’s bellow cut through the kitchen and left a ringing silence behind. When she finally had Rose’s attention, she said firmly, “You can’t just come in here and take over. We have guests, and we’ve got a good system in place.”
Rose blinked. “I’m not taking over, sweetie. It’s just a demonstration. Then I was thinking we could make these darling little Napoleons I learned in pastry class.”
Shelby couldn’t tell if she was manipulative or oblivious, or some mix of the two, but the whole “give her the benefit of the doubt” theory had lasted less than five minutes. She was firmly in Camp Gran on this one. “With all due respect,” she said, “we need to get started soon on dinner service for the new guests.”
“Oh, Sherry, don’t be silly. There’s plenty of time. That’s the beauty of Barbara’s plain cooking.”
Gran exhaled a poosh under her breath, and pushed away from the counter. “I’ve got things that need doing. I’ll be back at four.” The side door slammed behind her.
Shelby winced and started to go after her, but Krista caught her arm. “Wait. Hang on a sec.” She hustled her into the hallway, stopping near the menu board, which didn’t say anything about hollandaise or Napoleons. “I need a favor.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Not Gran. I want you to stay here and keep Mom occupied. Let her teach you something if you can stand it, but keep her away from dinner. And for the love of God, don’t let her touch Herman.”
Darned if the thought didn’t bring a surge of dread. “Of course. You’ll make sure Gran is okay?”
“Yep. Then I’m going to track down my father and find out what’s really going on here.”
“You didn’t know they were coming?”
“Last I checked they were on their way to see the World’s Biggest Donut or something.” Krista shook her head. “No, there wasn’t a hint, and I don’t know if this is a three-day whirlwind visit, or something more. Don’t get me wrong, I love her. Of course I do—she’s my mom. It’s just . . .”
“It’s okay.” Shelby pulled her into a quick hug. “It’ll be okay. Go. Do what you need to do. I’ll take care of things here.”
Brave words, but she had a feeling that was going to be easier said than done. And, sure enough, when she came back into the kitchen, Rose narrowed her eyes. “Where’s Krista?”
“One of the guests needed her.” Shelby waved toward the cabins. “Something about a clogged toilet, a missing toy, and a minor tsunami. She’ll be back as soon as she can.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, though the clog in question had been a few weeks ago and the renegade rubber dinosaur had long since been rescued, sterilized, and returned to its owner.
“Oh.” Rose gave her an up-and-down, then shrugged. “Well, then, we’ll just have to put together something that will surprise the boots off her when she gets here, won’t we? Grab your apron, and let’s get started.”
“I, uh . . . sure. Right.” Remembering that she was fresh from the barn, she donned one of Gran’s aprons and headed to the sink to wash up, saying over her shoulder, “So, Chef. What’s the plan? I’m all yours.” At least until four, when dinner service needed to get cranking.
Come on, Krista. You can do it. Hopefully she would be able to calm down Gran and get her father on board with some sort of a plan to contain her mom’s enthusiasm. From everything Shelby had heard about the rambling duo, Ed was mellow in the extreme, but pretty unstoppable once he’d made a decision.
Mollified, Rose dug into her plastic bins and started pulling out books and little jars of spices. “So, Shelly. I think I remember Krista telling me about you. You’re the one with the deaf daughter, right? Or not deaf . . . what was it? There was something wrong with her.”
Oh, this was going to be a couple of very long hours. Tamping down the knee-jerk mama bear “rwor!” she said, “It’s Shelby, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with my daughter.” And she knew darn well Krista hadn’t put it that way.
“Didn’t she tell me you and Foster are dating? Or was that someone else?”
“Yes, Foster and I are dating.” She couldn’t really deny that one, and didn’t really want to. Even saying it to this stranger—and a strange stranger, at that, no matter who she was related to—gave her a buzz, especially on the heels of their family trail ride.
Okay, now she was calling it a family deal. Note to self: don’t let the boundaries blur.
Rose unplugged Gran’s commercial mixer and shoved it aside to plug in a Salad Shooter straight off the Home Shopping Channel, or maybe the “As seen on TV” aisle at Walmart. With a sidelong look at Shelby, she said, “I was surprised to hear about the two of you, actually. It always seemed to me like he just shut down that part of his life.” She smiled brightly. “I think it’s wonderful that you were able to get through to him. He’s such a dear man.”
She seemed genuine, suggesting that she wasn’t malicious so much as self-absorbed to the point of oblivious, so Shelby made herself return the smile, along with a noncommittal “That’s nice of you to say. And I agree, he’s a very good man.”
“But such a loner. I always thought that was a shame, though of course he has good reason not to trust women. You know, what with the divorce and all.”
Shelby, who had been about to change the subject before things got weird, froze with the water running in the sink and her hands sudsed up. Because things had suddenly gotten very weird. “Divorce?”
Busy measuring flour into a big bowl, Rose didn’t seem to notice the edge in her voice. “It’s only natural for him to be wary after the way her lawyers cleaned him out. Took the family farm, the stock, everything except his horse and his saddle.” She nodded to herself. “A thing like that is going to change a man.”
“I don’t . . .” Shelby couldn’t finish, couldn’t breathe. I don’t want to hear this. But maybe she should, because it put a whole new spin on things. And, clearly, it wasn’t something he’d been planning on telling her himself.
Five weeks. They had known each other for five weeks, almost six, and had been lovers for two of them. Yet he’d never mentioned being married, or that he’d lost the Double-Bar H in the divorce.
“How’s he doing with the negotiations, anyway?” Rose had her nose stuck in the refrigerator, rummaging through stores that were intended to get them through a week of guests. “Last I knew, he was saving every penny up so he could buy his old place back, regain the family honor, that sort of thing.”
“You’ll . . . you’ll have to ask him yourself.” The ache inside her was more bewilderment than anger, and a creeping sense of dread. Don’t freak, she told herself. You both agreed this was just for fun, just a casual thing.
But, oh, it hurt.
“You’re right, we shouldn’t gossip.” Rose glanced over at her, brows furrowing when she realized Shelby had been washing her hands for a good five minutes, maybe longer. “This isn’t surgery, you know. You ready to get to work? I’m thinking we’ll do this darling squash soup I know.”
Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. She owed it to Krista to buy her the time she needed, owed it to Gran to protect Herman and their dinner fixings. She didn’t have the option of losing it, not now.
She so badly wanted to, though. Divorced. It didn’t compute with the man she knew, but why would Rose lie? Maybe she’s confused. That brought a spurt of hope, but it died quickly when it lined up too well—a loner with a horse and
a saddle, who lived a stripped-down life because he was saving every penny he could to buy back the Double-Bar H. Oh, God. She wanted to press the back of her hand to her mouth and hold in a sob, wanted to block out the creeping dread that said she had badly misjudged him, and what was going on between them.
But her hands were clean, and she had a job to do. You can do this. More, she would have to do it. She owed Krista and Gran better than a meltdown right now.
She was shaking as she shut off the water, but she straightened and found a wobbly smile as she turned to Rose. “Where do you want me to start?”
• • •
Shelby made it through two hours of the Mustang Ridge version of Hell’s Kitchen, nearly wept with relief when Krista and her father showed up at four to kidnap Rose for a welcome-home dinner in town, and did her best to make the dinner service as easy as she could on a very subdued Gran. All the while, though, she roller-coastered her way from “he should’ve told me” to “ohmigod, what now?” to “get a grip, he hasn’t really done anything wrong,” with too-frequent detours down “well, at least there’s chocolate.” Lots of chocolate. Enough chocolate that by the time Tipper and Topper headed out with dessert, she had a stomachache and the smell of sugar made her want to hurl.
So much for all that “I’ve got my head on straight, lots of therapy, self-aware, blah, blah” she’d been spouting the other day. Because by the time she pulled up in front of Foster’s place near sunset, she was a mess.
After killing the engine, she sat for a moment, staring at the bunkhouse. It didn’t look any different, with its rough-out exterior, zero landscaping, and trio of tired rockers on the porch. It was the first time she’d come on the spur of the moment, though, and the first time she hesitated before getting out of the car.
Maybe she should leave, drive around some, and come back when she was more settled, when she knew what she wanted to say.
Summer at Mustang Ridge Page 23