Summer at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  Needing the comfort, she pulled on black pants and her old chunky boots and headed for the kitchen. She went in through the front door, then paused, sniffing, as a cold weight settled in her stomach, an unease separate from heartache.

  There was nothing warm and yummy in the air. No yeast, no sugar, no cinnamon . . . no nothing.

  Her pulse kicked as she headed down the hall, calling, “Gran?”

  “I’m . . . I’m in here,” came the wobbly answer from the kitchen, almost inaudible.

  Had she fallen? Had a heart attack? The scenarios whipped through Shelby as she hurried into the kitchen. “What’s wrong? What—” She broke off at the sight of the older woman standing at the main counter, hunched over Herman’s bowl. His towel was off and the room smelled stale.

  Gran’s face was ravaged and gray, her eyes stark. “He’s dead.”

  Shelby’s stomach plummeted and she hurried to Gran’s side. “What . . . How . . .”

  “She killed him.”

  “Rose? No.” Shelby couldn’t believe it. There was a difference between being oblivious and being outright cruel.

  “We’ve always argued, but I never thought . . .” Gran pulled the bowl closer, wrapped it in her arms. “How could she?”

  A split second later, every fiber of Shelby went Oh, no! and her stomach plunged toward her toes as she realized something awful. Really, truly horrible. And having to do with an unmarked bottle that hadn’t looked exactly right. She had been too caught up in her own misery, too exhausted to see it last night . . . but now she did.

  What had she done?

  “Um . . . ,” she began, then faltered.

  “I knew Rose wanted the kitchen, but I never thought she would sink to this. He’s our Herman.” Snapping upright, Gran shoved away from the counter and, fists balled, headed for the back hallway and the stairs leading up. “I’m going to go up there right now and—”

  “Wait—”

  “No, don’t try and stop me. I gave her my son and put up with her garbage, but this is too much. I’m going to—”

  “It was me!” Shelby’s shout echoed in the kitchen, and then she covered her mouth with both hands, stifling a sob as the other woman—her boss and friend—froze and then, slowly, turned back.

  “Shelby?” It wasn’t accusatory so much as baffled.

  “It was an accident. Last night . . . the bottles . . . I thought you’d just put the secret sauce in a new container, and I dumped it in. I’m sorry.” It came out as a whisper. “It must’ve been something Rose brought in. The bottles must’ve gotten mixed up on the shelf.”

  Gran’s eyes flooded anew. “I . . . I thought she did it on purpose. We’ve played tricks on each other off and on through the years, but this . . .”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Shelby peered into the bowl and cringed at the sight of a slick, liquid gray mass. “Are you sure he’s . . .”

  “Gone.” Gran came back over, retrieved the towel, and draped it over the bowl, smoothing down the edges so they hung neatly. “He’s gone.” She looked small and tired, making Shelby’s heart hurt. She wanted to apologize, but she couldn’t undo what she had done.

  How had she been so careless? She was supposed to be protecting Gran’s back, not stabbing it.

  “Gran,” she said softly. “I think you should take the morning off. I’ll manage breakfast.”

  “But the baking . . .” She trailed off, stricken, because there wouldn’t be any baking. At least not the way there normally was.

  “I’ll have Tipper clean out the bakery in town. We’ll make do.”

  “No, don’t use store-bought. There are . . .” Gran’s voice broke. “There are some of those nasty yellow yeast packets in the back of the pantry, behind the extra bottles of vanilla. You can use those for today.”

  “I will.” Shelby wanted to hug her but didn’t know how. Not after what she had done. “Go home. Take a few hours.” Hopefully her Arthur hadn’t yet left for the day. Either way, Shelby would go tell Krista. If anyone could help, it’d be her.

  “Okay.” Gran hefted the bowl, held it wrapped in her arms. “But I want you to promise me something.”

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t tell anyone about Herman. Not a soul, got it? I don’t . . . I need some time.”

  “But Krista—”

  “No,” Gran said, her wobbly voice gaining some volume. “Nobody can know. Not Krista, not Lizzie, not even Foster.”

  That brought a pang. But Shelby nodded. “Whatever you want. And, Gran . . . I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  There was no “poosh” or casual wave. Just a tired nod. “It was an accident. You didn’t mean it.”

  No, but she had done it all the same. She’d gotten so wrapped up in things with Foster that she hadn’t paid enough attention. Herman’s demise was bad enough. What if it had been even worse? What if she’d hurt an actual person, or one of the animals, or burned the place down? Her thoughts raced as Gran shut the door gently behind her, making her feel ill.

  This was a disaster. She was a disaster, and she had taken down Herman and Gran with her, right when the kitchen needed to be at its strongest to withstand a semihostile takeover. Which was probably why Gran didn’t want anyone to know what had happened. Shelby didn’t know how delaying things would make a difference, but if that was what Gran wanted, she would get it. Which meant she needed to turn out a fabulous breakfast and pull together a day’s worth of bread without a starter.

  She took a deep breath. “Focus,” she told herself. “You can do this.” She warmed up the ovens, found the venerable Joy of Cooking that Gran sometimes used to prop open the side door, and dug out the yeast packets from the back of beyond. All the while, her stomach churned and tears leaked from her eyes while she fought to hold it together like never before.

  This time yesterday, she’d been teasing Gran about her apron, which had Kiss the Cook embroidered on it in six different languages, and had been a gift from Jenny. And she’d been looking forward to riding out with Foster and Lizzie, having a picnic, having fun. Family fun, darn it. And now . . .

  Now nothing. Just bake.

  By the time Tipper and Topper arrived to start setting up, Shelby had bread under way. It wouldn’t be up to the ranch’s usual standards, but the new guests wouldn’t know and the regulars wouldn’t say anything once they found out Gran had gone back to bed. Well, Rose would probably say something, but that would’ve happened anyway. The idea of facing her—of facing any of them, really—made Shelby want to set off across the backcountry barefoot, but she cowboyed up and got breakfast on the table, assuring Krista and the others in the family dining room that Gran was fine, nothing to see here, move along. She pulled it off, too, even earning a stiff nod of approval from Rose for the quick berry sauce she’d whipped up to top the buckwheat pancakes that had been a Hail Mary when a whole batch of muffins failed to rise.

  Shelby was just about to escape when Krista scooted back her chair and snagged her arm, tugging her down. “Hang on. I need to give you the heads-up on something.”

  “Uh-oh. What?” Please, don’t let there be biscuit complaints.

  “My dad was waxing the RV last night around midnight—don’t ask—and met up with Foster and Loco coming back in from a ride.”

  Aw, darn it. Loco. It hurt more than she would’ve thought, even after everything that had already happened in the past twelve or so hours. “It’s his horse.”

  “That’s not the part I wanted to tell you.” She paused. “He told my dad that his ex’s father finally accepted his offer. It looks like Foster will be getting his old place back sooner rather than later.”

  “He . . .” Shelby swallowed hard. “Oh. Well, congratulations. To him, I mean. I know it’s something he’s been working toward for a long time.” Sort of, and only because she’d dragged it out of him. And, darn it, she wasn’t going to cry again, not in front of everybody.

  “I just . . . I wanted you to know.” Krista’s eyes
were full of sympathy. The old Shelby might’ve done the “don’t pity me” thing, but now she wanted to lean on her friend like there was no tomorrow.

  There was always a tomorrow, though.

  “Thanks. I . . . thanks.” Shelby gave her a one-armed hug and stood. “I’ll see you all later,” she said, louder. “Fried chicken for lunch. Be there or be square.” She left on the heels of an appreciative rumble from the small crowd, but the hallway blurred around her. Don’t cry, she warned herself. Don’t you dare cry. You’re tougher than that. She had made it through a divorce and handled life with an SM child. She could deal with this, too.

  A last few straggling guests were headed along the gravel path to the dining hall as she came down the main stairs. Determined to be professional, she found a smile for the harried-looking parents and trio of hopped-up little boys, and called, “Enjoy your breakfast!”

  The woman blinked at her, blurry-eyed. “Please tell me there’s coffee.”

  “Absolutely,” Shelby reassured her. “I recommend the local blend—it’s called ‘Mud in a Cup,’ but don’t let the name fool you. As far as I’m concerned, it’s better than the best that Starbucks ever poured.” Thanks in part to a couple of adjustments she had made to the brew, thankyouverymuch.

  One of the boys—eleven or so, wearing braces, a buzz cut, and an American Idol Live T-shirt—piped up, “What about the horses?”

  “They get their own breakfasts,” she told him. “The dining hall is just for people.”

  He gave her a “duh” eye roll. “I know that. But when do we get to ride?”

  “After breakfast,” the dad said. “Just like the last ten times you asked.”

  Shelby’s smile got closer to being real. “You’ll have a blast. The horses are very well trained, and the wranglers are top-notch.” To the parents she said, “Stace is great with the kids, and Foster . . . he’s, um, the trail boss, and knows the backcountry like nobody else. He’ll make sure you have some fabulous rides.”

  The dad grinned. “Friends of ours came last year and couldn’t stop talking about it. We can’t wait to get started.”

  The mom just said, plaintively, “Coffee?”

  “Go.” Shelby waved them on their way. “The caffeine is on the right as you walk in. Do not pass go, do not collect.”

  As they moved off, she realized it actually made her feel worse that she’d enjoyed the exchange, as if she was finally hitting her stride just as things were falling down around her.

  What was she supposed to do now?

  She had to go talk to Gran, she knew, and see if there was any way she could make amends. But on the way, needing a moment to herself, she diverted into the barn, coming to a halt outside Loco’s stall.

  The glossy bay didn’t give her his usual “what have you got for me?” whicker. Instead, he stayed at the back of his stall with one hind foot cocked and his eyes at half-mast.

  “You’re tired, huh, buddy?” Yesterday’s trail ride had been slow and easy, but there was no telling how hard and far Foster had ridden by moonlight.

  Pressing her forehead to the bars of the stall door, she sighed. “Oh, Loco. What am I going to do now? I don’t know if I can handle another whole month here, not like this.” She didn’t want to see Foster every day, knowing she wouldn’t be with him every night, and she didn’t want to make things worse in the kitchen. She’d been hired on to help Gran, but it was starting to feel like too many cooks, especially if Rose would be taking some of the load off. “I don’t know. Maybe we should just leave.”

  “Leave?” The word was a plaintive little sound, stopping her heart. Seconds later, a nearby stall door rolled open and Lizzie stepped out, eyes wide and unhappy. “Why?”

  For the first time, instead of ohmigod, she’s talking! Shelby’s only thought was oh, crap. She opened her mouth to say that she didn’t mean it, she was just blowing off some steam . . . but that would have been a lie. Because suddenly, the idea of hitting the road sounded awfully good. She could go back to work, back to her life, and Lizzie would get the therapy she needed now that she was talking again. Gertie would be delighted to see her, and thrilled with the progress she’d made. There wouldn’t be any awkwardness with Foster, and Rose and Gran would be forced to work something out, taking the pressure off of Krista and—whether or not she wanted to admit it—Gran herself.

  Swallowing the grief that lumped in her throat at the thought of leaving Mustang Ridge, she said, “Krista’s mother is here now, baby. They don’t need another cook.”

  “So? Y-you can help F-Foster with the b-barn.”

  “It’s not that easy, Dizzy Girl.”

  Her little brows furrowed. “Krista’s making you l-leave?”

  “No, it’s—”

  “Is it because of m-me?”

  “Of course not.” But she’d hesitated a split second too long.

  Lizzie’s already chalky face headed toward crumpling and her eyes brightened with tears. “It is. It’s because I’m t-t-t—”

  Heart plummeting all over again, Shelby dropped to her knees. “No! Sweetie, no. I’m so proud of how brave you’ve gotten, how much you’re talking, all of it. So proud. But I’ll be just as proud of you back home. Don’t you want to see your friends and show them how far you’ve come?”

  Her lower lip poked out. “I want to stay with L-Lucky.”

  We don’t always get what we want, kiddo. Trust me on that one. “He belongs to Krista.”

  “I don’t care.” The tears welled up, broke free. “Foster says—”

  “Don’t cry, baby.”

  “I’m not a baby!” The shout surprised them both. Shelby rocked back on her heels as a suddenly red-faced Lizzie advanced, hands balled into fists. “Stop ordering m-me around!”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you d-did! You’re always telling me what to do, or d-dragging me around!”

  Something went snap inside Shelby. “I wouldn’t order you around if you’d talk to me, Lizzie! Tell me what you want, what you need, and I’ll do my best.”

  “I want us to stay here forever!” This shout was louder than the last, with the stutter gone.

  “Well, we can’t!” Shelby yelled back.

  Lizzie sucked in a breath to retort, but Shelby held up a hand and used her Mom voice. “Hold it right there. I think we both need a time-out.” God forgive her, she was telling her kid to shut up. But she needed the moment. After a ten-count, she exhaled and said, “Look, I haven’t made up my mind. I have to talk to Krista and Gran.” And Foster, though that would be the hardest conversation of all. She needed him to know it wasn’t his fault, any of it. He’d been honest all along. She was the one who forgot to listen. “And you and I can talk about it before I decide.” She might even get Gertie on the phone. She didn’t want to mess up their progress, but she also didn’t want to give in just because Lizzie was on the verge of a tantrum. For a change, she wanted to do what worked for her, not anybody else.

  Maybe this was what the others had meant when they said she needed to do some things for herself. Or maybe not. Her head was spinning, and she wasn’t going to get it any clearer like this, with the familiar barn smells surrounding her, and her darling daughter glaring at her like she’d just fondued a puppy.

  “I’m going for a walk. Do you want to come?” she asked after a brief hesitation, losing Mom points for hoping her kid said no.

  Lizzie scowled and shook her head.

  “Are you hungry?” Shelby didn’t even know if Lizzie had made it to breakfast. Another couple of demerits to go along with the giant yelling penalty.

  Lizzie turned away. With her shoulders hunched, she looked too much like her old self. But her face was flushed and angry, even the tear streaks better than blankness.

  Guilt echoed through Shelby, but she couldn’t undo any of what had happened—not getting in too deep with Foster, not poisoning Herman, and not upsetting her kid. Leaving was starting to feel like the most sensible answer. They w
ere only supposed to be there a few more weeks, anyway. Maybe it would be better to make the break sooner than later.

  “Okay. I’ll be back in the kitchen in an hour. Mind your manners and remember the rules.” That got Shelby a bad-tempered shrug, but she was feeling pretty bad-tempered herself, so let it go and headed out of the barn.

  Her heart tugged, though, and she turned back at the door. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. I don’t want to fight with you.” She faltered, remembering how Foster had said the same thing last night. “We’ll talk later, I promise.”

  Silence.

  • • •

  As Foster headed for the barn, he was dreading the day ahead. Over the years, he had built up his defenses against Sunday mornings, with the new greenhorns coming in and him having to deal with the inevitable battle to keep the puffed-up “I rode once on a vacation in St. Croix and know everything” dudes from committing suicide by annoyed equine, while not scaring the “I rode once on a vacation in St. Croix and got run away with” wimps to the point that they refused to throw a leg over.

  Today, though, his defenses were seriously low. He was running on, like, three hours of sleep, too much junk food, and a skunked beer he’d found in the back of the fridge, left over from New Year’s, maybe. “Some celebration,” he muttered. But it’d been impossible to celebrate getting the ranch back given the way things had gone with Shelby.

  Yeah, maybe he’d said what he needed to say for a change, and yeah, maybe he was doing what was best for both of them. All three of them. But he sure as heck didn’t feel good about it. He wanted to see her, wanted to talk to her, wanted to tell her . . . Hell, he didn’t know what. All he knew was that he didn’t want to leave it like this.

  She wasn’t in her cabin or the kitchen, though, so he headed for the barn, hoping that they could have a few minutes of privacy before breakfast ended and the dudes descended.

  Ducking through the door, into the welcome shadows of the main barn, he called, “Shelby?”

  There was a scuffle in one of the back stalls, a muffled sob.