“Aw, heck.” He covered the distance in four long strides. “Shelby-sweet, don’t . . .” He trailed off, staring into Sassy’s stall. “Lizzie? What are you doing?”
Dumb question. The kid-size saddle that Lizzie used on Peppermint was perched on the broodmare’s broad back, stirrups sticking out on either side, so it looked like a flattened leather spider. Meanwhile, Lizzie had her head buried in Sassy’s side, red-faced and puffing as she struggled to get her pony-size cinch around the huge belly. Nearby, Lucky was tugging at an overturned muck bucket, which Lizzie had no doubt used as a booster to get the saddle onto the mare’s back. The foal looked devilishly entertained and Sassy, bless her, was ignoring the proceedings much as she ignored her foal’s antics. But Foster’s blood went cold as the what-ifs ran through his mind.
What if she fell under the mare and got trampled? What if Lucky had put a foot through the rope handles of the muck bucket and yanked it out from underneath her? What if she had overbalanced and hit her head on the wall or, worse, the corner feeder? He saw each scenario in his mind’s eye, thanks to a lifetime of being around horses and witnessing the freak accidents they could cause and suffer. But for the first time, each image hit home, making him want to rub his eyes and scrub them away while his pulse rate shot into the stratosphere.
She’s fine, he told himself. She didn’t get hurt.
Which was good, because he was going to kill her.
“Lizzie,” he said sharply. “Stop what you’re doing and come out of the stall this minute!”
The set of her shoulders and the tilt of her head said she knew he was there, but she kept fighting with the girth, not seeming to realize that there was a good foot of flabby chestnut belly between the end of the cinch and the bottom of the leathers, and it wasn’t going to happen.
Lucky for him, she hadn’t thought to go back into the tack room for a longer girth.
He strode into the stall and caught one of her arms. “Young lady—”
The moment his fingers made contact, she spun and launched herself at him. Lucky scattered behind his dam as Foster raised his hands to grab the little girl, hoping to keep her from punching him where it hurt. He caught her arms, held her tight . . . and then froze when she wrapped herself around him and clung, shaking.
She wasn’t attacking him. She was hugging him as if her life depended on it.
Something shifted deep inside him, and he looked quickly around for whatever had scared her so badly, though he knew there wasn’t anything there. Just the barn and a half-tacked broodmare who hadn’t been ridden in months.
“Lizzie, what is it? Are you hurt?” She didn’t seem it. He didn’t see any blood, and she’d been just fine a few seconds ago. “Okay, now. You’re okay. Ah . . .” He looked around, realizing he had a potential mess on his hands. She was stronger than she looked, making it impossible for him to peel her off without hurting her. Meanwhile, Lucky was pulling on the free end of the cinch, making the saddle tip across Sassy’s broad back. Any second now, it was going to come down on him.
But the little devil had already survived worse, and Lizzie needed Foster’s attention right now.
“Come on. Out we go.” He swung her up in his arms and perched her on his hip like a little kid. And even though her legs dangled down past his knees, she wrapped them around him, buried her head under his chin, and hung on tight, the way Tish’s kids did, only different, because here he wasn’t Uncle Foster, and something was very wrong. Which left him standing there, cuddling Lizzie and using his spooky greenie mantra on her. “Whoa there, easy. Settle down. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. You’re okay now. We’ll work this through, and everything’s gonna be fine.” He hoped. Had Shelby told her they’d broken up? Was that what this was about? Heart tugging, he rubbed her back. “Shhh, little one. I’ve got you.”
“Hey, Foster,” Stace sang out as she came into the barn. “Ready for a new group of—” She broke off, eyes widening. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“Want me to get Shelby?”
That was the obvious answer. She would know how to handle a meltdown—she’d done it before, would undoubtedly do it again. This was part of being a parent, and he wasn’t. But there was something about having those skinny little arms wrapped around his neck, something about that utter trust, that had him turning away from Stace.
“I got her. Can you untack Sassy and take care of things in there?”
“Untack?” She looked in the stall, and her eyes widened. “Sure. Of course.”
While she set about rescuing the saddle from Lucky and vice versa, Foster juggled Lizzie enough to ease the choke hold she’d gotten around his neck, and peel her back a little. “Come on, now. You know I’m not as good as your mom at the guessing games, so you’re going to have to talk to me.”
Her eyes were wet, her face miserable.
“Are you mad at me?”
Nothing. Then, slowly, a faint head shake.
His relief that she hadn’t backslid all the way warred with concern. “Then what is it? Come on, you know you can talk to me.”
“I—I—I . . .” She buried her face in his neck.
The soft stutter tore at him. “Easy there. Take a deep breath and try again.”
She just hung on tighter, soaking his shirt with silent tears.
“You’re fine. It’s gonna be fine. But if I’m going to fix it, you need to tell me what’s going on.”
Slow down. Think. “Why were you saddling Sassy?”
Nothing. Then, softly, “S-so we could ride to the w-waterfall and live there.”
Uh-oh. “Uh, why would you want to live at the waterfall?”
“Because L-Lucky needs me. I c-can’t leave him.”
The heartburn intensified, searing down to his gut and flooding him with the sudden urge to slap a couple of saddles on the nearest horses and head off to the grotto with Lizzie and her mother both. Which didn’t make any sense . . . but neither did what he was hearing. “You’re not leaving for another month.”
“Mom said.” The two words came out sulky, angry, agonized.
“She said you were leaving now?”
“Yes!” Her eyes filled anew and spilled over, and she sucked in a shuddering sob. “But I don’t want to go. L-Lucky needs me!”
“I . . .” His throat locked up as the knowledge of what he should do warred with what he wanted to do. He knew damn well he should take Lizzie to her mom and let the two of them figure things out while he stepped back, putting distance between himself and a family unit that didn’t fit into his life. Not now, and not into the new-old life he was in the process of building for himself. But what he wanted to do was whatever it took to make sure they didn’t leave, not now. Not ever.
Lizzie’s lower lip poked out mutinously. “You said you could fix it. You promised.”
Aware of Stace’s eyes on him, he eased the little girl down and knelt in front of her, holding her arms partly to keep her from taking off on him, partly because he wasn’t ready to let her go. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Wh-what are you going to say?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? “I don’t know, Lizzie. But I’ll think of something good.”
19
Shelby’s head hurt. More, her heart hurt, worse than it ever had before, even during the worst of things during her divorce. Maybe that was because by then, she had already mourned the dreams she’d had for her family. And with Lizzie’s gradual slide into silence, Shelby hadn’t been heartbroken so much as guilty and afraid.
This, though . . . this was heartbreak.
If she left Mustang Ridge, she wouldn’t just be saying good-bye to the people and horses she’d come to love—she would also be leaving behind the woman she’d become here, the one who wore pointy boots and butt-hugging jeans, who galloped across moonlit fields and kissed a cowboy. She couldn’t stay that person, though. She had already proven that by messing things up with Foster, with Gran, even with Lizzie.<
br />
But she could try to fix at least one of those relationships, starting now.
Even though she should’ve been cried dry by now, tears stung her eyes as she slipped through the side door into the kitchen and breathed in the lingering breakfast scents. The scent of yeast—even from the evil yellow packets—had her breath hitching, and her voice wobbled when she called, “Gran?”
There was no answer, but Gran’s cottage had been empty, and Krista had reported seeing her headed this way, carrying Herman’s bowl.
On her way through the kitchen, Shelby swiped at a few crumbs that Tipper and Topper had missed in their cleanup, trying not to think about doing her last dinner service, taking her last ride, saying good-bye.
Never seeing Foster or the others ever again.
Her vision blurred as she headed for the back stairs leading up to the family quarters, thinking maybe Gran had gone to talk to Rose or—more likely—Ed. She was nearly there when she heard a soft bumping sound coming from the pantry.
Her pulse kicked, because that wasn’t a noise she’d heard before, wasn’t one she recognized. And she’d be darned if she walked past it on a day like today. She had to be able to do something right. Hoping it wasn’t a mouse, and then revising that to hope it was a mouse instead of another snake, she grabbed a big wooden spoon, stopped and exchanged it for a broom, and then tiptoed over to the pantry.
The latch was sprung, the door cracked open, which was no doubt how the little health code violation had gotten in.
Shelby ripped it open, broom raised. “Aha!”
“Aiee!” Gran reeled back and banged into a shelving unit, which dumped a box of graham crackers onto her head.
“Ohmigod!” Shelby dropped the broom and backed away. Tell me I didn’t just do that.
The older woman clapped a hand to her chest. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“I’m sorry.” Shelby got a hand over her mouth before a bubble of horrified laughter could erupt. “Oh, Gran. I’m sorry. I’m a train wreck today. Someone should just put me out of my misery.”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense. Come in and close the door before anyone else sees.” As if the whole broom thing hadn’t happened, she turned back to her commercial mixer, which was inexplicably parked on a folding chair in the middle of the pantry.
That wasn’t what struck Shelby the most, though. It was more the realization that Gran looked fine. Maybe a little strained around the edges, but her color was good, her face was bright and happy . . . and the familiar blue-and-white bowl was sitting on the shelf beside her, glistening and clean, with a new checkered towel—this one a cheery yellow and white—sitting folded beside it.
“Um, Gran? What are you doing?”
“Why, resurrecting Herman, of course.” She gestured to the mixer bowl, which held a floury white slime that smelled like a combination of yeast and feet.
“But he’s—”
“Dead. Yes. But you and I are the only people who know that.” Her brows drew together and her tone went downright menacing. “Right?”
“Right! Um, yes. I mean no, I didn’t tell anyone what happened. But, Gran. He’d been alive for more than two hundred years.”
“Closer to forty, actually.”
Shelby shook her head, feeling a little like the first time she met Herman, when she wasn’t sure if she was being Punk’d, and if not, how she had lost control of the conversation so thoroughly. “I thought Mary Skye started him in eighteen whatever.”
Gran nodded. “That’s right. And then I left him out in the sun in ’seventy-three when Eddie compound-fractured his arm falling off that pig-eyed sorrel of his. By the time I got back from the doctor, he was toast. Herman, I mean, not Eddie. Eddie was fine.”
“You mean . . .” Shelby scrambled to catch up. “So I actually killed Herman the Second?”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. When I was stressing about the ’seventy-three incident, Arthur mentioned there being a huge fuss in the kitchen one time when he was a teenager, and that it was something about Herman. I’m betting I’m not the first of the Skye women to do a quick ‘now you don’t see it, now you do’ on the family starter. For all we know, this is Herman the Fourteenth.” She patted the mixing bowl. “In fact, I think that’s what I’ll call him in my head. . . . But we’ll just call him Herman for short, okay?” She looked at Shelby like it was a real question, like there was any possibility that she wasn’t going to go along with it.
“You never told Rose?”
“I’m telling you,” Gran said, as though that made perfect sense.
But I’m leaving. She tried to say it, but couldn’t make the words come out, as if she’d gone selectively mute all of a sudden. Apparently, the tree didn’t fall far from the apple.
Not seeming to notice the silence—or considering it an answer in itself—Gran added a little more milk, gave it a quick mixer burst, and then tested the slime between her fingers, beaming like she’d been panning for gold and had finally found a few little flakes. “He’s ready.” She unhooked the mixer bowl and held it over the blue-and-white Herman bowl. “Drumroll please.” Without waiting for a response, she poured.
Shelby watched dubiously. “Is it supposed to look the same?”
“It will. It just needs to mature into a sustainable culture. It’ll take a few days to establish it, a few weeks for it to really be useful as a starter, and a year or two for the flavors to take hold. We’ll run into town and get some good yeast to use for the next couple of weeks, and make the breads really early, just like you did today. With a little luck and a few white lies, nobody ever needs to know there was a little hiccup in our Herman.”
Which just made Shelby feel worse about her decision. “I’m not going to be—”
“There,” Gran said, interrupting as usual, and letting the mixer bowl clatter onto a nearby shelf. “All better.” She turned her attention to Shelby, seeming to see her tear-reddened eyes for the first time. “Oh, honey, please don’t look at me like that. It was a sourdough starter, and it was an accident.”
“But this morning, I thought . . . You looked heartbroken.”
Oh, right. That was me.
“I was. I still am, a little.” Gran’s lips tightened. “It’s still a big deal, losing a Herman. And part of it was the whole Rose thing. You were the one who used the bottle, but she was the one who put it there. Don’t worry, though. I’ll get her back for it.”
“Um—”
“Don’t tell Krista. She gets tense when Rose and I fight.”
So did Shelby, but that wasn’t what mattered right now. What mattered was that she was being given a Get Out of Jail Free card when and where she least expected it, and wasn’t sure she deserved it. Not to mention that she was struggling to wrap her head around the idea of Herman the Second, or the Fourteenth, or whatever.
Gran’s expression softened. “Not everything is as it seems, Shelby, even when you think you know what’s going on. And sometimes the things worth having are worth fighting for. That counts for both kitchen space and men.”
Her heart shuddered. “You know. About Foster, I mean. Krista told you.”
“She thought you might need to talk . . . or make a change sooner than you had planned.”
There went the tears again, not just because it was out there, but because Gran’s eyes held only kind compassion. No judgment, no blame. “I don’t know what to say,” Shelby whispered.
“You don’t have to say anything right now, dearie. You just need to take the time you need to make the decision that works best for you and Lizzie. We love you, and we’ll support you no matter what.”
Her throat closed. “It seems like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear someone say that.”
“Well, there it is.” Gran held out her hands. “I’d hug you, but then you’d get Herman all over you.”
Shelby laughed through the tears, and hugged her anyway. “Thank you,” she said fiercely. “Thank you so much.”
“For what?”
“For everything. For forgiving me, for teaching me, for giving me room to figure some things out on my own . . . for all of it. Most of all, for being you.”
“Poosh, go on with you. Who else would I be?” But when Gran stepped back, her eyes were bright and kind, and she patted Shelby’s cheek. “It’s fine. We’re fine. And no matter what you decide, Krista and I will always be here for you.”
A safe place, Shelby thought, and felt some of the knots inside her loosen up.
Not all of them, though. Not the ones labeled “Foster.” She needed to talk to him, needed to . . . she didn’t know. “I hate the idea of leaving.” The pang was actual pain. But that didn’t mean it’d be the wrong answer.
“We’d hate seeing you go.”
“It feels so selfish.” She almost whispered it. “Lizzie loves it here, and she’s gotten so much better. And leaving you with Rose—”
“Don’t. You can’t live for everyone else, or you’ll make yourself crazy. Lizzie will adjust, as will we. So I guess the question is . . . what do you want? What would make you happy?”
Another thing nobody had said to her in . . . how long? “I want to say that I can see him every day without it tearing me up, to think we could go back to being friends or something, but I can’t. It’d . . .” She hated how choked up she was getting, even though she’d gone in with her eyes wide open. “I . . . darn it, I want to be a grown-up about this!”
But Gran shook her head. “This isn’t about whether or not you’re a grown-up, dearie. It’s about whether or not you’re in love.”
“I’m not—” For a change, Gran wasn’t the one to interrupt. Instead, Shelby interrupted herself. “At least I don’t think I am. . . .” But the roller coaster was still there and the crazy feelings hadn’t subsided. She wanted to see him, talk to him, be with him, stay with him. She pressed a hand to her stomach. “Oh, damn. I can’t be. I’m—”
A shrill whistle split the air, thin with distance but unmistakable.
Shelby spun. “Lizzie!”
20
Summer at Mustang Ridge Page 27