Summer at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

“Let’s give it a shot,” Krista urged, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Just a week, maybe two, and see how it goes.”

  Gran took a shuddering breath. “Okay. I guess . . . okay. We can try.” But then her head came up and she locked on Shelby. “I’m going to need an assistant.”

  She didn’t even hesitate. “You’ve got one.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” Her grin felt like it lit her up from the inside out. “I’m staying—we’re staying—another month to be with Foster . . . to be with all of you.” She couldn’t imagine leaving now, didn’t want to. She wanted to stay right there at Mustang Ridge, with her daughter and the people who had become her family. Maybe she would even reach out and try again with her own family. If Gran, Krista, and Rose could make it work, maybe she and Mercy weren’t that far off.

  For now, though, this was her safe place. And, most of all, staying there with the people she loved would give her the time and room she and Foster needed to figure out if they were meant to be.

  21

  Mustang Ridge: Where family comes together.

  One month later

  “It’s not much to look at.” Foster’s nerves jumped as the turnoff came into view, and he nearly hit the gas and kept going.

  “Don’t you dare drive by it again,” Shelby warned from the other side of the truck. “I let you get away with it last week, but enough is enough.” Her voice softened. “It’ll be fine, cowboy. Lizzie and I can see past some bad paint and falling-down fences.”

  If that was what she was expecting, she was in for a big disappointment. “Well, there were a couple of leaks before the old—um, before Winslow had the plumbing shut off and the system drained out. And, well, there’s some mold.” Lots of mold. “A few spiders.” Armies of them, actually, along with a platoon of mice. Should’ve set out those traps last week.

  He’d subbed out the critical stuff, and had been working on getting the place fixed up in his off hours, but he hadn’t wanted to sacrifice his time with Shelby when things were still up in the air. Which was part of the nerves, really.

  “If you don’t take us to your ranch today, we’ll just come out here by ourselves when you’re busy,” Lizzie warned.

  Shelby winced. “Way to keep a state secret, kid.”

  “Oops. Sorry.”

  “No, we’re going.” Foster eased up on the gas and turned down the drive. “We’re going.” Fingers crossed. Things had been great between him and Shelby, and in the him-Shelby-Lizzie department, but nothing was settled, really. Which had him sweating as the familiar landscape rolled by. The fencing was tired, but he’d shored up the wire and boards and trimmed down the worst of the verge. At the time, it’d felt like a huge improvement. Now, though, it felt like he hadn’t done a damn thing.

  You’ve gotta start somewhere, he reminded himself, as he’d been doing off and on for the past four weeks.

  Vader whined as they crested the last hill, and Foster slowed way down. “Go on, Vader.” The dog jumped down and ran ahead of them, barking his fool head off as they rounded the turn and the house came into view. It was gray and patched, and the roof had a decent sag, but the porch was wide and welcoming, and the barn behind it was in good shape. And there were good memories everywhere, at least for him.

  Shelby reached across and touched his hand. “It’s lovely.”

  “It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Mustang Ridge isn’t that far.”

  “Forty minutes, maybe an hour.”

  “That’s a short commute in Boston.” She squeezed his fingers. “Besides, that’s not what’s important here. What’s important is that it’s lovely . . . and your grandpa would be proud of you.”

  His throat closed, but that was okay. He didn’t need to say what she already understood. But at the same time, as he pulled up in front of the house, he was strung as tight as a greenie being trailered for the first time. He cleared his throat. “Welcome to the Double-Bar H, ladies.”

  “Yippee!” Lizzie was the first one out, dancing across the parking area with Vader bouncing beside her and then running on ahead, up the porch steps.

  “Wait for us, Lizzie-kin,” Shelby called. “Remember, you’re not to go on or in any structure without Foster’s permission. He knows what’s safe around here and what isn’t.”

  He slipped an arm around her waist. “What rule number is that?”

  “I’ve lost count, but it might come under the umbrella ‘don’t be dumb’ policy otherwise known as the Anti–Darwin Award Act.”

  “Ah. One of my favorites.”

  She grinned up at him. “Mine, too. It’s just that sometimes it’s so darn hard to figure out the difference between a really brilliant idea and a really dumb one.”

  “Which way are you leaning when it comes to me?”

  “Brilliant.” She reached up on her tiptoes to brush her lips across his, making his body tighten with need, even though they’d slipped away together not twelve hours earlier. He’d be counting the hours—as usual—until they could do it again.

  “Come on, come on!” Lizzie bounced on her toes at the bottom of the porch stairs. “Vader’s already gone inside!”

  “He must not have heard the rule.” Foster led the way up the steps and opened the door. “Ladies first.”

  Lizzie scooted in, but Shelby stopped just inside, turned back, and tugged him inside with her. “Hey, cowboy, stop stressing. How many times do I have to tell you that I’m tougher than I look? A leaky roof isn’t going to scare me off.”

  “It’s not the roof I’m worried about.”

  “Oh?”

  Hell with it. He’d planned on waiting until she had seen the whole house, maybe even after their picnic lunch, giving her a chance to get over the “ohmigod, it needs so much work” and come back around to “it’s lovely.” But, really, it didn’t matter what she thought of the Double-Bar H. That wouldn’t change how he felt.

  So, standing a couple of feet inside the front room of his falling-down family ranch, with its stained ceiling and cracked plaster, he just said it. “Shelby, I’m in love with you.” It came out easier than he’d expected, feeling right. So he grinned and said it again, louder. “I love you.”

  Her eyes widened, then filled. They hadn’t said it yet, holding off by some unspoken consent, or maybe because she was waiting for him to say it first. He hoped. Because as she stared at him, speechless, the nerves headed toward panic that she’d changed her mind about him, about them.

  “Oh.” She lifted a hand to her heart. “I love you, too. So very much.”

  The panic subsided, but the nerves remained. “Wait. I’m not done yet.” Aware that Lizzie had circled back with Vader, that they were both watching with wide, interested eyes, he went down on one knee and pulled out the worn leather box he’d gotten out of safe-deposit a few days ago.

  Grandpa, wish me luck.

  Working the latch, he opened the box to reveal a square-cut diamond, brilliant in a simple setting that was worked with the Double-Bar H logo on either side.

  She gaped. “Foster.”

  “It was my grandma’s. Now it’s yours, if you’ll wear it . . . and if you’ll take me.” He had thought of how he wanted to say this, how to tell her that he knew it was quick, that they still had things to work out, but that he was committed to her, to Lizzie, to the family they would make together. In the end, though, he was a simple guy with simple words. So he said, “Shelby, I love you like crazy. Will you marry me?”

  • • •

  Shelby stared at the ring, feeling the sturdy floorboards go unsteady beneath her feet, not because the house was coming down around them—though that was certainly a solid possibility—but because the pieces of her world were finally all falling into place, though not in any sort of pattern she would’ve expected at the beginning of the summer, when all she had been looking for was a place to sort things out with her daughter.

  “Foster . . .” She couldn’t breathe, could
n’t find the words.

  “Please say yes.” He didn’t look wary anymore, didn’t look closed off. He looked like a man entirely in his element, as he did when he was working with the horses. Only he was here with her. And he loved her.

  Suddenly, she could breathe again. The air rushed out of her, along with a word: “Yes.”

  His face lit. “Yes?”

  “Absolutely, yes!” Her pulse hammered in her ears and the blood sang a happy chorus in her veins.

  “Thank God.” He rose and caught her against him in a whirling kiss.

  “Woo-hoo!” Lizzie surged up to wrap her arms around them both, turning it into a family hug.

  Embracing her tightly, he whispered, “Oh, sweetheart. You had me scared there for a minute.”

  “But not enough to spook and bolt?”

  “Never.” He slipped the ring on her finger, where it snugged into place like it had been made for her. “I’m well and truly gentled, darling. No more stampedes from me. I’m a family man now.”

  Easing away, he pulled out another, newer box and went down on both knees in front of Lizzie. “What do you say? Can I marry your mom?”

  She grinned at him. “Duh.”

  “Excellent.” He held out the box, then flipped it open. “This is yours.”

  Inside it gleamed a replica of the heirloom ring, threaded with a silvery chain. Lizzie’s mouth opened in an ooh, and she said, “Is it mine?”

  “All yours, if you’ll let me be part of your family for good.”

  “Put it on me!”

  Shelby couldn’t stop grinning, didn’t even try, as Foster draped the chain around Lizzie’s throat and fumbled with the clasp. Her heart tugged as she thought of him doing that for her prom, her wedding . . . A shared future. And what a future it was, with him there with her, every step of the way.

  He rose and cleared his throat. “Welcome to the Double-Bar H family, ladies. Because no matter where we live or what we do, we’ll always be a part of this place.”

  Shelby saw the shadows in his eyes, though, the moment he braced himself for the bad news.

  “About that.” Heart singing, she pulled out a small cardboard box and held it out to him. “I’ve got something for you, too. It’s not as shiny, but I think you’ll like it.”

  “I’ll love it.” He took the box and shook it. “Light saber?”

  “Maybe for Christmas, if you’re a good boy.”

  “Deal.” He popped open the box and frowned down at the business cards. She saw the moment he got it, the moment he saw.

  The cards read SB Advertising. Whether you’re looking for talking lizards, a new jingle for your singing hot dogs, or the perfect pun to launch your new campaign, we’re here to make you look good, and have fun doing it. The address was the one they were standing in.

  His eyes came up to hers. “You mean it?” His voice was thick with emotion.

  “Hey, I bought business cards, didn’t I?” She smiled. “Yes. I mean it. This is your home, and Lizzie and I are going to make it ours, too. We love it here in Wyoming . . . and we love you.”

  He caught her in a triumphant embrace and kissed her long and deep, while Lizzie and Vader spun in dizzying circles and made joyous noise. And when things finally quieted down, he said, “For the record, that ring is a binding contract. No bolting off after you get a good look at this place. It’s like me—we both need some work.”

  She laughed. “I promise. No takesies backsies. Come on . . . show me our new home.” And, hand in hand, they walked through the falling-down house, seeing the possibilities.

  GRAN’S GREEN RANCH CHILI

  (The Easy, Do-at-Home-with – Grocery-Store-Ingredients Version)

  Takes ~ 8-10 hours, but most of the time you’re ignoring it in the Crock-Pot. I like to cook the meat the night before and then throw things together sometime before lunch, for a fabulous chili dinner.

  SERVES 6–8 PORTIONS, MAKES GREAT LEFTOVERS.

  INGREDIENTS:

  pork loin, beef pot roast, or similar meat, ~ 3–4 lbs.

  two cloves of garlic, skinned and crushed

  one packet of chili seasoning

  one yellow onion, diced

  1 Tbsp. butter or oil

  2–4 Tbsp. flour

  two 4-oz. cans of chopped fire-roasted chili peppers

  one 7-oz. can of chopped jalapenos (use more chilis instead for a milder flavor)

  salt

  Crock-Pot

  REPARATION:

  1. Place the meat in a pot, cover it liberally with water, add garlic and 1/3 of the chili packet to the water, and bring it to a boil. Reduce the heat until the water is just barely boiling. Let the meat simmer for ~ 1 hour. (Don’t let the water boil off!)

  2. Let the meat sit until it’s cool enough to handle. One easy way is to put it in the fridge overnight. Alternatively, take the meat out of the liquid (called “stock liquid” below) and put it in the fridge for 30 minutes. (Save the stock liquid, though.)

  3. Cook the diced onion in the butter/oil on medium heat until the onion pieces turn clear. On low heat, mix in ~¼ cup of the stock liquid, then slowly stir in the flour until the mixture thickens. Remove the pan from the heat, add the chili peppers and jalapenos, and mix it all together. Put the mixture in the Crock-Pot.

  4. Shred the meat with your fingers or a fork. Discard the fat, and mix the shredded meat with the onions and peppers in the Crock-Pot. Add more of the stock liquid if you want to adjust the consistency. Season it to taste with salt, pepper, or more of the chili packet (remember, you can always add more seasoning but you can’t take it away, so be a little cautious!)

  5. Set the Crock-Pot on low and cook for at least 5 hours.

  6. Ring the dinner bell!

  Serving suggestions:

  Layer the chili in a bowl with shredded cheese and refried beans, top it with cilantro, scoop it up with nacho chips.

  Roll the chili into a corn or flour tortilla with shredded cheese, shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, sour cream, beans, and the sides of your choice for a whopping burrito.

  And above all . . . have fun with it!

  Now that you’ve enjoyed summer at Mustang Ridge Ranch,

  turn the page for a peek at the next book in the series,

  WINTER AT MUSTANG RIDGE

  Coming from Signet Eclipse in January 2014.

  With his assistant gone for the day and no overnight guests of the small – or large-animal variety, the veterinary clinic was quiet by six. After a quick phone call to his father—their usual “Yep it’s cold. Nope the fish aren’t biting. How’s the clinic?” routine—Nick focused on banging out the last of the day’s paperwork.

  “Want some?” He broke a corner off the pizza slice he’d been working on, and held it out to Cheesepuff.

  The fat orange tabby gave the offering a suspicious sniff, then turned away with a sidelong look that said, Hypocrite.

  Okay, so maybe he’d given Ted Dwyer a lecture on feeding his hunting dogs table scraps not an hour ago. And, yeah, the Puffmeister wasn’t exactly svelte. But still.

  “What’s a little pizza between friends? No? Your loss, and more for me.” Nick downed the last of the day-old DiGiorno, washed it down with some root beer, and let out a satisfied sigh. “I think that does it for today. Don’t you? Want to roll upstairs?”

  The cat flicked one ear back, then yawned.

  “Your call. I’m heading up.” Sure, another guy might be worried about getting caught talking to his cat, but a vet could get away with stuff like that without losing his man card.

  After three-pointing the soda can in the recycling bin, Nick shucked off his “I’m in the office being all official” lab coat and headed across the office to hang it up. He was halfway across the room when the buzzer rang, letting him know someone was coming down the long driveway. A moment later, headlights crested the hill and lit the picture window out front.

  “Guess I spoke too soon, huh?” But, hey, at least he was still downstairs and
not in the shower wearing nothing but soap. Been there, done that. And besides, this was part of the deal when you ran a one-vet clinic and lived in the apartment upstairs. “Let’s see what we have.”

  He pulled the coat back on, got it buttoned, and headed out into the reception area just as snow boots thudded on the front porch and the door swung open. A blast of frigid air swept in, haloing a bundled figure as sparkling ice crystals caught the light. The furry pink boots and five-foot-something height said female, possibly young, but the rest of the details got swallowed up in a huge pink parka, a blue wool hat, and a striped scarf.

  But more important was the sight of the big, blanket-wrapped dog in her arms and the smears of blood on her coat.

  Never a good sign.

  Adrenaline kicked in. “Come in, come in. You can go straight back to Exam One.”

  Instead, she spun back at the sound of his voice, her bright blue eyes widening in the gap between hat and scarf. “You’re not Doc!”

  • • •

  Maybe it was the adrenaline coming from the near miss with the truck plus a too-fast drive to the clinic, or the relief of getting there in one piece with the stray dog still breathing, but Jenny’s mind blanked at the sight of the stranger standing in Doc’s office.

  Brain freeze. Did not compute.

  He looked like a young Harrison Ford, with tousled brown hair, a square jaw, and sparkling hazel eyes. He was wearing jeans, a lab coat, and worn hiking boots. Okay, so maybe he didn’t look all that much like Indy—there was no leather, fedora, or bullwhip in sight. But there was something about him that rooted her in place. And she wasn’t one to grow roots.

  Slightly uneven teeth flashed behind a charmingly crooked smile. “Doc Lopes retired and handed the practice over to me about six months ago. I’m Nick Masterson.” Nodding to the blanket-wrapped bundle, he added, “Who do we have there?”

  The question kicked her brain back into gear, bringing a flush and sidelining her surprise that Doc wasn’t Doc anymore, and the new guy was hot.