“Food!” Their server announced cheerfully, plopping down a couple of plates. “The It’s Not You Skins and the French My Sister Fries. Don’t they smell great?”
“Food.” Shelby snapped her fingers. “You could link one of these events to a can drive for the Three Ridges Food Bank.”
“Enough!” Jenny made a time-out with her hands. “Let’s eat. We should let some of these ideas percolate, anyway.” She raised an eyebrow in Ashley’s direction. “That cool with you, Miss I-Just-Bought-A-Big-Ass-Storefront-Downtown?”
Ashley stared at her—at all of them—with her throat tightening, and not in a bad way. Growing up, she hadn’t had that many friends—she had lived on the wrong side of town, wore the wrong clothes, grew too tall, said the wrong things, and always felt like she should be doing something to make up for her mom and Wyatt scrimping for everything . . . And even once she outgrew that awkwardness, her pool of friends had stayed small, limited to Kenny and his bandmates, who had been loud and self-involved, and hadn’t had much interest in her until it came time to pay the delivery guy for their pizza.
It was crazy, really, how much things had changed in the past year and a half.
“Yeah.” Her lips curved. “Thanks, guys. I mean it. Thanks for the ideas, for coming out tonight, for being happy for me, even though some people—cough-cough, Wyatt, cough-cough—think I’m completely nuts for jumping in like this . . . for all of it.”
“Well, we kind of think you’re nuts, too, but that’s why we love you.” Danny lifted her glass. “To Ashley!”
“To Ashley!” the others chorused, then clinked and drank, with Shelby giving Ashley’s glass an extra tap and adding, “We’re here for you, girlfriend.”
Forcing back a surge of emotion that the others might not understand—they had been friends for years, after all, and Krista and Jenny had spent their whole lives having each other’s backs—Ashley surveyed the heaping plates. “Did we really get potatoes and grease to go with an order of greasy potatoes?”
“See?” Shelby said. “Branding. They totally got you.”
“They got us,” Ashley corrected, sectioning off one of the loaded potato skins. “And I’m not sorry in the slightest. I’m celebrating.” She bit in with a moan. “God, are these good.”
“Was that a sex noise?”
“With a potato? Sounds uncomfortable.”
“Well, you did just say that pickings are slim in Three Ridges.”
“It’s not the pickings, slim or otherwise. This is the post-Kenny era, which means I’m focusing on myself, and now the store. Heck, I haven’t even kissed a guy since I crossed the Wyoming border.” Except for that one incident, but she wasn’t about to bring that up. “I don’t have time for kissing.”
Danny narrowed her eyes speculatively. “Hmm . . . Methinks the lady doth protest too much. And if you ask me, a girl can always find time for kissing, if it’s with the right guy.” To Krista, she said, “How about your new head wrangler? I heard he—”
“Stop!” Ashley ordered, holding up both hands. “Don’t even.”
“What? You don’t like cowboys?”
“I like cowboys just fine.” Almost as much as she liked musicians. “But I’m not dating the new head wrangler. I’m not dating anybody, thank you very much. I’ve got a store to run, events to plan, and a big, scary payment to make.” Besides which, she was pretty sour on the whole crappily-ever-after thing right now, and had zero faith in her own judgment when it came to men.
She was too much like her mother. And wasn’t that a terrifying thought?
“Hello?” The hail came from the stage, where Jolly Roger—the bar owner’s name was actually Roger Jolly, but he lived up to the nickname with his long, dark hair, grizzled beard, and the patch-and-peg-leg routine he pulled out for special occasions—stood at the mic and did a tap-tap. “Is this thing on? Testing, testing. Are we ready for some live music?”
The crowd buzz dimmed for a second, then burst out in applause.
“Awesome.” Ashley turned in her chair. “I could dance.” It would be a good way to burn off the potato skins, and grooving to the beat should quiet the jitters that came from having had a Very Big Day.
“I’d like to introduce tonight’s performers, who are guaranteed”—Jolly drew it out like the three-syllable word had become a dozen—“to get your boots tapping and your booties shaking. Let’s put them together, folks—your hands, I mean, not your booties—for Chasen Tail!”
The door behind him opened up and a guy came out, giving a big wave to the crowd. “Howdy, folks!” In his mid-twenties, with handsome features and sandy hair that brushed the collar of his shirt, he looked like someone had taken one of the cowboys from the crowd and turned the volume up a couple of notches.
“Oh!” Danny said. “I’ve seen him before. I like him.”
“Meh.” Shelby shrugged. “If a guy’s going to pop the buttons on his shirt halfway through the show, his abs should be required to be seriously ripped. And his stage name sucks. I mean, really? Chasen Tail? Ew.”
“I like his music,” Danny clarified. “I agree that the name is dumb. And the shirt thing doesn’t do much for a girl who’s got a better set of muscles waiting for her back home.”
“Now that’s just mean.” Ashley turned her back on the stage to complain across the table: “Some of us are living vicariously, you know.”
“I can already see this is going to be a killer crowd,” Chasen said behind her. “How about we give a round of applause to my boys?”
As the crowd whooped and hollered, Krista’s eyes went beyond Ashley, and lit. “That’s no boy. And speak of the devil. There’s my new head wrangler in his very fine flesh!” She waved. “Yoo-hoo, Tyler! Hey, Ty. Over here!”
Ashley froze, the name going through her like a bolt of hot lightning—searing and paralytic.
Wait.
What?
No. It couldn’t be.
Setting down the blinky glass with calm precision, she turned in her seat. Looked up at the stage. And stopped breathing while her brain sproinged back and forth between Oh, hell and Oh, my, with a bit of Wow thrown in.
Then back to: Oh, hell.
A drummer and a guitarist had set up behind the lead singer. The drummer was a cutie—young, flushed and nervous-looking, as if playing at the Rope Burn was the high point of his life to date. The guitarist was his exact opposite—thirtysomething, solid, and totally chilled out as he bent his head and strummed a couple of chords that should have gotten lost in the crowd noise, but thanks to some acoustic quirk of the room carried straight to Ashley.
She didn’t need to see the face beneath the shag of sun-streaked brown hair—she knew him by the mellow undertones and upper twang of the old Martin. And by the way his hands moved on the strings—slow and steady, but with an underlying strength that said here was a man who always hit the note he was going for.
Tyler Reed.
His head came up and his eyes locked on hers, as if she had said his name out loud. His gaze pierced her, brown eyes so dark they were almost black, putting a hot-cold-hot shiver in her belly.
Behind her, the others were talking about how he had come back to Mustang Ridge after spending the past few years touring with a country band, their voices sounding normal, as if the world hadn’t just shifted on its axis. As if it didn’t shift again when she got a good look at his face, with its high Viking cheekbones and the strong slash of a nose, bumped across the bridge where it had been broken by what he had called “a short dive off a long bucking bull.”
Last fall, at Krista and Wyatt’s wedding. Where they had totally hooked up.
3
Ty stilled, staring at the woman sitting not thirty feet away at a high-top with his boss and three of her besties. And, just like that first moment he’d laid eyes on her eighteen or so months ago, the others might as
well not have been there.
Close to his height in heels, with a model’s bone structure and a great laugh, the violet-eyed knockout had captured him, captivated him. Now the honey-blond hair that had been swept up at the wedding was down around her shoulders, and the pale green dress had been replaced by a pair of long, trim jeans and a soft blue shirt, but she was no less a knockout . . . even with her mouth hanging open and her eyes channeling a whole lot of What the hell?
Well, that made two of them, as his fingers stumbled on the strings and the air heated up a few degrees. Because, damn.
Ashley. Her name was right there, even though he had tried to forget it once he was back out on the road. Hadn’t worked, though, and when he decided to come back to Mustang Ridge and take the promotion Krista had offered, maybe he had figured his boss’s pretty bridesmaid friend from LA might visit one day. Had even thought it’d be nice to see her again.
He hadn’t figured on that happening on week one of his being back in town, though. And he damn sure hadn’t figured on it feeling like he’d just come out of the gate on a world-class bull that had taken two jumps out into the arena, then dropped a shoulder and started to spin.
“What do you say, folks?” Chase hollered, and got a roar from the crowd in return. Flicking a quick glance back at Ty and the baby-faced drummer, he led them in with “And a one, two, a one-two-three-four!”
Ty was half a second late jumping in on the first song and might’ve missed a few notes in the intro if his fingers hadn’t done him a solid and taken over for his brain. Knowing that wouldn’t work for long, he tore his eyes off hers—shocked violet framed by milky white skin and golden hair—and focused on making the old guitar sing, weaving point and counterpoint, and shoring up Chase’s lower register when it wanted to flatten out.
Wasn’t easy, though. Not when he was fighting for balance on a barstool that felt like it was thinking about reversing the spin and throwing in a couple of back-cracking bucks for good measure. Not when she was sitting halfway across the room.
• • •
As the music kicked into high gear—a country song that Ashley didn’t recognize, with breakup lyrics that sounded like the singer was going down the bar’s menu—she reminded herself to breathe. Keep breathing.
And not stare. Much.
She didn’t want the others to notice, didn’t want them to ask things she couldn’t answer when she was having a hard time believing her eyes. She had thought he was just a hired guitar, maybe a friend of a friend who had been flown in for the wedding. How could he be Krista’s new head wrangler?
The others were talking about a midseason special Danny wanted to advertise, two-for-one on a hike up into the mountains, living off the land. Ashley, though, couldn’t focus on anything except the man up on the stage.
Should she say something to her friends? If so, what? It wouldn’t be easy to rock the whole I’m turning over a new leaf thing if she let on that she had sneaked out of her brother’s reception to hook up with the guy who’d played the wedding march. A hot flush flooded her cheeks at the memory. At the time, it had felt exactly right, like she was striking a blow for her own independence—See, Kenny? I’m totally over you. Now, though, she found herself wishing she had kept her hands—and lips—to herself.
Okay, that was a lie. Because whoever he was, he was a hell of a kisser.
When the conversation behind her lulled, she said, “I hadn’t realized you guys hired a new head wrangler.”
Shelby’s husband, Foster, had held the position at Mustang Ridge for going on a decade, but he’d been building up his own training business at his family’s ranch, and had given Krista and Wyatt the heads-up last year that they needed to find a replacement.
“Ty isn’t really new,” Krista said. “He was Foster’s second-in-command for years until Jenny posted a video of him leading a campfire sing-along, and it got some attention online. The next thing we knew, he got an offer to play with a country band. Have you heard of Higgs & Hicks?”
Ashley nodded, though she had only looked them up because her wedding hookup had mentioned the name. Country wasn’t really her thing. “They’re good. Popular.” Though with a shaky reputation offstage. “Why did he leave?”
“He hasn’t said, and I haven’t pushed it. I’m just grateful that’s he’s back. So is Gran. He was always a particular favorite of hers.”
“So that’s how he ended up playing at the wedding. Friend of the family, and all that.” She played it cool. Nothing to see here. Not even remotely freaking out.
“That’s right. Did you meet him?”
“I recognized the guitar.” The long line of his body. The width of his shoulders. The way his hair fell forward as he played. The air of concentration, like nothing else existed except the song—until those dark, dark eyes met hers and that focus shifted, locked on.
Heated agitation pooled in her belly, making her feel like she had swallowed the whole blinky glass, not just its contents.
Onstage, the band finished the first set—had it been that long already?—and the singer leaned in to say, “We’re going to take a quick break. Be back in ten.” He gave the front row a slow smile and toyed with the bottom button of his shirt. “Stick around, ladies. The show’s just getting started.”
The whoops and hollers coming from the dance floor mostly drowned out Shelby’s shout of “Keep it on. Keep it all on!”
“Shh!” Danny swatted at her, laughing.
Ashley watched out of the corner of her eye as Ty put down his guitar and headed for a door that led off behind the stage.
Heart drumming, she set her half-finished drink—her second, she thought, or possibly her third—on the table and slipped off her chair. “I’m going to hit the ladies’ room, maybe talk to Jolly about renting his sound system for one of these store events we’ve been talking about.”
As the stage crowd split like the Red Sea, one half heading for the bar, the other for the restrooms, she ducked through the door Ty had taken, hoping to catch him alone.
The rear hallway was empty save for two sun-starved potted pines and a trio of framed rodeo posters, but a back exit was cracked like a smoker had just gone through. Or a guy who had a feeling someone might follow him. Ashley hesitated for a beat, wishing that she was wearing something snazzier than the basic jeans, boots, and shirt routine that she had hoped would make Wyatt think she was taking things seriously, but now just made her feel bland and colorless.
Oh, well. There was no hope for it now, and she needed to talk to him before he said anything to the others. To Wyatt. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped out.
The sun had set, darkening the mountains and purpling the sky, but she saw Ty instantly. He stood silhouetted at the edge of the parking lot, next to the post of a light that hadn’t yet come on—tall, broad-shouldered, and staring out across the craggy Wyoming horizon.
He turned as the door creaked closed behind her, and a shiver of awareness said he was looking at her from the dark shadows beneath the tipped-down brim of his hat.
She had intended to walk across to him and do a “Hey, cowboy.” Instead, her boots planted themselves on the last step leading down and her mouth went dry as the scene burned itself on her retinas, made her wish for a palate and brush, or grease pencils in vivid purples and dark, brooding black. She could capture him there, a lone cowboy at the edge of civilization.
If she did, though, nobody would believe the scene was real. She barely believed it herself. Because, damn, he was something to look at.
Then he moved.
Boots crunching on gravel, he came toward her slow and steady, like he was afraid she might bolt. Or maybe because, like her, he felt the sudden electric tension in the air. She couldn’t tell, couldn’t see his face or read his expression—not even when he got up close and personal, the two of them eye-to-eye even though she was
a step above him on the short flight of wooden stairs.
His height was one of the things she had liked most about him that night. That, and the guitar. And the fact that he was just passing through.
Or so she had thought.
“Ashley,” he said in a raspy baritone that sent tingles along the backs of her hands, making her want to reach out and touch. Except that he might have remembered her name, but he didn’t know who she really was.
Forcing her voice level, she said, “Hey there.” Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool. “Fancy seeing you here.” Ugh, really? Who even said stuff like “fancy that” anymore? So much for the cool factor.
“It’s a surprise—that’s for sure.” His voice warmed a notch, though his face remained in the shadows. “You visiting Krista?”
“Actually, that’s sort of a thing. At least it could be. You see, I wasn’t entirely honest when I told you that I was a friend of hers.” She had wanted to be anonymous, unimportant. Free to do whatever she wanted, if only for the day. Except she wasn’t, really. “I’m Wyatt’s sister. I live here in Three Ridges . . . and now, apparently, so do you.” She tried for a smile, felt it wobble around the edges. “So, um, howdy, neighbor! Welcome back to town.”
• • •
Oh, hell, no. Ty’s body might have held his ground, but the rest of him took a big step back. Because, damn. There was a big difference between hooking up with a random bridesmaid and locking lips with the groom’s sister. And when you added in the whole part about Wyatt being damn near his boss now, there was a whole extra layer of awkward. As she said, a thing.
Unlocking his molars, he leveled his voice. “I take it Krista told you who I am.”
“Seems we both held a few things back.”
“I didn’t lie.” He wouldn’t have, and didn’t have much time for people who did.
“I’m very sorry,” she said, and to her credit, her high cheekbones wore a flush of shame. “I didn’t think that it would . . . Well, that’s not your problem. In fact, this doesn’t need to be a problem. I was thinking . . .”—her apologetic expression went hopeful—“that maybe we could just keep what happened to ourselves? It was just a few kisses.”
Coming Home to Mustang Ridge Page 3