He stiffened. “I’m no liar.” Just kisses? Well, if that was how she saw it, so be it.
“I’m not asking you to lie,” she said. Was that a flare of temper in her eyes? Please. “But if nobody asks—and they won’t—what’s the point in bringing it up? It’s not like it’s going to happen again.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Fine,” he said, biting off the word. “But if anyone asks, I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen.” Though he almost wanted to now, as a near perfect memory went sour. Damn it. There had been days out on tour—gritty, grimy, angry days—that he had let himself replay the hour or so they had spent down by the lake together, needing something fresh and pure to keep him anchored. Maybe it had even been part of what had drawn him back to Wyoming. Not her, but the memory of how something could be simple, effortless.
And, apparently, just another game.
Relief smoothed her face—heart-shaped, bow-lipped, and flawless in the half-light. “Thank you. I mean it, Ty. Thanks. I don’t want my brother thinking . . . Well, that’s not your problem, either. So I’ll just say thank you and leave it at that. And, um, I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Sure thing,” he said, pretty sure his tone conveyed a whole lot of Not if I see you first. Which might not be all the way fair—he hadn’t told her that he knew his way around the ranch or that he’d helped build the dock they had been walking along when he’d kissed her for the first time. But that was different from pretending to be someone else.
She beat a retreat, boots knocking on the stairs. A moment later, the door swung shut behind her, giving a final-sounding thunk that reverbed for a two count before fading beneath the quiet noisiness of a summer night on the edge of the high country—the B-flat buzz-whine of bugs; the ker-scree of a nighthawk looking for some action; the rustle of the scrub moving in a low-lying breeze.
A minute ago, Ty had been content to let those noises seep into his bones, pushing out the bar noise. Now, though, he was more aware of sounds coming from inside the Rope Burn—the badda-thud bass line of whatever was playing on the old-timey jukebox and the rumble of patrons’ voices as they no doubt returned to the dance floor or their tables with fresh beers, waiting for the stage to fill back up and get loud.
And among them, Ashley.
Knowing she’d still be there shouldn’t have made him want to head for his truck rather than back inside for the second set. This didn’t change anything. She didn’t change anything—he had come back to Three Ridges for a job and a base of operations. Not because of the girl he had kissed down by the lake, and who had turned out to be more than she had said, and so much less than he had let himself imagine.
Maybe—probably—she was right about walking away, about it not mattering in the grand scheme of things. Hell, by dawn tomorrow, she would be a mental footnote. Wasn’t like he didn’t have better things to worry about.
Like the voice mail he’d gotten earlier in the day, terse and to the point. Call me after ten. I might have something for you.
Maybe Mac had something; maybe he didn’t. Ty had heard it before. Still, when a check of his phone said it was five past, he scrolled down to the number and made the call.
One ring. Don’t get your hopes up. Two rings. It’s probably another dead end. Three—
“This is Macaulay.” The private investigator’s hoarse voice went with his pack-a-day habit, even though he smoked ecigs now.
“Mac, it’s Tyler Reed. I got your message.” Ty took a deep breath. “Did you find her?”
“No. But I might have a lead.”
4
The next day, Ashley woke early with her heart banging away in her chest and her head filled with the remnants of a crazy dream about a herd of empty clothes chasing her along a roller-coaster track paved with dollar bills. “Whoa,” she said, blinking. “That was . . .” Well, she didn’t need a dream expert to interpret that particular gem.
Hello, store stress. At least there hadn’t been any guest appearance by a certain guitar-playing cowboy.
Who she totally wasn’t thinking about. At all.
Starting now.
The cracked-open window let a breeze through the screen, stirring the orange-and-teal-striped curtains against the white trim. Beyond, she could see across to the other side of Main Street, to the apartment over the feed and grain, where Feed Store Billy lived with his wife of thirty years, and the bedroom blinds went down every Sunday at three in the afternoon without fail, making her smile.
It was the same view Ashley had awakened to for the past five months, ever since Della had left and she’d moved in . . . except now it was her view. And how crazy was that?
Bouncing out of bed, she did a little dance. It was her bed now, along with the other things Della had left behind. Maybe the furnishings and decorations weren’t all exactly to her taste—unlike the store’s founder, she didn’t always think that older was better—but Ashley was grateful for the squishy sofa, battered kitchen table, and the colorful mismatching Fiesta-type dishes racked on open shelves in the little galley kitchen.
Her dishes in her kitchen.
After going through her usual morning routine, she debated briefly between suede fringe and acid-washed denim, going with the denim because her budget no longer stretched to dry-cleaning. But then, because she was weak and Della’s Mr. Coffee—now her Mr. Coffee, alas—was possessed by a bad-taste demon that alternated between toothpaste and motor oil, she headed to Butter My Biscuit two blocks down for a quick in-and-out and a small coffee. That was it. Nada más. She had pennies to save, and wasn’t going to let herself get distracted by donuts and Danishes.
Half an hour later, carrying a large paper cup that wafted with the heavenly smell of a double shot of caramel and a paper bag that bulged with muffins, she came back up Main Street, humming “Sunny Days,” because it was one and she was in a good mood. How could she not be, when there were a couple of cars parked in front of the store, one on each side of her beloved ladybug-painted VW, and Hen had flipped the sign in the window to OPEN ten minutes early? Come on in, look around, and buy something. Mama’s got bills to pay!
As Ashley passed her beloved car, she gave one of the spring-loaded antennae a flick. “Wish me luck, Bugs.”
“Meow?”
“Excuse me?” Seeing a hint of movement in the shadows beneath Bugsy, she hunkered down. “Well, hello there.”
A small, all-black cat huddled near the passenger-side tire with its yellow eyes narrowed to slits and its ears flat back.
“What are you doing under there? Are you new here?” It wasn’t one of the shop cats she was used to seeing along Main Street. “Lost? Hungry? Would you like some muffin?” She reached in and broke off a piece. “Here you go. Blueberry, fresh out of the oven.” She tossed the fragment.
“Sssss!” As if she’d lobbed a grenade rather than a baked good, the cat lashed out a forepaw that carried a whole lot of impressive claws, then bolted into the road.
Limping on three legs. Directly in front of an oncoming minivan.
Ashley shot to her feet. “Look out!”
The driver slammed on the brakes so hard that the vehicle shuddered and nosed down as the black cat gimped past. Ashley followed. “Wait!” she cried as the creature ducked under another parked car. “Come back! I’m not going to hurt you!”
But the cat had disappeared—poof!—into thin air.
The minivan’s window buzzed down. “Did I hit her?”
“No, I— Oh, hi, Rose.” Ashley finger-wiggled at Krista and Jenny’s mom, belatedly recognizing the dark green vehicle with Mustang Ridge’s logo on the door. “Nope. She—or he, who knows?”—though the female pronoun seemed right—“got away. Poor thing. There’s something wrong with her leg.”
“Let me park. I’ll help you look.”
> There was no sign of the cat, though, and after doing a bunch of Here, kitty, kitty around the block and letting the other shopkeepers know to be on the lookout, they called it quits and headed back to Another Fyne Thing. The customers were gone, leaving Bugsy and the minivan alone out in front.
“Thanks for your help.” Ashley hunkered down to look under the cars, just in case. “Sorry to interrupt your day.” She straightened. “Where were you headed, anyway?”
Rose grinned. “Here, to see you.”
“Oh?” Ashley gave the other woman an up-and-down, taking in the tailored gray pants, silk shirt, and upswept salt-and-pepper hair that made up a usual workday outfit for Rose, who orchestrated all the special events at Mustang Ridge. “Are you looking for something in particular? I’ve got a dark purple Chanel that’s got your name all over it.” The dress was sleek and sophisticated, but ruffled sleeves gave it a flirty twist that made it exactly right for Rose, whose brain could change directions in a snap, and who had so many great ideas she sometimes had trouble focusing on one or two.
Which was probably why she and Ashley got along so well. Like minds, and all that.
Sure enough, Rose’s face brightened with immediate interest. “Ooh, I’d love to see the Chanel! First, though, I’m here on a mission . . . Rumor has it that we’ve got a fashion show to plan.”
Right. Because last night, somewhere between the potato skins and the lake-sized brownie sundae they had ordered with five spoons, her “I need to do some special events to bring in revenue” had become “I’m going to do a fashion show next Friday.” As in ten days from now. Which meant she needed a stage, a plan, permits, music, refreshments— Oh, God.
“Is that sudden panic I see?” Rose asked. “I recognize it from last summer, when Krista took an emergency wedding reservation, then realized she had double-booked it with a four-generation family reunion. If she and I made that work with three weeks’ lead time, then you and I can absolutely pull this off.”
Ashley didn’t want it to be a we. It was her store, her gigantic payment due in forty-five—now forty-four—days, her chance to prove that she wasn’t going to bail when the going got tough. But she also had to be reasonable. She wouldn’t prove anything by falling on her face right out of the gate, and her friends were offering to help. “Okay, deep breath,” she said, suiting action to the words. “I’m really doing this, aren’t I? It still seems a little unreal.” More than a little.
“Well, you know my motto: One thing at a time.”
“That’s your motto? I thought it was Look before you leap. Oh, wait. That’s me. At least I’d like it to be, one of these days.”
Rose hooked an arm through Ashley’s. “First things first. What did you have in mind for a theme?”
“How about Please buy something, I’m begging you?”
That got a laugh. “I think we can do better than that.”
“Pretty please buy something?”
“Come on, Ashley. I know you’ve been thinking about it.”
Of course she had. Question was, which ideas were the good ones, and which were the creative black holes that would suck time and money while giving nothing back? She couldn’t always tell. “I was thinking along the lines of What’s old is new again or Reinvention, but neither feels exactly right.”
“They fit with vintage, and would be easy enough to pull off in ten days.”
“Still, they’re . . . meh. And I don’t want meh.” She wanted vivid, vibrant, exciting.
“Hmm.” Rose studied the display window, which was painted with the store name in foot-high gilt letters and was currently showcasing a volleyball game of mismatched mannequins, bright clothing, and purple sand that had been a special order Billy needed to dump. “So we need a theme that says reinvention without using the word.”
“I want the audience to get something tangible out of the evening, too, more than just oohing and aahing over the clothes.” Though the oohs and aahs would be important, too. “I was thinking I could show people how to take an old, tired piece out of their wardrobe and use it in a different way rather than getting rid of it. Maybe some of the models could even come out wearing things one way, then do a quick change and wear them another.”
Rose’s eyes lit. “Kind of like a butterfly coming out of its cocoon. I like it!”
Ta-da! Colored flashbulbs went off in Ashley’s head. “That’s it! You’re brilliant. Butterflies. We could call it Transformations and have each model wear a butterfly somewhere—a pin, or a scarf, or whatever.” She talked fast as the ideas tumbled one over the other, fluttering in her mind’s eye. “We’ll go heavy on the colors and patterns in the show itself, and line the walls with butterfly art. Maybe even put wings on the mannequins. Or how about the models?”
“Butterfly swag would be ideal as a giveaway.”
“Yes yes yes! A butterfly-shaped gift bag with every ticket, full of promo stuff, coupons, a trinket or two. And after the show, we’ll open the sales floor and offer suggestions on how certain pieces can be reinvented . . .”
Heads together, talking butterflies and percent discounts, they headed into the shop and were greeted by the perky jingle of the welcome bell. And for the first time since Ashley had started signing next to those sticky arrows, she was more excited than scared.
So what if she had another big payment to make? She wasn’t just going to do this. She was going to rock it.
• • •
“I hear congratulations are in order.”
Ty stiffened at the sound of Wyatt’s voice coming up the barn aisle. He hadn’t seen Krista’s husband all day, hadn’t heard him come through the rolling doors just now. Turning away from grooming Brutus to square off opposite the other man, who was a couple of inches shorter but built like a brick outhouse, Ty said, “’Scuse me?”
Wyatt propped a shoulder on a nearby stall door, letting the horse within—a spunky chestnut mare named Sassy—sniff his sleeve. “Junior says you slam-dunked it out on the trail today.”
Okay, they were talking business. Ty could handle that. Krista had rehired him over the phone and handed over the keys to the posh above-barn apartment without batting an eye, but they went back nearly a decade and she knew he could do the job. Wyatt was relatively new to the operation and only knew Ty as the wedding singer. He had proven more reserved. Which probably made it a good thing that Ashley had wanted to keep her and Ty’s little rendezvous between the two of them.
Ty didn’t want to owe her, didn’t want to think about her at all. But he had to admit, it made things easier not having to butt heads with her brother on that front.
Returning his attention to Brutus—he didn’t like turning his back on the too-smart chestnut gelding for long—he said, “Thanks, but it was mostly par for the course. Singles Week, you know.”
It was one of the dude ranch’s most popular theme weeks, complete with couples’ roping games, horseback speed dating, and musical saddles. It also tended to be their most dramatic, with sex—or the lack thereof—complicating the usual stew of nerves and bravado that came with mixing two dozen greenhorns with an equal number of mustangs.
So far, Ty had broken up a couple of almost-fights, consoled a heartbroken relationship columnist who had chucked all her own best advice on taking things slow and gotten burned for it, and dealt with a couple of attorneys who kept trying to kiss while trotting along on their highly annoyed mounts. All while keeping the line moving and making a bunch of city slickers feel like they could totally hack it on the pro rodeo circuit.
“Still,” Wyatt said, “good work. You coming in for dinner?”
Swiping the last of the dust and sweat-salt off Brutus’s hide with practiced flicks of a stiff-bristled brush, Ty shook his head. “No offense, but after today, a cold beer and a quiet sunset on my back deck sounds better than the dining hall.”
“Don’t blame you. The
re’s chili, though. And cake.”
Ty’s stomach grumbled. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Do that. And when you’re done with Brutus, you can call it a night. I’ll finish up in here.”
There wasn’t much left to do, save for making sure the guest tack room was set up for the morning, topping off waters, and giving the aisle a last sweep, but Ty figured it wasn’t about who did the chores. There were times a man just needed the barn to himself—usually when things had gotten tense outside it. “Roger that. Thanks.”
He picked out Brutus’s hooves, dodged a too-hard nudge aimed at his shoulder, and led the gelding into his stall, which opened through a Dutch door on the far side to a small private paddock. When he came out, Wyatt was still leaned up nearby, letting Sassy nibble his sleeve.
Ty hesitated, then went ahead and asked, “Everything okay?”
The silence that followed sounded a whole lot like I don’t want to talk about it.
“Right, then. I’ll leave you—”
“It’s my sister,” Wyatt said unexpectedly. “Ashley.”
Ty stiffened. “Oh?” Uh-oh.
“She’s in trouble, in over her head. As usual.”
That didn’t sound like the lead-in to a round of Keep your hands off her, but it didn’t sound like anything Ty wanted to get involved in, either.
“She bought a business downtown,” Wyatt continued, “on a payment schedule that can’t possibly work the way she thinks it will. Especially if she pulls her usual routine of starting off all gung-ho and then losing steam.” He patted the mare’s nose, then looked over at Ty. “What I can’t figure out is where do I draw the line at bailing her out?”
“I don’t think I’m the right person to answer that. Maybe Krista—”
“She thinks I’m overreacting. And, yeah, maybe I’ve pushed her over the years. Ashley, I mean. But she’s got all these talents, these incredible opportunities, and she keeps bouncing around. It’s always something new with her, something better. Now it’s a big-ass store that she can’t afford unless the stars align exactly right. Not to mention—” Wyatt broke off, scowling. “Sorry. Not your problem. You don’t even know her.”
Coming Home to Mustang Ridge Page 4