Ty hesitated a beat. Now was the time to say something if he was going to. He didn’t, though. What had happened between him and Ashley was over and done. History. “I’ve ridden out with a lot of family groups over the years,” he said instead, “and it seems to me that the siblings that bust on each other the hardest are usually the ones who defend each other the fiercest when things start to go wrong. Maybe after a while of things going wrong and you needing to step in, that big reaction gets to be automatic.”
“In other words, you think I’m overreacting, too.”
“I think that she’s lucky to have a big brother who has her back.” Ty knocked some shavings off his boots. “I’ll get along now, leave you to finish up in here.”
“Yeah. I could use the quiet. Go on and get yourself some of that chili.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.” And a couple of beers to go with dinner, because getting too deep into the dynamics of other people’s families always put an itch between his shoulder blades.
Seemed he was doomed, though, because a few minutes later, as he came through the side door into the ranch’s main kitchen, with its hanging herbs, commercial ovens, and endless counters, he saw Gran, Rose, Shelby, and Krista sitting at the butcher block with their heads together, deep in conversation.
As he hesitated, trying to decide between greeting and retreating, Krista said, “Ashley said she’s having trouble figuring out how to fit everything into the building along with enough people to make it worthwhile.”
Pivoting, Ty headed for the door.
“Don’t you dare sneak out,” Gran said without looking at him. “Come over here and give an old lady a hug.”
He turned back. “This sounds like girl talk. I’m allergic to girl talk.” Especially when it involved Wyatt’s flighty little sister, who seemed to be stalking him without even being there.
Blue eyes glinting, Gran beckoned him over. “Deal with it, big guy.”
Unable to refuse her—he had zero resistance when it came to Krista’s bird-tiny, white-haired grandmother, who cooked like a goddess and had a personality that filled every room she entered—he crossed the kitchen and leaned down to fold her in his arms, breathing in the scents of hot peppers and baked goods.
He was a guy who’d never had a gran of his own, so it was mighty nice of the Skyes to let him borrow theirs now and then. That didn’t mean he wanted to get in the middle of their family stuff, though. He had it on good authority that he didn’t have any talent in that department.
Okay, maybe his ex wasn’t a good authority on much except cheating, but still.
Gran patted his cheek. “You’re a good boy, Tyler.” She slid off her barstool, which put the top of her head below his chin, and headed for the two big refrigerators. “You’ll be wanting chili, sides, and seconds on dessert.”
“Thanks. You’re the best.” To the others, he said, “Sorry for interrupting.”
“No problem,” Krista said. “We were just going over some details for the fashion show that Wyatt’s sister, Ashley, is having next Friday.”
“We’ve met.” Swapped spit. Lied about our identities. Agreed never to speak of it again.
Shelby’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “Hmmm.”
He returned her stare. “Don’t even think it.” He liked Foster’s wife just fine, but knew her too well to trust her when she was wearing that particular expression.
“Think what?”
“Whatever it is. The last time you looked at me like that, I wound up with my shirt off, starring as Mr. November in a gift calendar.”
“You loved it.”
“I didn’t mind it.” And along with that campfire video, it had gotten him the gig with Higgs & Hicks. But he wasn’t taking any chances when flaky Ashley was the subject and Shelby was wearing that look. “That doesn’t mean I’m doing it again, though. Or whatever else you’ve got in the works.”
“You’ll be perfect.” She turned to the others. “He knows all about staging, acoustics, and making an entrance. What could be better?”
“Chili and a couple of beers, and watching the sunset from my back porch?”
Krista made a face. “Spoilsport.”
“It’d just be an hour,” Shelby put in. “Maybe two with the drive.”
“Oh, leave the man be,” Gran said as she finished packing his dinner in one of the wicker baskets she used for the guests’ carryout meals. “Helping out our Ashley isn’t part of his job description.”
Which, darn it, really meant, Be a good boy and help her out, will you? As a favor to me.
Ty’s gut took a quick ride on the down elevator, headed for his toes. Oh, hell. Because this was Gran, and it didn’t feel right saying no to her. Especially when she was tapping the lid of the picnic basket with a look that might not be a threat, but was pretty darn close. They were talking about chili, sides, and dessert, darn it. And, yeah, if Ashley needed input on staging and a sound system, he could probably help. In fact, if it had been anybody else, he’d already be in his truck.
Taking a long look at the basket, he sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
He didn’t have to be happy about it, though.
5
“Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” Ashley opened the can of Happy Moist Kitty—the cheapest brand Billy carried over at the feed store, and a truly questionable name—and wrinkled her nose. “Mmm . . . This smells”—like low tide and week-old garbage—“yummy.”
Trying not to let any of the brown glop ooze onto her hand, she hunkered down on the sidewalk and stretched out an arm to set the can as far back into the live trap as she could reach. Made of wire mesh and about the size of two jumbo mailboxes put together end to end, the contraption had levers and pressure plates and had to be set up exactly right if she hoped to catch anything. And even at that, there was no guarantee it would be the scrawny black cat with the bad leg.
“You’d better appreciate this.” She kept her voice sweet and lilting, figuring the tone counted for more than the actual words. “Nick said when I catch you he’ll take a look at that leg, get you cleaned up, and find you a new home. Wouldn’t that be nice?” Convenient that Jenny’s husband was the local vet, and a softy when it came to strays.
There was no response, even though she had seen the skinny black shadow skulking around under Bugsy an hour ago. She did get curious glances from a couple of pedestrians, though.
“Stray cat,” she said, not wanting to start a rumor about there being giant rats lurking on Main Street. After the foot traffic continued on, she fumbled to rig up the pressure plate the way Billy had showed her. But where he had made it look easy, she clearly needed another arm, maybe two. Like that Hindu goddess. What was her name? Katy? Cujo? Focus. You don’t have all day. The to-do list loomed large. “Come on,” she muttered under her breath as she fought to line up the little hook thingie with the corresponding hole in the pressure plate. “Behave, will you?”
Finally, everything slipped into place with a satisfying click.
“Thank you!” she exclaimed. “It’s about time.” Kali. That was the goddess’s name. Score two for her.
“Talking to yourself?” a man’s voice said from above her, amused. And suddenly there was a big shadow blocking the early-evening light.
Ashley stiffened, her mind blanking because she knew that voice, that shadow.
Ty.
Rocking back on her heels, she looked up at him—up, up, and up some more to where he stood over her, boots planted on the bricks and the brim of his straw Stetson casting that wide shadow. She couldn’t read those dark, dark eyes or the set of his square, stubbled jaw, couldn’t imagine why he was there. Didn’t like the prickles that ran down her arms at the sight of him. Sure, he was hot, but she hadn’t cared for the way he had looked at her last night, condemning, as if he’d never made a mistake in his life.
Not let
ting any of that leak into her voice, she said, “Ty, hey.”
He nodded to the trap. “Skunk problem?”
“God, no.” Knock on wood. “Stray cat.” She rose, making a show of dusting off her jeans. “You headed over to the feed store?”
“Actually, I came to see you.”
“You . . . really? Why?”
“Gran asked me to,” he said. “Krista, too. Rose. Shelby.” He added the names like he was piling on the evidence, just in case she got the crazy idea he had come to see her on purpose. “They said you’re planning some big event for next Friday and could use some help with the stage design. So here I am.”
“Here you are,” she echoed, torn between her to-do list and a whole lot of I can do it myself. Especially if getting help meant it came from him. “I thought we were going to avoid each other.”
“It’s a small town.” His gaze went a couple of blocks down, to where Main Street went from shops to practically nothing in one set of lights. “Might be better for us to figure out how we can cross paths without you turning a couple of shades of pink. That is, unless you think Krista and the others won’t notice.”
“I . . .” She pressed both hands to her warm cheeks, feeling them heat further. “Darn it.”
“Besides, Gran is the closest thing I’ve got to family, and I guess she’s yours, too. Around here, folks help each other out, and I’ve got a free hour. Up to you whether you want to use it.”
He was right, of course—about family, it being a small town, the two of them needing to get used to each other . . . and about her needing whatever help she could get, especially with the technical stuff. The deeper she got into planning the fashion show, the dumber she felt. There were so many moving parts—front and center being the stage, the lighting, and the sound. If he could help her get a handle on that, it would be major.
Suck it up, buttercup. Nobody said this was going to be easy. Granted, she hadn’t figured on him being one of the challenges. He could be useful, though. Anyone who played like he did and had spent a few years on tour with a megagroup like Higgs & Hicks had probably picked up a few tricks along the way.
So, smoothing her expression to the one she used with her more frazzling customers—the ones who went on about how the size tags were wrong, the prices were crazy, and why didn’t she have this particular one-of-a-kind gown in a different shade of champagne?—she said, “Then I’ll use that hour and be grateful if you can help.” It came out sounding more dubious than she’d meant it to, but whatever. Crossing the sidewalk, she pushed open the door. “Come on in. Welcome to Another Fyne Thing.”
• • •
The scent hit Ty first, then the colors, in a one-two punch of Hey, cowboy, you’re not in the backcountry anymore.
Sure, the air sometimes smelled like flowers out on the trail—first thing on a spring morning, maybe, or after a quick summer thunderstorm—but this took it to a whole new level, like all those flowers had gotten together in a hot tub and had a crazy party. Crazy party pretty much described the visuals, too. The big, high-ceilinged space was heavy on the primary colors and fabrics, none of which were put together how he would’ve expected. Not even after getting a load of the shiny red VW Beetle out front, with its big black polka dots, tennis ball antennae, and BUG-Z vanity plate, or the window display, where mismatched mannequins wearing bright dresses played beach volleyball with a set of stuffed Jockey shorts.
Nope. Not even close.
Disembodied and empty, wire-strung pants and shirts climbed the columns, skipped along the walls, and dangled from the overhead ducts that gave the place an industrial feel. Mismatched shoes hung from haphazard clotheslines, tied together by brightly colored laces, and mirrors made crooked zigzags everywhere he looked. There were racks of clothes everywhere, some topped with little scenes: a wire figure crouching down, petting a cat? dog? made of a stuffed-full turtleneck with an upturned hiking boot as a head; a couple of mannequins kissed as they danced.
There were signs, too. FUN AND FLIRTY, said one above a rack of dresses, while another hung above an empty hook announced, COOL THINGS I’M GOING TO TRY ON. They were hand-painted in bright colors and decorated with painted-on flowers. Those same flowers—along with starbursts and little caricatures of curvy women wearing pretty clothes—were also painted on a series of glossy white bookcases that held everything from jeans and shoes to handbags and little froufrou dustables.
He had to blink a couple of times to make it all settle into focus. Sort of.
Ashley sent him a sidelong look. “I know it’s probably not really your speed.” She hadn’t seemed thrilled to see him, wasn’t exactly gushing with gratitude, but what had he expected? They just needed to get through this and move on.
Still, he didn’t need to be rude about it. “It’s . . .” he began, but then petered out, because his gut reaction was that it was silly, spontaneous, and exactly the sort of thing he should’ve expected from someone whose car had tennis ball antennae and whose brother thought she was a disaster. It was also way too crowded to fit a sound system, never mind a stage and a bunch of people . . . But he didn’t want to start off with a pointless argument—on either front—so he went with “Fun.”
She blinked, surprised. Then she smiled.
And, damn, he wished she hadn’t done that. The curve of her wide, full lips illuminated her face, punching right through him and lighting a fire in his gut. That was how she looked when he’d first seen her, when he’d first kissed her. When things had been simple, all about chemistry and nothing more.
Well, he didn’t want anything more when it came to women right now—not in general, and certainly not with her. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he looked around again, studying the space and realizing that the place wasn’t as small as he’d thought at first, just crowded. “I hear you bought it.”
Her smile flattened. Which hadn’t been his intention, but he would take it. Made it easier to think. “It’s a big commitment,” she said. “Like, scary big. How much did the others tell you?”
“Some. I heard that you’ve got six weeks or so to come up with the rest of your down payment, and you’re looking to run a fashion show next Friday, hoping to get bodies through the door.”
Her lips curved once more. “That about covers it.”
Did she know what her smile did to a man? Probably, he decided. A woman who looked like her couldn’t not know, and at the ’Burn he had seen her flirting up a storm with the grizzled old cowboy at the next table over. She wasn’t turning it on now, though, with her shoulders stiff and her eyes mostly avoiding his. Was it because she didn’t like needing help, or because she didn’t like needing his help?
Doesn’t matter. In and out, an hour of your life, and there’s chili waiting for you at home. More, he’d rather have her at arm’s length than up close and smiling. “What did you have in mind for staging?”
“I’ve got some sketches. Over here.” She spun and headed deeper into the store, to where a glass display case was packed full of sparkly stuff and had a register at one end.
Feeling like he was walking into a box canyon crammed with flowers and parrots, Ty followed. His boots clomped on the wood floor like he was the bull in the danged china shop.
She had a bunch of papers fanned out beside a laptop, and a leaning tower of books wore library stickers on their spines and titles like Event Planning Checklist and The Divas of Fashion Week. Looked like she had been doing her homework.
“I talked to Della—she’s the former owner of this place—and hit the mayor’s office, so I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what I need in terms of permits, parking, and code stuff. I’m going to need a runway that doesn’t mess with the fire exits, a bar, enough floor space for a hundred people—that’s the max I’m allowed, though I don’t know if we’ll sell that many tickets in a week and a bit—and a way to display plenty of product but keep it
safe from spills.” She nudged a sketch in his direction. “This is what I was thinking, but as you can see, my plans are bigger than my footprint. What do you think?”
He stared for a beat—at her, not the paper—and said, “Impressive.” Between what Wyatt had said and the chorus of “Ashley needs our help” from the kitchen, he’d been expecting a half-assed mess. Granted, a bit of prep work didn’t mean she wasn’t exactly how her brother had described her—a flitter who bounced from obsession to obsession. He just happened to have landed in the middle of her latest fixation.
He knew the type. Though, in his mother’s case, it had been men and drugs, not modeling and fashion.
Ashley’s eyelids went down. “About the sketch, I mean.”
“Right.” When he leaned in, the smell of flowers brightened to a warmer, fresher scent that made him think of loping up into the foothills on a sunny spring day. Holding his breath, he focused on the job at hand and scanned the not-even-close-to-scale rendition of the store, with the racks pushed to the perimeter, rows of chairs, a wide catwalk winding around a central display, and spots for a sound system and a bar. He gave a low whistle. “This is—”
“Nuts?”
“I was going to say ambitious. Might be doable, though.” If she had a month and a full crew. “What’s your budget?”
“Think garage band doing their first paid gig. You know—lots of painted plywood and stuff scavenged from the basement.”
He shot her a look. “You were in a band?” How long did that phase last?
“Me? Nope. I have zero rhythm and my pitch sucks, but I love music and dated a drummer for a while. Too long, if you ask my brother. Anyway.” She tapped the sketch. “What do you think about the stage? I need a curtained-off space for the models to come through, here-ish.” She pointed. “They’ll strut their stuff around a central display—I’m thinking mannequins wearing high-end dresses, acting out a little scene—to the end here, strike a pose, and then head back around the other side, so everyone gets a good look.”
Coming Home to Mustang Ridge Page 5