“He—” Ashley covered her mouth as her stomach headed for her toes. “Oh, God.”
“He stuck around another month or so, but he wasn’t the same guy at all. Then the dude season ended and he left, too. Really, I was surprised to hear he’d come back at all—I always figured he was gone for good. He didn’t seem like the type to give second chances, whether you’re talking about a place or a person.” Hen shrugged. “I guess Krista must’ve made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
Ashley felt like crap. You have no idea, he’d said, and how right he had been. She had taken his look as a sneer against the town she loved, but he hadn’t been staring at all of downtown. He had been fixed on the sign for Betty’s bakery.
Suddenly realizing that she was standing where Ty had been last night, while Hen had taken her place in the doorway, Ashley crossed the sidewalk and perched on the end of Bugsy’s hood. As her faithful little car settled under her weight and her stomach headed even lower, she dropped her face into her hands. “Ohmigod. Dumbass.”
“Who, Ty?” Hen sounded surprised.
“No. Me. We . . . Well, anyway.” Telling Hen about what had happened between her and Ty back at the wedding—which was where it had all started, really—would be about as far from keeping it to herself as it was possible to get. So she went with “Let’s just say I stepped in it last night, and brought all that back up without meaning to. I wasn’t nice about it, either. I feel terrible.”
She was usually the first to sense when a client’s frown came from more than just a bad hemline. And even though Ty hadn’t exactly been turning on the charm, she knew what it felt like to have her supposed happily-ever-after blow up in her face, knew how much she hated it when Wyatt brought it up to make a point. Last night, she had wanted to tease Ty, make him a little uncomfortable, so they’d be even. Not stick a knife in and twist.
Hen, always her staunchest supporter, came over and patted her shoulder. “It was an accident. You didn’t know.”
“Still. I wish I had handled it differently.” She pushed herself off Bugsy’s hood as a couple of pedestrians came into earshot, a mother and daughter strolling along Main Street hand in hand. “I’ll have to . . . I don’t know. Do something. Apologize, maybe.” Or maybe not. What was done was done, and he had copped his attitude first. Still, she hated knowing she had poked a sore spot when she had been there, done that in the relationship department.
She didn’t mind people thinking she was a little out there, but she never wanted to come across as mean.
7
By Friday near quitting time, with T minus one week and counting to the fashion show, Ashley’s to-do list had slopped onto page three of her computer spreadsheet, filled with everything from “Ask Krista about borrowing chairs” to “Write script for radio spot” and something that had auto-corrected to “Blonde Cokes and cheese.”
She couldn’t remember what it was supposed to say, but had left it on the list, hoping she would have an aha moment.
The week had been mostly a blur, though a few moments had stood out in sharp relief—like when the elderly hot water heater had decided to burn through one of its rubber seals, filling the utility room with smoke and necessitating a visit by the Three Ridges Fire Department, plus an emergency call to Ed Skye. And when, later that same day, Feed Store Billy stuck his head through the front door and announced, “You know you’ve got a cat out here in the trap, right?”
Ashley had raced out with Hen at her heels, the two of them cheering at the sight of the black cat crouched in the back of the live trap, glaring at them through yellow slits. Nick had picked her up, cage and all, and promised to do what he could with the injured leg, and do his best to find the stray a home.
Meanwhile, Ashley worked late each night, got up at the crack of dawn to tweak the window display, where the volleyball game changed every day and the score inched up, and she existed mostly on microwave popcorn.
And she was having a blast.
Sure, it was work, but it was her work, her choice. Her reward, sitting bright and shiny at the end of it all—not just the payoff, but proving that she could handle the life she had chosen for herself. Hey, Ma, look at me. I’m a grown-up!
Not that her mother would necessarily agree. As far as she was concerned, Ashley wasn’t a fully functioning adult until she caught herself a good provider and wrangled him down the aisle.
Sigh.
“I’m off!” Hen announced, bustling through from the back room. She paused at a mirror, smoothed the wisps that had escaped from the single thick braid that ran down her back, and tugged at the tie-dyed sundress she had paired with a blue velvet blazer and steel-toed work boots. “Wish me luck.”
Ashley gestured, sprinkling fairy dust with an imaginary wand. “Go forth and get lucky.”
“You sure you don’t want to come?”
“On your blind date? Pass. Unless you want me to sit at the bar with my phone and bail you out if you give me the high sign.”
“It’s not going to be like that. It’s more like a block party. You could totally come. Burgers, beer, and everybody from Mystical Myrna from the tarot place to Great Uncle Bob and his ancient beagle. One of them passes gas that can clear a room, and nobody’s really sure which one.” She beamed. “You’d fit right in.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.” Maybe? “I can’t, though. I’ve got a billion things to do for the show, and the store has been so busy that I’m way behind.” The week’s numbers were going to be on the high side, and they had already sold half the tickets, but if Ashley didn’t get cracking on lining up models, there wasn’t going to be a show.
“You’re going to burn out,” Hen warned. “Tell you what. I’ll wait out the last fifteen until closing time, and we can go over to the BBQ together. You can even take your own car and bug out early. Who knows? Maybe Gerald has a friend.”
Yegad, no. “Thanks, but if I don’t have time for a hot dog with your Great Uncle Bob and Farty the Beagle, I definitely don’t have time to date.” Heck, she hadn’t even found five minutes to ovary up, call Ty, and apologize for her gaffe the other evening.
Correction: she hadn’t made the time.
“Your loss. I’m out of here. See you tomorrow!” Hen practically danced over the threshold and out onto the sidewalk. There, she gave a startled, “Oh, sorry! I didn’t see you there. Did you want to come in? We’re still open.”
Through the plate glass, Ashley saw a bulky, dark-clothed figure hesitate. That would be a no, she thought. But then, to her surprise, the newcomer came through the door.
Shapeless beneath a heavy sand-camo army jacket that had J. DOLANS stenciled on the breast pocket, the dark-haired teen had big brown eyes, a snub nose, and a hunch-shouldered posture that made her look even shorter than her five feet plus a bit. She got a few steps inside the store, caught sight of Ashley, and stopped dead, doing a good impression of roadkill-to-be, pinned in a set of headlights.
“Hey there,” Ashley said. “Welcome to Another Fyne Thing.”
“I, um . . .” The girl trickled off to miserable-looking silence. The kind that said she didn’t belong there. Maybe didn’t belong much of anywhere.
Ashley’s heart tugged. “I don’t think we’ve met before, have we? I’m Ashley.”
“Gillian.” The girl looked down at her boots. “My mom and I moved here a few months ago.”
Ashley had a million things to do and wasn’t even sure Gillian had meant to come into the store—it wouldn’t be the first time a pedestrian had gotten shanghaied by Hen’s enthusiasm. But the hunched shoulders tugged at her. “How do you like it so far?”
“It’s okay, I guess.” A pause. Then, reluctantly, “There’s this dance coming up . . .”
“The Summer Dance.” A long-held tradition, the high school’s off-season prom was a few weeks away, and the store had been doing brisk
business off the racks labeled FUN AND FLIRTY, OLD HOLLYWOOD, and RED CARPET. “Are you looking for a dress?”
“No! Well . . . no. I just want something . . . um, girly.” The last word was close to a whisper.
Oh, honey. Ashley knew what it was like, getting dropped into a new high school and not really fitting in. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. We’ve got girly, but we try to lean toward unique and a little funky at the same time.” She figured that was a safe angle to take, given the teen’s mismatching earrings—one a skull and crossbones, the other a simple sterling stud. “Are you looking for a small pop, like jewelry or a hair comb, or something that makes a bigger statement, like a whole new outfit?”
Gillian tucked her too-hot coat tighter. “Hair, maybe? I’m, um . . . There’s this boy.”
Ashley risked a woman-to-woman grin. “Gotcha. Come on. Let me show you a few things, and we can see if we’re on the same page.” Who cared if it was five minutes to closing and she had the to-do list from hell? This was what Another Fyne Thing was all about.
• • •
Forty minutes later, as Ashley rang up Gilly’s purchases, she knocked off fifteen percent and threw in a couple of pens. “Promise me you’ll report back in a few days? I’m dying to know what happens at the next Drama Club meeting.”
She hadn’t gotten the girl to trade out the camouflage coat—or even take it off—but the turquoise-and-silver earrings and hammered necklace they had zeroed in on really made Gilly’s blue-green eyes pop, and trading her chunky white sneakers for pointy-toed Justin boots had slimmed things down and added an inch to her height. Better yet, she was making fleeting eye contact now, and the faint flush in her cheeks came from pleasure rather than embarrassment. “I will,” the girl promised. “And, Ashley? Thank you.”
“Hey, you’re the one spending your birthday money. And you’re welcome. It was my pleasure—truly.” More, she had managed to sneak in a couple of asides about how there was nothing wrong with Gilly wanting to look her best, but if she couldn’t be herself with the guy she liked, then he wasn’t the right guy.
Otherwise known as the sort of thing Ashley wished her mother had told her, rather than spinning stories about true love conquering, when all the evidence in front of them both said otherwise.
“Still. Thanks.” Gilly touched one of the dangling earrings and looked at herself in the gilt rococo mirror that hung off-kilter near the hats. “I’ll let you know how it goes with Sean.”
“You’d better. If you don’t, I’ll hunt you down and swap out those boots for the white pleather gogo knockoffs with the platforms and all the fringe.”
“Ewww!” the girl said with satisfying animation. “Not happening, because I’ll be back.” She said the last three words in a passable Terminator impression. Wearing a smile that would have seemed impossible when she came in, she headed out the door, looking several inches taller than before, and not just because of the boots.
As the door jingled shut behind her, Ashley snagged her phone off the counter, took a second to find the number she wanted, and made the call. A minute later, when it went to voice mail, she said, “Hey, Barb? It’s Ashley over at Another Fyne Thing. We’re holding an event here next Friday, and I’d love to hire some of your Drama Club kids as servers. If you think they might be interested, give me a buzz back in the next day or so. Thanks!” Lips curving, she rang off. Then, to herself, she said, “There’s this boy . . .”
Okay, maybe she was letting herself get distracted, just a little. But it was for a good cause, and she had the rest of the night to knock stuff off the list.
Heading for the front, she killed the neon OPEN sign, flipped the door sign to CLOSED, and locked up. On her way back to the counter, she announced to the empty sales floor, “I hereby swear that I will do the things on the Big List in order, even if I don’t want to.”
Which meant that first up was . . . She tapped her laptop to awaken the spreadsheet from hell. Ugh. Writing the radio spot.
She shouldn’t complain—she was getting the airtime on the cheap, thanks to Jenny’s contacts—but the assignment felt an awful lot like homework. In a hundred words or less, tell us about your event. Make it fun! Exciting! Make it POP!! She could practically see the exclamation points in her head. She couldn’t see the paragraph, though. She was a far better artist than copywriter, and even her art was questionable these days.
Lucky for her, she knew a slogan goddess who no doubt dreamed in pithy paragraphs rather than big, chaotic splashes of color. Even better, Ashley had a pair of high-heeled bronze boots in the store that had Shelby’s name written all over them. Figuring they could work out a deal—she’d rather do that than ask for yet another favor—Ashley reached for the phone.
Just as her fingers brushed the handset, it gave a cheerful ring.
“Ha! Kismet.” Figuring it was Barb, she answered. “Hey, thanks for calling me back. What do you think? Can I rent a couple of your kids and put them to work?”
There was a moment of startled silence. Then Krista said, “Well, I’ve only got the one and she’s a bit young for hard labor. But if you’re in the market for a great smile and questionable oozes from both ends, she’s your girl.”
“Whoops!” Ashley clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. “Sorry about that. I thought you were Barb MacIntyre.”
“So, you don’t want to put your niece on the payroll?”
“Not quite yet, no.” Reorienting, she tucked the phone against her cheek. “What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. Better than fine—I’ve got a lead for you on some free wood. Old Man Plunkett just fixed up his sheep shed and he’s got some leftover supplies he’s looking to get rid of. They’re yours, if you want.”
“Heck, yes!” Lumber wasn’t first on the Big List, but it was close to the top and weighed heavily in her anemic budget. “Anything I don’t have to buy is money back against the bottom line. I can be there in— Wait. I’m going to need a truck. I love Bugsy dearly, but he’s not much of a cargo hauler.”
“I’ve got you covered. My dad said he could head over there now with one of our trucks and pick everything up, then run it down to you at the store.”
“I can meet him at the Plunkett place and help load.”
“Honestly, I think it’s better if you stay put and let him hustle over there and get it done. Plunkett is on the other side of Mustang Ridge, and sooner is better than later, given those storm clouds.”
“What storm clouds? It’s beautiful out.”
“Not up here, it’s not. Though I’m not going to complain, as the grass could use a drink. It looks like it’s going to be a soaker, though, and Dad doesn’t want the wood getting wet. If you give the go-ahead, he can be down to you in a couple of hours.”
“What, like I’m going to say no? Heck, yes! Tell him to pull around back—I’ll have the loading dock wide open for him.”
“Will do. Maybe we’ll get lucky and this storm will dump a couple of inches on us, but give Main Street a miss!”
• • •
The rapidly darkening sky had sickened from gray to yellow-green by the time the twenty-some dudes and dudettes of Singles Week passed the marker stones at the top of Mustang Ridge, swaying in their saddles as the horses started down.
Riding at the back with a stray cow in tow, Ty patted his horse’s neck. “There it is, Brutus. Home sweet home.” The valley below unfolded like a grass-covered songbook, with a river for a spine, the notes and lyrics etched out in fence lines and buildings that spelled safety from the incoming storm. Thank Christ.
Relationship columnist Denise—square-jawed, with bristle-short hair and lovely brown eyes—reined back so her horse fell in step with Brutus, and shot Ty a thumbs-up. “Looks like we’re going to make it back in time to stay dry, thanks to you. And we even walked the last mile.”
It was a horseman’s adage and a ranch rule to walk the first and last miles, but Ty would’ve run the dudes down into the valley if the storm had gotten much closer or if he’d started seeing lightning strikes. Better to have to cool out the horses than be the tallest thing out on the prairie with thunder and lightning closing in.
He hadn’t let the guests see him sweat it, though. “I was more worried about getting back in time for the farewell barbecue.”
“I can’t believe this is our last ride of the week.” Denise looked along the wide track, where the rest of the riders were clumped in twos and threes. Some had their heads tipped together, deep in conversation, while others snapped pictures with their phones, locking the memories into pixels. “It was fun,” she added. “Maybe it started off rough, but it was a good reminder that I talk a better game than I’ve got. I don’t think this singles stuff is for me.”
“Amen,” Ty said, laying his rein on Brutus’s neck when the gelding eyed her mare, warding off a nip, or worse.
Denise laughed. “You’re not a fan of Singles Week?”
“I don’t mind trail-bossing it, but you can bet I’m making myself scarce when it’s time for strip bingo.” He glanced around. “Besides, of all the couples who’ve met here, there have been only six or seven weddings over—what, eight, nine years, with two or three Singles Weeks each summer? Seems to me that’s a reminder that you can’t force a relationship to work—it either does or it doesn’t.” And in his experience, it mostly didn’t.
She tipped her face up to the threatening clouds and said, “I’d rather think of it as a reminder that you never know when or where you’re going to meet your soul mate. Take the Skye family—Krista and Wyatt had a fling in college and then hooked up again at a horse auction, Jenny and Nick found each other because of a stray dog, and Rose and Ed met when she backed into his truck. Face it—you never know when or how you’re going to cross paths with The One. It could be online, through a friend, at a wedding—”
Coming Home to Mustang Ridge Page 7