“At a fender bender,” he put in. “I never heard that story about Ed and Rose before.”
“Women talk about those things more than men. Which is fortunate for me, as it would be a very long two hours of airtime to fill without my callers.” She tapped her stirrup against his. “Think about it, though. You never know when you might meet your perfect match.”
“Thanks, but I’m not looking.”
“That’s usually when you meet someone, isn’t it? Oh, hey. There’s Krista!” Diverted, Denise waved and hollered down to the barn. “Hey, Krista!”
“Hallo!” The rain-coated figure lifted her hat and beckoned them in. “Hustle up—we’ve got weather coming!”
Tipping his hat in acknowledgment, Ty set about herding the horses and riders through the gate and into the dirt parking lot, with the horses prancing more than usual and the riders’ voices sounding unnaturally loud on the storm-deadened air. The weather was getting close—that was for sure—and it promised to be rowdy.
He had done his job, though. The horses and riders were home safe and sound.
As the barn workers came out to help the guests dismount and get their horses safely inside, Krista grinned at him. “Nice job, cowboy. Looks like you got them all back in the nick of time.”
“Plus one.” He reined around so Krista could see the old black-and-white cow at the end of his rope. “I believe this belongs to you?”
It wasn’t the first time he had come across a stray critter out on the trail—horses got loose, steers wound up on the wrong side of fences, cows and calves could get split up. It was, however, the first time he had caught one wearing a neck strap that read, BEWARE: TROUBLEMAKER. IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO MUSTANG RIDGE.
Krista’s mouth fell open. “Betty Crocker! Ohmigosh, where was she? What did she do?”
“Couldn’t say. She was on the main trail up in the high pasture, all by her lonesome and jogging on in like she’d heard the dinner bell. Took me ten minutes to get a rope on her”—all with the storm coming in and Brutus getting jiggy—“but once I did, she led just fine. What’s her deal?”
“She’s a troublemaker, just like it says.” Krista patted the bony head, then bent to run a hand over the cow’s ribs and legs, saying, “One of Nick’s customers found her wandering in the backcountry one day. I took her in, thinking she was just another castoff, too old for milk and too skinny for steaks, but in hindsight she probably ambushed her old owners and took off. We try to keep her penned up in the high country with the rest of the rescues, because when she makes it back down here, she likes to let herself into the kitchen and trash the place.”
“She . . . hmm.” Picturing Gran and Dory in full-on Friday BBQ mode, rainy-day version, and then adding a cow to the mix, Ty tightened the lead rope on his saddle horn. “Right, then. Where do you want me to stash her?”
“Find an empty stall,” Krista decided. “I’d like to have Nick take a peek at her before we turn her back out, as she’s skinnier than I like. In the meantime—and changing the subject—can my dad borrow your truck?”
He shot a look over at where the farm vehicles were parked. Wasn’t like his rust bucket would win any prizes next to her dually, especially after being garaged in a leaky barn while he was on tour. The funky smell was mostly gone, but so were the shocks, and the brakes weren’t far behind. “Sure, but why would he want to?”
“It’s got the cap on it. He needs to pick up some freebie lumber for Ashley, and wants to keep it as dry as possible.”
Ashley. Damn it.
The name went through him, kicking life into the embers he had spent all week trying to stomp out. Not that he was interested. Annoyed, more like it. He didn’t like the way she had gotten stuck in his head, under his skin. Flirty, flighty, and constantly talking, she didn’t have a filter or any concept of personal space. She had touched him too often while he’d sketched, leaning across to point to this detail or that, and reminding him that it had been a long damn time since he’d held on to a woman.
Not that he was looking to get his hands on one now. Especially not her.
Krista looked at him quizzically, warning that he had been silent for too long. “If you’ve got plans, you can drive one of the farm vehicles,” she offered, as if his hesitation had anything to do with his POS truck.
That was exactly what he should do. He should hand over his keys, warn Ed that the brakes were iffy in wet conditions, grab a spare set of wheels, and head out, maybe shoot some pool or hustle his way through a couple of games of darts.
Instead, inwardly cursing himself for a fool, he said, “Tell your dad not to worry about it. I’ll do the lumber run.”
8
The storm clobbered Main Street with a one-two of pyrotechnics and a sharp rain that blew sideways, blurring the world beyond the open loading dock doors and muffling the usual sounds beneath a freight train roar of wind and water.
Perched on a packing crate, Ashley folded her knees up to her chin and stared out, caught between the part of her that loved being out in the rain and the part that winced every time a gust rattled the building.
Having lived there through the long, cold winter storms, she had figured she knew what she was getting into. Turned out it was a whole new ball game now that the insurance policy had her name on it.
“Hang in there, baby,” she urged. “Mama can’t fix the roof right now.” The building inspector had said she would probably get a few more years out of it, but that she should start setting aside the money. And she would, along with saving to expand the sales floor and redo the Web site. Starting in thirty-five days. Almost thirty-four now.
Look at me—thinking about the long-range to-do list. Too bad she really needed to focus on the shorter-term stuff, like lining up models, crafting decorations, finalizing the outfits and giveaways, and helping Ed build the stage that Ty had designed for her.
Ty, who she really should have called days ago. Maybe she should—
Nope. No distractions. In fact, get him out of your head. She knew all too well how good she could be at talking herself into new priorities. Pulling out her phone, she toggled over to the Short List, a subset of quick little chores that—like the Big List—she had vowed to knock off in order rather than doing the fun ones first. When she saw what was up next, she groaned.
Call Mom.
“Seriously? I didn’t put that on here, did I?” But she must have, because there it was. And she had promised—one at a time, in order, no cheating.
Should’ve called Ty. As awkward as the conversation would’ve been, she’d bet money it would’ve been easier. But Ty wasn’t on the Short List and her mom was, so she scrolled to the number and made the call.
She stared out at the rain while it rang on the other end, hating how phoning home had turned into a checklist chore.
There was a click and her mom said suddenly, “It’s Ashley!” Her voice blurred a little as she held the phone away and called, “Jack, honey? Come and talk to Ashley! She’s on the phone!” A pause. “Jack? Jack?” To herself, she said, “Where is that man? He was here a minute ago.”
Used to the routine, Ashley wandered up the hall to the break room, where she neatened the pile of catalogs and put away a couple of rinsed-out coffee mugs. She was wiping down the table when her mom finally left off hollering for her stepfather. Muttering, “He’s probably out in the garden, back any minute,” her mom lifted the phone, sharpening her voice. “Ashley, sweetie! It’s so good to hear from you! How are you?”
“Hi, Mom. I’m good. Everything’s good. The store—”
“Did Wyatt tell you that Jack and I are going to the Grand Canyon next weekend? He’s even booked us on one of those mule tours. Do you know how long it’s been since I was in the saddle?” She gave a girlish laugh. “But you know what they say. Once a rodeo queen, always a rodeo queen!”
“I hadn’t he
ard. That sounds fun.” So much for inviting her mom and Jack to the fashion show.
“And did Wyatt tell you that we’re thinking about changing out the shutters on the house? I found the prettiest purply-blue. Jack?” she called suddenly. “Is that you? Ashley’s on the phone!”
I didn’t call to talk to Jack, Ashley wanted to say, or to talk about Wyatt. I called to talk to you. But why would today be any different? Her mom had always lived best through the men in her life. “I’m putting on a fashion show next week. Do you want me to send you some pictures?”
“You’re modeling again? Oh, sweetie! That’s wonderful.”
“I’m not modeling—I’m putting on the event. For the store.” Remember the store I just bought? A week ago, her mom had been all aflutter, not because it was a big step or because one wrong financial move could land Ashley in bankruptcy, but because she was tying herself to Three Ridges, and where did she expect to find a man in a place like that? A tic started up at the corner of her left eye as Ashley added, “The theme is Transformations.”
“You’re dressing like a boy? Oh, sweetie, don’t do that. You’re such a pretty girl.”
“Transformations. Like from a caterpillar to a butterfly.”
“Here’s Jack! Jack, honey, say hi to Ashley. She’s thinking about going back into modeling!”
There was a pause, a scuffle, and then her stepfather’s voice said, “Ash?” The single slow word was enough to take her shoulders down a notch. “How’s it going?”
She let out a pent-up breath, willing back the frustration. Jack wouldn’t trample on her answer, she knew. He would wait her out, just like he had waited until her mother finally came to grips with the fact that Wylie Webb wasn’t going to put a ring on it and she wasn’t going to do better than a mild-mannered, slow-talking CPA who filled her fridge, took her daughter to the mall, and every three months on the dot asked her to marry him.
Thank God.
Cradling the phone a little closer to her cheek, Ashley said, “I’m good. I’m putting on a fashion show next week to bring in some extra business.”
“Ah. The modeling.” There was a gentle smile in his voice, because he loved his wife for exactly who she was. “I’m sure it’ll be a huge success, sweetheart. How can it not be, with you behind it? Though I wish you didn’t have to put this sort of pressure on yourself. I wish you’d let us help.”
“We’ve had this conversation.” Though the offer still wrapped itself around her heart. “I’m not taking your money, or Wyatt’s.” Jack was trying to retire, and she’d be darned if she gave her brother another reason to shake his head when he saw her. “But I love you for offering.” Not that Wyatt had. Only Jack.
“I love you, too, sweetheart, and I’m rooting for you. Take lots of pictures of the show for me, okay?”
“Will do. Thanks, Jack.”
“Do you want to talk to your mom some more?”
“No, I—”
But it was already too late. A rustle carried down the line, and her mother—practically caroling now that she had her preferred audience—said, “Did Jack tell you about the nice man we hired to fix the roof?”
“No, he—”
“He’s something foreign. Polish, maybe? One of those countries that used to be Russian.”
“I don’t think Poland—” This time Ashley cut herself off. “Never mind. So, he’s fixing the roof for you guys? How’s it going?” Sometimes—most times, really—it was easier to go with the maternal flow than try to turn the tide. She opened up the silverware drawer next to the sink and did a little rearranging, putting the mismatched forks and spoons in order by size and giving an “Uh-huh” or “Oh, really?” when the pauses dictated.
“Jack said not to worry about it, though,” her mom concluded. “He’ll take care of it.”
Having lost track of the complaint—something about the gutters?—Ashley went with “Mmm-hmm.”
“Speaking of taking care of things . . . about this crazy idea of yours. You can’t possibly be serious.”
Heart sinking—Should’ve hung up when I had the chance—Ashley shut the silverware drawer. “You’re talking about the fashion show?”
“No, silly! I love that you’re getting back into modeling—a lady should always play to her strengths. I’m talking about you wanting to buy that whole big store with all the secondhand clothes and stuff.”
Since her mom had never been to Another Fyne Thing—not even the Web site, as far as Ashley knew—that description had to have come from Wyatt. Drat him. Stomach tightening, she said, “I already bought it. Signed, sealed, and delivered. This is important to me, Mom, and I’m excited about it. I hope you can be happy for me.”
“Jack thinks you should cut your losses and walk away. Better that than be dragged down by a business you can’t handle. You’re not a numbers person or a businesswoman, you know. You’re an artist.”
That one stung. Even though Jack probably hadn’t said exactly that, or even close to it, there was almost always a kernel of reality at the center of her mother’s mental constructs. “I can handle it. I’ve been handling it since last year, remember?”
“You should work for someone else. It would be safer. What happens if you lose everything?”
“I don’t want to be safe. I want to be happy.”
“Living by yourself in a little town in the middle of nowhere?”
“Yes! Why can’t—” Ashley bit it off, knowing that snapping at her mom was pointless. Taking a deep breath, she leveled her voice. “I like it here. I can do this.”
“Jack says—”
“I’ve gotta go,” she interrupted. “Krista’s dad will be here any minute with a lumber delivery, and I need to help him unload. I’ll call you in a couple of weeks, okay? You can tell me all about the Grand Canyon.”
“You’re mad at me.” The pout was loud and clear. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I know.”
“If you would just be reasonable—”
“Like I said, I gotta go. Love you.” She ended the call, dropped the phone back in her pocket, and then just stood for a moment, pressing her fingertips into the break room counter hard enough to whiten the flesh beneath her nails.
Breathe. She’s just trying to protect you in her own way. Just like Wyatt. Still, her mother’s words echoed. You’re not a numbers person or a businesswoman. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she willed them away, hating that they still resonated after all the hard work she had put in, the progress she had already made. “She’s wrong.” She said it out loud, willing herself to believe. “You can do this.”
Maybe if she told herself that another thousand times or so, one of these times it would ring all the way true.
Blowing out a breath, she pushed away from the counter and turned. And froze.
Ty stood in the doorway.
Her heart thundered, pushing hot and cold through her bloodstream. He was there. Hot. She really should have called him. Cold. He was soaked through, wearing a dark green T-shirt that was plastered to the bulging muscles of his arms and torso, and worn jeans that had gone dark from the rain and clung lovingly to his hips and thighs. Hot, hot, hot. But why was he there? He didn’t like her, didn’t want to be around her . . . did he? Hot, cold, hot.
“Ty, hey.” Keep it casual. Don’t overreact. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” Or, you know, ever again.
“Got some lumber for you.” His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable. “My truck has a cap on it, so I said I’d make the delivery.”
“Oh. I— Thank you! And in the pouring rain. I’m sure that wasn’t on your list of fun things to do on a Friday evening.”
“I’ve had worse.” He paused, studying her like he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard some of that call. Everything okay?”
&nb
sp; “With my mom? Sure, yeah. We’re fine.” She grimaced. “That is, if by fine I really mean ‘talking past each other like we usually do.’” Even saying that much just went to show how rattled she was by her mom’s lack of faith. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Anyway. Lumber. Your truck. The rain. All I can say is thanks a million. I owe you one.”
His mouth flattened out. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Yeah, I really do. Starting with the apology that should’ve been headed your way a couple of days ago.” Stifling the temptation to fiddle with the catalogs on the break room table, she hooked her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans. Just do it. “I was bitchy to you the other night, and I apologize. I was just . . . Well, it doesn’t matter what I was thinking, or why. You were helping me out, and I handled it badly. I’m sorry for saying what I did about, well, you know.” Broken hearts.
The pause that followed went on long enough to make her wonder if it would’ve been better to keep her mouth shut after all. Then a corner of his mouth kicked up, though with zero amusement. “Somebody told you I got left at the altar.”
“My assistant, Hen. And she said it was six weeks before the wedding.” Why had she said that? Six weeks was plenty bad, and the details didn’t matter so much as clearing the air. “Sorry,” she said again.
“Don’t be.” His eyes were shadows, his voice a rasp. “Six weeks is more accurate than most of the versions I’ve heard, and what happened with me and Brandi is part of the local deal. I knew I’d be coming back to it when I took the job. But it’s been a few years, Krista needed the help, and I needed to get off the road and get my priorities straight. So here I am.”
She was pretty sure it was the most he had said to her at any one time, and it was definitely the most revealing. With any of her friends—Krista, Hen, even some of her customers—she would have pressed for more. With him, she said only, “Welcome to the getting-my-priorities-straight club. I’d like to say I’m a founding member, but I think I’m more the one who pays her fee every year and only shows up for the holiday party. I’m working on it, though. So . . . apology accepted?”
Coming Home to Mustang Ridge Page 8