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If the shop was a vision, transformed for the night into a butterfly garden with leaves and flowers of fluffy, frilly clothes, then Ashley was the goddess at the center of it all—vivid, bright, and ethereal as she moved among her guests, greeting each personally with a touch, a word, a smile, and guiding them where they needed to be, whether it was their seats, one of the catering stations, or over to a mannequin that wore a particular outfit.
The longer Ty watched her from the back of the room, as he leaned up against the wall near the big blue butterfly—the one that had a man and a woman kissing, in silhouette—the more he felt a song coming on. Not a generic ballad that skipped from beer to women to patriotism, like the ones that had kept Higgs & Hicks on top for far too long. More a guitar riff that would stick in the ears and metaphor-heavy lyrics that talked about being in the right place at the right time, which he was starting to think he had finally managed, for once in his life.
Ashley wasn’t anything like he had thought. Or, rather, she was exactly like he had remembered in the months following the wedding, when things on the road had been going to hell and he’d needed something fresh and honest to hang on to. Only she was better, because she was real, she was here, and they were good together.
“Surprised to see you here,” Wyatt said, claiming the chunk of wall beside him.
Ty didn’t let himself tense up. Didn’t have any reason to—Ashley was a grown woman, and had said she would talk to Wyatt when the timing was right. Her family, her deal. So he said only, “I did a bunch of the painting.”
“In other words, the girls roped you in.”
“Gran pulled the old You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“Ouch.”
“I didn’t mind. Good cause and all that.” Ty’s eyes followed Ashley as she whisked through the vivid purple curtains that led to the back.
“You’re probably wondering why I didn’t put in a shift.”
“Your business.” Not to mention that whatever got said tonight was going to look different to Wyatt in a couple of days.
“Krista isn’t very happy with me.” Wyatt rolled his shoulders. “She says I’m being a stubborn ass. Blind as a bat, too, if I can’t see that Ashley is handling herself.”
Ty didn’t want to have this conversation, but it wasn’t like he could suddenly pretend he needed to be someplace else—they were all there for the same reason. A check of the wall clock showed him that they had another ten minutes before the show started.
Almost like he was talking to himself, Wyatt continued. “She was so damn talented growing up. Me, I did okay in school, did better at the ranches. Ashley, though . . . she was meant for bigger things. You could see it from early on—she tested off the charts and had this wild imagination. Her art teachers loved her, had Ma put her in special classes, enter contests, the works . . . until she hit high school and discovered boys.” It came out flat, frustrated. “Ever since then, it’s been one thing after another—this huge burst of enthusiasm and total commitment, followed by the inevitable pop of the bubble.”
Stay out of it, Ty warned himself. Not your deal. But at the same time, it seemed to him like she was overdue for someone taking her side. “She seems pretty committed to me. Also seems to me that she cares what you think.” Maybe more than she should.
Wyatt’s lips flattened out. “You got a sister?”
Now he did tense up. “If I did, I think I’d want her to be happy, even if she isn’t doing it how I expected.”
“That’s what Krista says—and she should know, what with Jenny wanting nothing to do with the ranch. Thing is, Ashley thinks she knows what makes her happy—for about a month at a time. Then she’s on to the next shiny, interesting thing.”
“Maybe this time is different.”
“I’ve thought that before. Got tired of being wrong.”
Ashley slipped back through the purple curtains, looking excited, alive, and wholly in the moment. Kind of the way she did after they kissed. Clearing his throat, Ty said, “Either way, what she’s done here is pretty darn impressive. And if I had a sister who pulled off something like this, I think she’d want to know I was proud of her.” When Wyatt’s eyes narrowed, he shrugged. “But what do I know?”
Stepping up onto the platform that was built into the display dais and held the mic and mixer, Ashley leaned in and said, “Everyone? Could I have your attention?” Ringed by richly dressed mannequins set on the multitiered display, she outshone the brilliant clothing in slim, understated black and floaty green. When the lights dimmed a notch and the crowd noise followed, a smile brightened her eyes. “If you’ll make your way to your seats, please.”
“Guess that’s my cue.” Wyatt pushed away from the wall. “You got a seat?”
“I’m good.”
That got a nod. “Catch you later, then.”
Yeah, Ty thought as Ashley’s brother moved off. You will. He hoped for her sake that Wyatt would come through for her today, give her the support she wanted from him. Hoped it for Wyatt’s sake, too, because if he didn’t watch it, she might figure out that she was doing fine without him.
As the last few stragglers planted their butts, leaving Ty with the standing-room crowd at the back, Ashley gave a little finger wiggle and another set of lights went down, leaving the stage spotlit. The move threw her into the shadows, but Ty couldn’t take his eyes off her silhouette. Didn’t want to. “Thank you all,” she said into the mic. “Thank you for being here and supporting the uniquely fabulous women of Three Ridges and Another Fyne Thing.”
Applause rippled through the crowd as music started down low—undemanding techno that wasn’t Ty’s thing but had a solid backbeat that suited the purpose—and the room tightened with the electric tension that he associated with the moment before a big band hit the stage.
With impeccable timing, Ashley leaned in and said softly, “And now . . . I invite you to sit back and enjoy . . . Transformation.”
The music kicked up, the purple curtains parted, and a tall, steel-haired woman swept through, wearing a silvery dress that fitted close to her body and trailed a few feet behind her. Ty blinked as he recognized Rose Skye—but not looking anything like the Rose he saw around the ranch, wearing jeans and a welcoming smile. This Rose walked like she was on a mission, with a fierce expression and a hip wiggle he wouldn’t have expected from her. Whistles rose up from the crowd—maybe not the usual noise for this sort of thing, but, hey, this was Three Ridges, and Rose had been the public face of Mustang Ridge for many years.
“First up is Rose Skye.” Ashley’s voice wove in with the music, adding rather than distracting as she described the outfit.
Rose hit the end of the stage, struck a pose, and then did something with the skirt, which split and fell away in one of her hands, flashing a brilliant purple underside. Beneath was a trim knee-length skirt of the same material, and a pair of shapely legs that Ty felt a little awkward about seeing.
A piercing wolf whistle was followed by Ed Skye’s shout of “Yeah, Rosie!”
She blew her husband a kiss, gave a little twirl as she tossed the skirt-turned-shawl over her shoulders, and strutted around the other side of the runway as the music thrummed a solid, insistent beat. There was more applause as she disappeared through the curtains. A pause, and then they swept again to let Gran through. Her white hair was a fluffy halo, and her brilliant blue eyes were the same shade as the bolero she wore over flirty pink and blue polka dots. The dress bounced as she walked and showed legs that were a generation older, still looked great, and for some reason made Ty grin rather than squirm.
He couldn’t stop himself. He let rip with a wolf whistle and a whoop of “Work it, baby!” Gran dimpled and winked at him, then blew Big Skye a kiss as she sashayed past.
“I’m guessing this model needs no introduction,” Ashley said with a smile in her voice, an
d then introduced Gran anyway, along with the clothes, which included a jeweled butterfly brooch that glittered in the spotlights, seeming ready to take flight. Ty listened to her voice more than the details, loving how the low end of her natural register had a soft vibrato. And as Gran gave the room a saucy wave and disappeared through the curtain, he found himself settling back against his chunk of wall to enjoy the show. And, more, knowing that when the lights came back up, he’d be sticking around to be there for the woman who might not be his for keeps, but was his perfect match for now.
• • •
Most of the fashion show was a blur to Ashley—the lights, the audience, her own amplified voice, the models’ faces as they hit their marks and posed—but certain moments stuck with her.
Like when Froggy did an impromptu boogie-woogie because she loved the long embroidered coat Ashley had picked for her, knowing its lines would give her the illusion of height while showcasing her curves. And when Gilly peeked through the curtains, disappeared for a second, and then, before Ashley could worry that she had chickened out, pushed through, looking young, fresh, and lovely in pale yellow chiffon. Maybe she shuffled a little in her flats rather than strutting, and maybe her pose was more deer-in-headlights than really working it, but on her return trip, her face had been aglow.
Her expression had pretty much made Ashley’s night. The rest—from the standing ovation when the models paraded together in their final outfits to how, after she took a bow and invited folks to look around, there was a stampede to register for the three-night Transform Your Tacky Thing workshop she and Hen were putting on next week—had been gravy.
Or maybe icing. It had been that sweet.
Finally, as the models’ friends and family members swarmed the stage to exclaim over their loved ones and the register rang loud and clear even over the crowd noise, Ashley descended from the mic stand and into the midst of her own fan club.
“You freaking rocked it!” Danny held up a palm. “Gimme five!”
Ashley obliged. “Is that still cool?”
“Who cares? Look at this place! You knocked it out of the park!”
“It was a team effort.” Ashley slung an arm around Danny’s neck, grabbed Krista, and beckoned Shelby and Jenny in. “Thank you all so much! The models look fabulous.” Which was totally inadequate, but she hoped the group hug conveyed how much their help had meant to her, every step of the way. “Where’s your dad?” she asked Krista. “He should be in on this.” And Ty, but she didn’t want to push her luck. She had been very aware of him all night. More, even, than Wyatt.
“He’s buying mom the silver Dior. And where did that gorgeous overskirt come from?”
“Della.”
“Right here, Ash!” And there she was, hair wild around her face, eyes alight with enthusiasm, with Max a couple of steps behind her, the two of them a unit.
Krista squealed. “Della! I thought you said you weren’t coming!”
“I lied. I wanted to surprise our girl here.”
There was a chorus of her name, another group hug, and Ashley’s heart felt like it was getting too big for her ribs to contain the pressure. All these friends. All this support. Even love.
Unbidden, her eyes went to where Wyatt stood at the edge of the stage with his hands in his pockets and his expression unreadable. His hair was too smooth for his porcupine look, but the vibe was definitely there. She hated that the sight of him put a knot between her shoulder blades and gave her the urge to say something she knew would annoy him. But being around Gilly and Ty had put the brother-sister thing into a different light for her, enough so that she crossed to him and socked him affectionately on the arm. “Admit it. This wasn’t the disaster you thought it would be.”
Okay, maybe it came out sassier than she had intended. Baby steps.
But his lips kicked up at the corners and his eyes warmed a notch as Krista came over to loop an arm around his waist. “Not a disaster at all,” he said. “Good job, kiddo. I’m proud of you.”
“Excuse me?” Ashley pretended to clean out an ear.
“You heard me.”
“Say it again anyway.”
“Oh, for—” He scowled and then winced a little, as if his wife had just nailed him with an elbow. “You did a good job, Ashley. I’m proud of you.”
Laughter bubbled up on a wave of pleasure. She was tempted to poke him in the ribs and demand that he take back the part where he said she was out of her mind buying the store, that it was just another phase. But she liked to think she was wiser now, or at least a little more mature, so she went in for a hug instead, and said, “Thank you, Wyatt. That means a lot to me.”
He hesitated, as if waiting for the And another thing. When there wasn’t one, he gave her a fatuous pat on the shoulder, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. When she stepped away, he added, “This was a whole lot to pull off in ten days. You did a great job. Of course, you’ll have a better idea of how successful it really was once you’ve tallied the receipts and seen how many people come back with their coupons in the next couple of weeks. A great party is one thing; an uptick in sales is another.”
Krista groaned. “Seriously, Wyatt? You couldn’t just leave it at I’m proud of you?”
“Well, it’s true.”
“Yes, it is,” Ashley said, patting his cheek because she knew he hated it. “But I’m not letting you bring me down tonight. You said you were proud of me—twice!—and there’s no takesies backsies on something like that.”
“I’m not trying—”
“Nope! Can’t hear you.” She stuck her fingers in her ears—so much for the whole thing about being more mature—and danced away, laughing. “Sorry—gotta go hug some more people. Stay, though! Eat! Drink! Have fun!” She hooked an arm through Della’s on the way by. “You’re coming with me. I want you to meet Hen, and Froggy is dying to say hey.”
Over the next couple of hours, it became clear that Wyatt was spot-on about one thing: it really was a great party. Not just because the caterers kept the nibbles flowing well after the contracted time or because the cash bar was doing a brisk business, but because people were having fun. Especially after Ashley got the runway music going again and cajoled a couple of customers up onto the stage to show off their new purchases by walking the runway and striking a pose, and wound up with a big audience, lots of camera phones in action, and a line of ladies who wanted to be next.
It was past eleven by the time things slowed down at the register, close to midnight before Ashley finally shooed the last of the stragglers and all but shoved Hen out the door, swearing that she wouldn’t start the cleanup until morning. She had her fingers crossed, though, because there was no way she was going to be sleepy anytime soon, so why not start setting the store to rights? Or maybe tally the receipts—she had a rough idea from the register, and the number was a good one—but Della had landed two special orders, Bakery Betty had brought in some ticket money, and the clinic registrations hadn’t been added in yet.
The Big List is dead. Long live the next Big List.
Instead of panic, though, the thought brought a glow as she killed all but a single spotlight and bumped the music back on. There was something very satisfying about knowing what she had on tap for tomorrow and the next day, but also that there would be surprises along the way. And knowing that she could handle them. Here’s hoping, anyway.
Heels making hollow echoes on the stage, she wiggle-thumped a few strides of runway walk and struck a hip-shot pose, finding that the muscle memory was still there, whether she liked it or not.
“Is this where I’m supposed to whistle and shout, Work it, baby?”
She whirled, gasping even though she immediately recognized the voice. Make that because she had recognized it. “Ty!” Heat flooded her face, then washed lower down, bringing a whole-body tingle. “I thought you left.” She had told herself no
t to be disappointed.
“I just stepped out to get some air and let the crowd thin. I figured I’d hang around and see if you wanted help with the teardown.” A corner of his mouth kicked up. “I guess not quite yet.”
Breaking her pose, she brushed at her clothes. “Tomorrow will be soon enough, and Ed is going to help. I was just . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “Playing, I guess. Maybe remembering a little.” The initial rush of being “discovered” at an open casting call had been exciting, at least.
“Wyatt said you used to model.”
“Oh? Let me guess—he said I was a prodigy at that, too, could’ve gone to Paris and done cover shoots.” It came out more weary than bitter.
“Something like that. You didn’t like the work?”
“I didn’t get that far. I bailed when I figured out that the agent Mom signed me with had cameras in the bathrooms and a big couch in his office that saw a lot of use. And he liked to adjust our clothes. A lot.”
Ty’s expression sharpened. “Did you report him?”
“To the authorities?” A headshake. “Mom acted like I was making things up to get out of the contract.” She held up a hand. “I know, I know. But she’s wired a little off when it comes to men. I learned to adjust.” She was working on it, anyway. “Not to mention that sometimes it’s easier to let her and Wyatt think what they’re going to think, rather than trying to change their minds.” She dropped down to sit at the edge of the stage, patting the spot beside her. “Besides, they’ve got a point when they get on the You can’t just bail when the going gets tough bandwagon. I could’ve stuck it out with art school, maybe turned it into a career. Same with modeling. Life in LA, too, though Kenny definitely had to go. So, yeah, maybe I’ve got a habit of cutting and running when things don’t go my way.”
He squeezed her hand. “Seems to me like you got the running part out of your system.”
“Maybe. Standing up there with the microphone, though”—she nodded to the upper platform—“I pictured myself taking a flying leap into the crowd, donkey-kicking the bar, and racing out the back.”
Coming Home to Mustang Ridge Page 13