“You wouldn’t have spent the night if I hadn’t wanted you to.” She nudged him back. “Go on. Please. I’ll call you later.”
“You’re kicking me out?” It should have been surprising how much he wanted to stay. Family dynamics hadn’t ever been his strong suit.
“For now. You’re welcome to circle back around tonight after hours. Say, seven? I’ll do better than French toast.”
Wyatt growled low in his throat.
“Seven it is.” He leaned in and brushed his lips across hers. “I’ll get the rest of my clothes and leave you two alone.”
• • •
A few minutes later, as the diesel rumble of Ty’s truck faded from the back lot, Ashley pointed Wyatt to a stool at the breakfast bar. “Sit down. You’re looming, and I want French toast.”
Doing a not so slow boil, she turned her back on him and went to the fridge for eggs and milk, determined to hold it together, keep things civil. She loved her brother, but she wasn’t twelve anymore. Even so, it sucked to get to this point so soon after last night, the nosedive from I’m proud of you to What have you done?
It was a long minute before one of the barstools scraped along the floor. Her shoulders came down a notch, but they still had a long way to go. She hated knowing he was mad at her, disappointed in her, but some days it seemed like that was all she could manage when it came to her brother.
Wyatt sighed heavily, and she knew if she turned, she would find him shaking his head. She cracked an egg into a mixing bowl instead.
“Talk to me, Ash. Tell me what’s going on in that brain of yours.”
She thought about it for a moment, then did a headshake of her own. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“It’s a complete sentence.” But, as usual, she couldn’t leave it at that. Not with him. “He’s a good man. Admit it.”
“He’s an excellent cowboy.” Which they both knew wasn’t necessarily the same thing, as plenty of cowboys were piss-poor human beings. Like their father. Wyatt added, “I’m not trying to be a dick here, Ash. I’m trying to keep you from making another mistake.”
She beat the eggs too hard. “I’m spending time with a smart, interesting, down-to-earth guy who plays a mean guitar. And who, for the record, helped me out a whole lot more over the past week than you did. Krista trusts him with her guests, everyone I know likes him, and we’re on the same page relationship-wise—as in, neither of us is in the market to get serious. We’re just having fun. Lots of it. How is that a mistake?”
Deciding he didn’t rank French toast, she dumped the eggs straight in the pan.
“You know how you get.” Wyatt sketched a hand around. “Today it’s making him breakfast rather than getting a jump on things downstairs. Tomorrow it’ll be cutting out early to go for a ride and watch the sun come down over the ridge. The next thing you know, you’re hiring more help and leaving Hen to run the shop while you—”
“What, go out on trail rides with him and the dudes? News flash—I tried working for you and I didn’t like it.”
He gave her his patented My logic is way better than yours look. “That’s not the point.”
“You’re right. It’s not. The point is that you’re acting like I’ve already done those things.” The eggs were overdone, overbeaten, over-everything, and starting to smoke a little. She reached for a plate, grabbed air where the green one should have been, and pulled down the red one instead. Dumping the eggs, she banged the overloaded plate down in front of Wyatt. “You’re not even giving me a chance to get this right.”
He eyed the plate. “I think your eggs just bounced. And why are they black?”
She ground her molars. “I added lots of pepper.” And, okay, maybe some soot. “This is the way Mom used to make them.”
“Still does, when Jack doesn’t get to the kitchen first.” He nudged the plate away. “You go ahead. I already had breakfast, and you’re going to need some fuel.”
“For?”
“Long day at the store, right? Cleanup, sales, prepping for your clinic thing.”
It mattered that he had paid attention last night, at least a little. Still, she couldn’t afford to let him off the hook. Not yet. “Right. For a minute there, I thought you were talking about needing my strength for later, when Ty comes over.”
Under any other circumstances, his wince would’ve made her laugh. “You had to go there, didn’t you?”
She propped her elbows on the counter and leaned in. “Look, I was going to pull you aside after dinner on Sunday and give you the heads-up about me and Ty. I’d apologize for the whoops-half-naked-guy-in-my-kitchen part, except that you were the one who just drove on over. Heck, if you’d been a few minutes earlier, you would’ve caught both of us in here naked, debating Fiesta ware with the cat.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ashley . . .”
“Wy-att.” She mimicked his put-upon intonation. “Look, you don’t have to worry about me this time—I promise. I’m not going to follow Ty to LA for a record deal that never materializes, and I’m not going to work three jobs to keep a roof over his head and pay to record a demo. First, because Ty isn’t that kind of guy, and second—and more importantly—because I’ve learned my lesson.” Hearing her voice echo in the small space, she softened her tone to say, “So lay off. We’re just enjoying each other. Since when is that a crime?”
“We’re not talking about a felony here—don’t be melodramatic.” He sighed. “But do what you want, I guess.” The You always do came through loud and clear.
She wanted to argue, wanted to say that wasn’t fair, but it was what she was fighting for, wasn’t it? For him to give her the room to do what was right for her, not what he thought she should be doing. Softly, she said, “I’m not trying to drive you mental, Wyatt. I’m really not.”
A telling silence dragged out between them. Then one corner of his mouth kicked up. “That’s just a bonus, right?”
“Something like that.” She hesitated, told herself not to push it, but had to ask. “So. Are we okay?”
“Do I have to eat these eggs?”
“I guess not.”
“Then we’re good.” He had that closed-off look in his eyes, though—the one that said he was agreeing with her because he didn’t like fighting, either, but he wasn’t totally buying what she was selling.
The bump of disappointment was what she got for pushing. Don’t ask if you know you’re probably not going to like the answer. “Well. I should get dressed and head downstairs.” She slanted him a look. “I could use some help pulling the stage apart.”
His chair scraped across the floor as he pushed back and stood. “No can do. I’ve got stuff back at the ranch.”
What was that about not asking if she wasn’t going to like the answer? Summoning a smile—it was her store, her responsibility, and maybe that was his point—she said, “No prob. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“For Abby’s party, you mean?”
She hid the wince—mostly. “Yep. Exactly.” Yeowch. She was the worst aunt on the planet. How had she forgotten that tomorrow was the kidlet’s first birthday? And she had been planning on springing the Ty thing on her brother after dinner. Yikes.
Wyatt didn’t quite snort as he headed for the door. “See you then,” he said on the way through. But then he stuck his head back in and said, “And, Ash? Don’t hurt yourself putting the store back together. You can’t afford to be off your game. You’ve got, what, a month left before that next big payment? Better get cracking.”
“Out!” she ordered, and he chuckled.
The door closed behind him; his boot steps went down the stairs. It wasn’t until she heard a truck door slam that she let herself cross the kitchen and look out the window to watch him drive away. It was stupid to bother, stupid to feel, even for a second, the flash of panic that sa
id she might not ever see him again.
“He’s not Wylie,” she said between gritted teeth. “You’re due at the ranch tomorrow afternoon to blow out birthday candles.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. Unhooking her fingers from the windowsill, she pushed away. “Time to get to work.” But when she turned, her eyes lit on the counter where Wyatt had been sitting.
There was a piece of paper that hadn’t been there before. It was the size and shape of a check—the kind that came with zeros that watched her like little eyes.
“Oh, hell.” Stomach sinking, she approached it warily, hissing out a breath when she saw a five followed by three eyes.
Five thousand dollars from his and Krista’s personal account. The notation line in the lower left was empty, like he expected her to know whether this was his way of saying he was proud of her and wanted her to have a cushion if she needed it, or whether he thought there was no way she could make it on her own, so he was bailing her out while shaking his head and muttering, Again, blast her.
Maybe he would’ve explained it if he hadn’t found his head wrangler hanging out in her kitchen, half dressed. Now, though, they were back on opposite sides of the same old debate, and she felt like crap.
She and Ty should’ve had a magical morning to follow up their incredible night. They should’ve . . . Well, shoulda, coulda, woulda. Things rarely went the way she planned—she should be used to that by now. Sigh.
Picking up the check, she grimaced, wanting to tear it up, turn it into a satisfying confetti shower, and toss it in the bin with the broken cup and saucer. Or hand it back to him in person tomorrow. Strike a blow for independence.
Instead, she opened one of her junk drawers, pawed through, and found the old-school address book Jack had given her years ago, claiming not to trust technology. And though she wasn’t sure what she thought about the check, it seemed right to open the book to the W’s, where two pages were filled with contact info for Wyatt, dozens of numbers and addresses she had dutifully added when he touched down, then scratched out when he moved on again, until he finally found his place at Mustang Ridge. Sandwiching the check between the pages, she shut the little book and tucked it away.
Then, sliding the drawer closed, she looked at the inedible eggs—Hello, stress cooking—and called, “Hey, Petunia! Do you like bacon?” She had a half hour before she needed to be downstairs, and she owed the cat some one-on-one time. “Here, kitty, kitty. Where’d you go, you little monster? I think we need to set some ground rules.”
• • •
Ty got back to the ranch in the peaceful Saturday lull between when the shuttle bus left with one crop of guests and when it came back with the next. Figuring he should keep a low profile until he and Wyatt had it out, he hit his apartment to grab a couple of day-old muffins and a cup of instant, and headed back downstairs.
The barn was clean and the riding horses were turned out to graze, as Saturday was their day off, too. Only two of the stalls were occupied—fat little Marshmallow the pony was on a diet, and Betty Crocker, the cow that Ty had run in last week, wasn’t doing well. With one prominent hip cocked, her ribs more visible than they should be, and her head low, she looked old and tired.
“Hey, Betty.” He propped an elbow where the wooden sides of the stall stopped and the metal bars started. “How’s it going?”
Instead of returning her to the high pasture, Krista had decided to keep her in a stall for a couple of days and stuff some food in her. The vet hadn’t found anything really wrong with her, but warned that she was getting up there in age. Whether Betty was a pain in the ass or not, Krista wanted to give her a chance to rebound. If she didn’t . . . Well, better to stuff her full of treats and put her down than let her wear out to the point that the coyotes or wolves started hassling her.
So far, there didn’t seem to be much rebounding going on. If anything, she had lost even more weight since she’d been in the barn.
“You need to eat,” Ty told her. “Either that, or learn how to photosynthesize, which I doubt is going to happen.” Though Krista seemed to think the beast was some sort of cowhide-covered ninja, so maybe it was possible. He took a swig of his coffee, bit into his second muffin.
Betty’s head came up. Nostrils flaring, she took a step in his direction.
“You want some muffin?” Why not? It was corn-flavored, with a hint of Gran’s famous sourdough. Nothing in there a cow couldn’t eat. Running open the door, he broke off a piece and offered it on a flattened hand. And darned if the old bossy didn’t come right over to him and use gentle lips to take the muffin chunk.
Eyes a few notches brighter than before, she looked longingly at the rest of it.
“I’ll split it with you.” Heck, calories were calories.
“Watch that she doesn’t get under your guard,” a voice said behind him.
Wyatt’s voice.
Okay. Here we go. Tossing the rest of his muffin in the shallow feed pan in the corner of Betty’s stall, Ty ran the door shut and turned, bracing in case Wyatt was the sort to punch first, dialogue later. “You want an apology?”
He didn’t get a haymaker, but he sure got a narrow-eyed glare from the other man. “You want to give me one?”
Ty had been going back and forth on that. He owned his choices, but he didn’t want to undercut whatever Ashley had said to her brother. Not to mention, they were both consenting adults. “I’m sorry it played out the way it did, but I’m not sorry it happened. Your sister is an amazing woman.”
Wyatt bristled. “As she reminded me in no uncertain terms back just now, I don’t have any say in who she sleeps with. Never did.”
The tone put an ugly twist in Ty’s gut, but he hung on to his outer calm. “You want to take this outside, anyway, take a couple of shots at me?”
“Neither. I want to give you a friendly warning.”
“I’d rather make my own call on things—thanks.”
“I know, MYOB. Except this place”—Wyatt’s wave encompassed the big barn, with its glossy mustangs and neatly ordered guest tack room—“is my business. Or one of them, anyway. And it’s Krista’s only business. Since she’s mine, that makes you doubly my business.”
Are you pissed because you want Ashley to do things your way, or because you’re afraid I’ll up and quit when things flame out? Neither option deserved airtime. “I’ve got a contract through the end of the season, and no intention of going back on my word. And that’s all you’re getting from me.” At least until he talked to Ashley, made sure that Wyatt had left things okay with her. Maybe not even then.
Whatever happened between Ty and Ashley, it wasn’t a family affair. It was theirs.
Wyatt scowled. “Krista warned me you play things pretty close to your vest.”
“I’m not playing. Just keeping some separation between my job and my private life. Which isn’t always easy around here.”
“Look, Ashley means the world to me, and this place means the world to Krista. I don’t want to see anything bad happen to either of them.”
“Me neither.” But he wasn’t making any promises beyond his contract. Things happened. Plans changed. “If that’s it?” When Wyatt didn’t say anything, just kept looking at him like that was supposed to shake something else loose, Ty touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll be on my way, then. Oh, and news flash? Your cow just sucked down my corn muffins. If you’re serious about putting some meat back on her, you might want to think about a diet change. Pancakes might do the trick.” He almost said French toast, but figured he’d better not. Wyatt might swing that punch, after all.
15
On Sunday, Ashley put in a long morning at the store before heading up to Mustang Ridge. As she drove between the big stone pillars that marked the main entrance, her ears were still ringing with a whole lot of, What do you mean, you can’t order it for me in pink? and Of course these super-skinny pants will fit me. I
had a pair just like them in the eighties, and didn’t you know that vanity sizing is a myth?
She felt a little guilty about handing things off to Hen for the last few hours of the day, but maybe the traffic would taper off some. Or, you know, maybe not. Fingers crossed. Thirty days and counting. Eep.
With a stuffed-toy panther strapped into the passenger seat—she figured Abby had enough toy horses, and it had reminded her of Petunia—and several bottles of wine on the theory that a first birthday party was as much for the grown-ups as anything, she was no longer in danger of being the Worst Aunt Ever. Still, after parking in the main lot, she hesitated.
She and Ty were good—very good after last night—and she thought she and Wyatt had left things okay, more or less. But . . .
The door to the main house flew open and Krista marched out, fisted her hands on her hips, and glared. Jenny, Shelby, and Danny were right behind her, making an imposing quartet, all of them wearing expressions that hit somewhere between Well? and What the hell, girlfriend? Which matched the texts Ashley had been getting for the past twenty-four hours, and hadn’t been sure how to answer.
The Girl Zone knew she had been keeping secrets.
Oops.
Mouthing Sorry! and holding up both hands as if all four of them were toting shotguns rather than dirty looks, she got out of the car. “I can explain.” Sort of. She wasn’t really sure what had kept her from calling yesterday—the store had been busy, sure, but she could have made time. Clearly should have. She hadn’t been ready to talk about her and Ty, though. She had wanted to keep it to herself for a day, hugging the memories close, taking them out one at a time to relish them, integrate them into an altered reality entitled Ashley’s Got a New Man. She would have gotten that chance, too, if it hadn’t been for Wyatt showing up.
Well, the can was open now, and the worms were having a party of their own.
Reaching back into the car, she pulled out the wine and the panther, which had a pink bow around its neck, affixed to a birthday card. Holding up the alcohol, she said, “I come bearing bribes.”
Coming Home to Mustang Ridge Page 16