Coming Home to Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  • • •

  “Okay.” Hen turned back to her as the door jingled shut behind a happy customer departing with a double dose of late-eighties shoulder pads and washable silk and a floppy hat that Ashley didn’t get, but, hey, it took all kinds. Her assistant dusted off her hands to signal a job well done, then hitched up her calico skirt beneath a studded leather belt. “What’s next?”

  “We need to finalize the questions for the last two trivia categories and print out the entry blanks for the customers.”

  “Which categories again?”

  “Strange History of Three Ridges and Famous Cowboy Quotes.”

  Hen’s face lit. “I talked to Barb MacIntyre at hula class last night and got some strange history for you. Back in the late eighteen hundreds, the townspeople of Three Ridges voted in a horse as their sheriff.”

  Doing her best not to picture the Drama Club maven wearing a coconut shell bra and grass skirt—and of course picturing it—Ashley jotted down the info. “A horse? Seriously?”

  “I guess it was a really good cow horse. I’m sure it was to protest something, but Barb wasn’t sure what exactly that might be.”

  Hello, oral history of a small town. “Right. Anything else?”

  “The clam shack used to be a whorehouse, back in the day.”

  Ashley grinned. “There’s a joke in there somewhere.”

  “Yeah, but do we want it in full digital on Main Street during the parade?”

  “Not if we want to win. Good point. We’ll use it for the contest sheet, though. Which do you think would be a better, brothel or cathouse?”

  “House of ill repute?”

  “That’ll work. It—” She broke off as the door popped back open and the bell jingled. “Froggy! Hey, girl. How was your anniversary?”

  “Amazing!” Looking like a human Super Ball—round, bouncy, and guaranteed to spark a smile—she bounded across the store and did a little twirl that gave the impression of a flaring skirt, even though she was wearing jeans. “The city, the hotel suite . . . you should’ve seen Martin’s face when he got a load of me in that dress! We almost didn’t make it to the show.”

  “Woo-hoo!” Hen applauded. “Let’s hear it for the power of a great outfit.”

  “And a great marriage,” Ashley added.

  Froggy grinned. “It’s true. We’ve had our ups and downs, of course—who doesn’t? But it always comes back to wanting more or less the same things, or finding a way to compromise when we want different things. And speaking of wanting things, you wouldn’t happen to still have those blue shorts with the embroidered pockets, would you?”

  “Right this way.” Ashley made a sweeping gesture. “They’ve been waiting for you. Try them on, though. You may need to nip them in a little at the waist.”

  “Music to my ears.” Froggy patted her tummy. “Especially after eating one too many caramel peanut butter brownie bites just now. Or maybe six too many. But, ohmigosh, they’re gooood.”

  “Brownie bites?” Hen asked, zeroing in. “Over at the bakery?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Betty is testing out four new flavors. Double chocolate lava, raspberry-filled, and the caramel peanut butter ones. There was mint, too, but it wasn’t my favorite. Mint only really belongs in toothpaste, don’t you think? Anyway, they’re giving away a sampler with every cup of coffee. And speaking of coffee, any chance I can use your bathroom?”

  “Sure thing. You know where it is.”

  As Froggy disappeared down the back hallway—the EMPLOYEES ONLY sign was really just a suggestion, especially when it came to their regulars—Ashley turned to Hen. “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh is right. Betty is upping the bar for Saturday. Not just brownie bites, but raspberry-filled brownie bites!” Hen gave a heavy sigh and squared her shoulders. “I think I should go on a scouting mission. For the team, you know.”

  “Ha! You just want a chocolate fix.”

  “I could bring you some back. And a latte.”

  Ashley tried to hold firm. She lasted about three seconds. “Okay. But no mint for me, either.”

  Hen saluted. “No toothpaste. Aye-aye, Cap. I’ll be right—”

  “Ash-leeee!” The wail echoed in the back hallway. “Come quick! I flushed, and . . . Oh, gosh. Hurry! There’s water everywhere!”

  21

  Three hours later, Ashley stood over Charlie Moyer, not sure which sight was more unsettling—the torn-up subfloor and gaping hole in the wall between the bathroom and the break room, or the plumber’s copious butt crack.

  “Fifteen hundred,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “And it’s only that low because Ed Skye said he’d fix the floor and install the new flange himself.”

  “Fifteen hundred.” Her lips had gone numb. Oh, God. “Do you take Visa?”

  “Check or cash, half up front for materials.”

  “Half . . .” She swallowed a surge of chocolate-flavored nausea, making her think the second round of brownie bites had probably been a bad idea. But after seeing the damage, she had needed the sugar hit. “Okay. Do it. I’ll get you a check.” What choice did she have? With the water shut off, the sprinklers were down, and she couldn’t run a business without sprinklers. Not in Three Ridges.

  Back on the sales floor, she pulled the big checkbook out from behind the register, trying not to whimper.

  Hen watched her with worried eyes. “How bad is it?”

  “Fifteen hundred, half now, half later. Plus materials for Ed to do the structural work.” She was so going to owe Krista’s dad after this.

  “I’ve got a little saved up. I can—”

  “No.” Ashley gripped her friend’s arm. “I love you for offering, but no. I couldn’t take your money.”

  “It wouldn’t be for long. I know you’d pay me back.”

  “Not even then.”

  “Talk to Ty, then, or Wyatt.”

  “They offered. Wyatt even left me a check.” It was still upstairs in her junk drawer. She couldn’t bring herself to rip it up, but she’d be darned if she cashed the thing. “I’m not going to do it, though. This business needs to sink or swim on its own. And so do I.” It was time.

  Hen’s expression softened. “There’s a difference between being tough and being stupid, you know. This is an unusual situation, and you’ve got people who believe in you and want to help.”

  “You have helped, all of you. But I need to do this part on my own.” She tore the check out of the book and folded it in half. “This means there’s no way I can make the loan payment if we don’t win the grand prize on Saturday. Second place ain’t going to cut it.”

  “Want me to swap out Betty’s cinnamon for dried ghost pepper?”

  It surprised Ashley that she could laugh right now. “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Ed could remove most of the screws from the big display tiers she’s got in the window. When they go to load it up Saturday morning—splat.” She brought her hands together. “Brownie mayhem.”

  Ashley made shooing motions. “Go sell something, would you?” She was laughing as she headed down the hall, but even she could hear the edge of hysteria in her voice. There was too much to do, too little time, and no guarantees. As for the plumbing . . . well, fingers crossed that was it for today’s drama. She didn’t think she could handle another crisis.

  • • •

  Tired from a long day in the saddle, herding a group of computer programmers who didn’t seem to get that horses weren’t machines, Ty headed for his truck, juggling an armload of wildflowers. It didn’t matter to him whether he wound up helping Ed with the toilet flange, painting props for the window display, or doing last-minute errands for Ashley—he just wanted to spend time with her, wanted to be there for her.

  Yeah, he had it bad. So bad that he was starting to think about signing on at Mustang Ridge for next season.

&n
bsp; Popping the driver’s door, he propped the flowers on the bench seat and slid behind the wheel. The engine rattled to life and he headed off, looking forward to the night ahead.

  He hadn’t gone more than a mile when his phone rang. Thinking it was Ashley with an errand, he glanced at the display.

  Macaulay Investigations.

  Ty hit the gas too hard going into a turn, and the truck wobbled. Cursing, he eased up, straightened out, and brought the vehicle to a shuddering halt on the verge. Grabbing the phone, he took two tries to answer it, hoping to hell it didn’t dump to voice mail first. “Mac? It’s me. I’m here. Do you have something for me?”

  There was a pause before the familiar measured tones said, “Yeah, I’ve got something.” For the first time, though, Ty heard a thread of something else in the investigator’s voice.

  He thought it might be sorrow.

  The blood ran cold in Ty’s veins and his brain went still and quiet. Lifeless. For a second, all he could see was big blue eyes, swollen and red with tears, and a pair of chubby hands reaching for him; all he could hear were Scilla’s screams of No! No! Ty-Ty, no! as they took her away. Bile soured the back of his throat as he said, “I’m not going to like it, am I?”

  “No. You’re not.”

  The steel and glass of the truck pressed in on him, squeezing the words out of him. “Is she dead?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but it’s not looking good.”

  • • •

  By the time Ashley gratefully flipped the store sign to CLOSED and locked up for the night, she had a new downstairs toilet, a plate of double chocolate lava brownies, and three of the four game show podiums painted and drying in the curtained-off front window. Better yet, Charlie had roughed in enough plumbing to give her water upstairs, which meant that she and Ty wouldn’t feel like they were camping out overnight.

  The to-do list still loomed large, but at least he was on his way. She felt bad putting him to work, but they would no doubt carve out an hour or so for themselves. And she had those brownies, after all.

  She hated to admit it, but they rocked.

  Not letting the panic overtake her, she pushed through the heavy curtains into the display area, which smelled of paint and looked like a bomb had gone off, with scrap lumber and mannequin parts piled on one side, the assembled podiums on the other. As she reached for a paint roller loaded with bright orange, her cell phone came to life, the display showing two very welcome letters: Ty.

  “Hey there.” She cradled the phone to her cheek. “Are you on your way?”

  “I was, but now . . .” His voice moved away from the receiver and there was a rustling noise. Cloth, maybe, or paper. “I’m sorry, Ash, but I’m going to have to bail on you tonight. Something’s come up.”

  Her dismay quickly gave way to concern. “Are you okay? You don’t sound okay. What happened? Is it one of the horses?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, sounding suddenly distant. “Everything’s fine, and you’ve got a ton on your plate already. I just . . . I’ll call you later, okay?”

  No, it wasn’t okay. Don’t do this, she wanted to say. Talk to me! I want to help. But she really, really didn’t have time to help anybody but herself right now, not unless it was an emergency. Ty was a big boy; he could take care of himself. If he said he was fine, then he was fine. “If you’re sure . . .”

  “Positive. And, Ashley? I’m sorry.”

  He disconnected before she could respond, if she had even known how to. Because, all of a sudden, that apology had sounded like it was meant for a whole lot more than his missing out on painting and lava brownies tonight.

  The knots in her stomach twined together in one big tangle, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. Don’t overreact. Don’t make this into more than it is. He can miss a night now and then without it being the end of the world. You’ve got plenty to do here. Too much, in fact. Don’t let this distract you.

  But his voice. Oh, his voice hadn’t sounded good at all.

  The tangles congealed to a certainty: there was something very wrong going on up at Mustang Ridge.

  She lifted her phone, scrolled to Krista’s number, then Wyatt’s. Then she lowered her hand, blanking the screen. If there was a problem with one of the horses, they would already know about it. If the problem was with Ty, it wasn’t any of their business.

  It was hers, though, whether he liked it or not.

  Moving fast, she wrapped the roller, covered the trays of paint, grabbed the brownies, and let herself out the front door, where Bugsy was parked facing the curtained-off window display, with a sign in his back window that read WIN BIG AT ANOTHER FYNE THING ~ SATURDAY 10 A.M. His headlights seemed to be giving her a look as she headed for the driver’s door.

  “I won’t be long,” she said, hoping it would be true. “But whatever’s going on, Ty needs a friend right now.”

  She drove too fast, straightened out too many corners, but her faithful Bug got her to the ranch unscathed. Without waving at the main house, she let herself through into the barn and took the stairs leading up two at a time. The door was shut, but it wasn’t locked, and she gave only a perfunctory knock before pushing through. “What is going—” She broke off, heart sinking at the sight of a bulging duffel bag on the sofa. Ty stood over it, typing something into his phone. “Where are you going?”

  He looked at her, expression damnably cool. But whether it was because she knew him better now or because there were cracks in the facade, she could see through to the grief beneath. More, she heard it in his voice when he said, “They gave her back.”

  “What? Who?” Catching sight of the blue folder lying on the coffee table, she sucked in a breath. “Your sister?”

  Pain etched his face. “The bastards traded her back in, like she was a puppy that piddled on the damn rug.” His hands clenched spasmodically, making fists that had no target. “She was six years old. Didn’t they know what that would do to someone like her? Didn’t they care? And the thing is, I never knew. I was in juvie by then, cut off. They never told me. If I had known . . .”

  “You would have done anything you could to get back to where you could protect her,” she said softly, heart breaking for him. Oh, Ty. She crossed to him—the duffel didn’t matter right now. Nothing mattered but the shattered agony in his dark eyes. Touching his forearm, where the muscles were strung so tight they vibrated, she said, “What happened after that?”

  As if her touch had unlocked the rigidity that had been keeping him on his feet, he sank to the sofa. Pushing the duffel aside, she sat down next to him.

  He opened the blue folder to reveal a new picture, printed from the investigator’s e-mail account. “This happened.” It was a mug shot of a gaunt, tired-looking bleach blonde wearing too little clothing and too much makeup, dated eleven months before. “And then after that, she dropped off the grid.”

  “Oh—” Ashley breathed. “Oh, no.” Her heart sank—for him, for the woman in the picture . . . and for herself. Because this was going to change everything.

  22

  To Ty, the woman in the photo was a brittle-haired stranger, shockingly old-looking, as if his subconscious had frozen her at eighteen or so and this hard-ridden twenty-nine-year-old didn’t compute. He saw his own eyes in his mother’s face, though. Christ. He had promised to protect his baby sister, and he had damn well failed at it. He had failed her.

  Ashley took his hand, squeezed his fingers. “Tell me everything.”

  He tried, but it wasn’t easy to organize his thoughts with the chaos that was going on inside his skull. He did his best, though, and it wasn’t like there was much to tell. “Mac found her adoptive family—the woman, at least. Alba Druse. It turned out that the adoption was one of those save-the-marriage things, only it didn’t.” Anger was an ugly twist in his gut. “When the husband moved out, Alba decided Scilla would be better off
back in the system.” What a crock.

  “Did she get adopted out again?”

  “No clue. The fire at CPS wiped out the records. We don’t know anything again until this.” He tapped the mug shot. “Mac was pretty cagey about his methods, but it’s her.” The name at the bottom was Priscilla Ricci, but there was no doubt about it, right down to the two little moles at the corner of her mouth.

  “Why was she arrested?”

  “Drug charges.” The words tasted foul. “He’ll have more on that in another day or so.”

  “Oh, Ty.” She pressed her cheek against his upper arm. “That’s awful for both of you. I’m so sorry.”

  He rested his jaw in her hair, needing the contact. “She was released—I’m not sure why. But since then . . . nothing. She doesn’t have a license, doesn’t have utilities in that name, no credit cards or bank account . . .”

  “Mac will keep looking. He’ll find her.” She linked her arm around his and squeezed. “If Wyatt recommended him, then he must be very good at what he does.”

  “Yeah. He’s looking.”

  Her eyes went to the duffel. “But you want to help him.”

  “I’ve got to try to find her.” Save her. He only hoped there was still something to save. “She’s out there somewhere. On the streets, maybe.” Or worse. “I’ll put up fliers, show her picture around. Somebody has to know where she is.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “In the morning, just for a day, maybe two. Foster is going to cover the dudes for me tomorrow.” He slid an arm around her, cuddled her close. “I’ll try to be back for the parade.”

  “It’s okay. I understand.” There was a quaver in her voice, though, and she avoided his eyes as she eased away from him. “Saturday is your day off, and Scilla needs you. I can handle the parade on my own.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s not like I’ll be alone. I’ll have Hen, Gilly, the girls, the Skyes . . . my very own cheering section, really.”