Winter at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  Jenny parked the Jeep in front of the vet clinic at six on the dot, snagged the picnic basket from the passenger’s side footwell, and climbed out into a night that had gotten darker and colder during the twenty-minute drive from Mustang Ridge. Or maybe—probably—she was feeling the cold because she had swapped out her down parka for a trim ski jacket, wanting to look less like a teenager and more like . . . well, herself.

  Maybe Gran’s eyes had been laughing as she handed over the basket, and maybe Jenny had taken an extra five minutes on her hair, but what was the harm? She could think of far worse ways to pass the next five weeks and five days than flirting with the local vet.

  She stepped onto the porch, the door opened and there he was, just like last night. Only this time she was carrying treats rather than an injured dog, and she didn’t look like the Michelin Man and smell like bratwurst.

  Hopefully.

  Nick was wearing the same lab coat, thermal shirt, and jeans routine as yesterday, but unlike her, he hadn’t had any ground to make up in that department. The light loved him from every angle, putting sexy shadow-smudges along his cheekbones and jaw, and highlighting the waves of his finger-rumpled hair.

  “Right on time,” he said with an easy grin, ushering her in and closing the door behind her. “You ready to bust your newest family member out of this joint?”

  Her flush didn’t come from the warm air inside; it was all about the full-on eye contact he was giving her. Still, she managed to come up with a breezy, “Definitely. The others are dying to meet him.”

  “If that’s your dog crate,” he said with a nod at the picnic basket, “I’ve got bad news for you.”

  “Nope. It’s for you.” She held it out. “A thank-you from my gran.”

  Eyes lighting, he took the basket. “Tell me she sent cookies.”

  “Double chocolate chunk, along with peanut butter brownies and apple cinnamon muffins.”

  “Score.” He flipped up the lid and took a deep breath, which was a pretty universal response where Gran’s cooking was concerned. Then he set the basket on the reception desk. “I’ll have to scarf the muffins before Ruth gets in. I wouldn’t want her to think I was two-timing her.”

  “Good plan. They’re sworn enemies on the local bake-off circuit.”

  “And Bingo?”

  “No, Ruth’s got the edge there.”

  They shared a grin that went on a beat longer than required and put a flutter in Jenny’s chest, one that said, Oh, yeah, like an oldie-but-goodie Kool-Aid commercial. He wasn’t anything like her usual type, but maybe that was part of the attraction.

  He held out a hand. “Can I take your coat?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” Coming from a world where she opened her own doors and schlepped her own equipment, it felt strange to hand over her ski jacket and gloves. Strange and kind of girly, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, she decided as he hung her stuff on a rack beside the door.

  “Your guy is waiting in my office. He looked so sad in his cage, I took pity once Ruth left for the night.”

  “Ah, you’re a sucker.”

  “Guilty as charged.” He opened the office door with a flourish. “Ta-daa!”

  Jenny did a double take at the sight of a big golden retriever rising slowly from a nest of blankets in the corner. Because while the dog might be moving like an old cowboy who’d hit the dirt a few too many times, he looked like a million bucks, at least in comparison. The tangles were gone, his honey-colored fur was soft and flowing, and he smelled like lemons rather than funky wet dog and neglect.

  And best of all, his eyes were warm and soft, and as he took a couple of old-man steps toward them, his tail wiggled like he wanted her to know he’d be wagging furiously if he wasn’t so sore.

  Her grin felt wider than her face. “Wow. You guys did a great job!”

  “The clip is rough, but he was pretty tangled up.”

  “Considering what he looked like before, I think it’s better than a show trim.” She crouched down. “Hey, buddy. Remember me? I kind of hope you don’t, but if you do, I’m sorry for what happened with the truck.”

  He didn’t bother sniffing her fingers, just shoved his head into her hand for some scritches.

  “I’d say you’re the only one beating yourself up on that one,” Nick said, leaning a hip against the desk. “How about you cut yourself some slack and lose that guilt?”

  “I will. I am. It’s just . . .” Stroking the soft, smooth fur, she nodded. “Okay, you’re right. Consider it gone. And consider yourself a hero, because this guy looks great. It’s hard to believe this is the same dog I brought in here yesterday.”

  “It looked worse than it turned out to be. Which is something I wish I could say about all my patients.”

  “Nice of you to let him hang out in your office.”

  “Like you said, I’m a sucker. Though Cheesepuff is in the back room, sulking.”

  She kept patting the dog, but her attention was on the man—not just the way the light curled around his face and long, lean body, but the way the rise and fall of his deep, mellow voice sent an answering hum through her system. “That would be the chubby orange tiger cat I met the other day?”

  “Big boned, please. And, yes, that’s Cheese. Normally he’d be in here with me after hours, making sure I minded my Ps and Qs.”

  “Oh? Does he often need to worry about that?”

  A gleam entered his eyes, but he shook his head. “Not so much these days. And what does that even mean, anyway? Pints and quarts? Pens and quills?”

  “I think it was from old-timey printing presses, where the letters were backward and easy to confuse. Though, why it’s not ‘mind your lowercase Bs and Ds,’ I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Glad we don’t have to deal with that anymore. I’m bad enough at reading my own chicken scratches, which is why you should be grateful I’ve got a computer and a printer. Speaking of which . . .” He tapped a couple of pages on the desk. “These are yours.”

  “The grand total?”

  “Nah, we’ll get you for that later. They’re discharge instructions, otherwise known as ‘the quieter he stays, the faster he’ll heal.’ Keep him on limited activity for a couple of weeks—indoors, leash walks, that sort of thing—while his ribs knit. After that, you can start letting him have more freedom.” He shifted a small white paper bag to join the instructions. “These are his meds. Painkillers for the next few days and a course of antibiotics to get that infection on his leg cleared up. Directions are on the bottles.”

  “Is the infection a big deal?”

  “I’d say we’ve got it on the run. He might always have a limp, though. Time will tell.”

  “Considering some of Krista’s rescues, that’s pretty minor.” She ruffled the dog’s fur and took a look around the room, part curiosity, part stalling. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

  Where Doc Lopes had packed the built-in shelves with yellowed journals and lined the walls with file cabinets, Nick had streamlined things way down, with just a desk and a couple of chairs. A sleek laptop was hooked to a flat-screen TV and keyboard, and the shelves held personal mementos ranging from a neon green Slinky and a battered Rubik’s Cube to a couple of diplomas and a framed photo.

  “Thanks,” he said. “It’s starting to feel like home base.”

  She stood and crossed to the picture. “Do you mind? Occupational hazard.”

  “Be my guest. Doubt it’s up to your standards, though.”

  Maybe not as photos went, but the candid snapshot brought an instant grin and an inner bingo at the sight of him wearing sand-colored pants and a sun-bleached khaki T-shirt, with his boots planted on baked dirt and a couple of kids flanking him, one with a stranglehold on a happy-looking brown mutt, the other hanging on to a spotted goat. They grinned into the camera like someone had just said the local equivalent of “cheese,” and the background sported lots of baked earth and blue sky, and a single baobab tree.

  She touched
it. “Africa?”

  “Far away from the land of ice and snow.”

  “Amen.”

  He chuckled and moved up beside her, close enough that she felt an echo of his body heat as her skin prickled to sudden awareness. “I was part of the Africa Twenty-Thirty Project. It’s an international group that’s working toward a set of pretty ambitious goals to be met by the year 2030, everything from building new roads and hospitals to educating farmers on how to improve yields from their crops and livestock. That was where I came in.”

  She glanced back at him, eyebrows raised. “Impressive.”

  “It will be. They’re in the middle of a massive survey right now, analyzing which interventions have had the biggest positive impacts. Based on those results, they’ll tweak the next set of projects for maximum effect. Even if they don’t hit all the big goals, they’re changing lives.”

  “I can’t believe you gave up Africa for Three Ridges.”

  “Life happens. Things change. Speaking of which . . .” He backed off and ruffled the fur on the dog’s upturned head. “You should probably get this guy home, so he can start getting used to his new life. I snagged a collar for him out of our Lost and Found.” He turned away to buckle the blue nylon strap in place.

  In other words, end of discussion. Jenny stuck her hands in her pockets and rocked on her heels. “Sorry for being nosy. Like I said, occupational hazard. You can quiz me back if you want.”

  The lines around his mouth eased up, like he’d been expecting an interrogation. “That sounds fair . . . But how about over dinner? Friday night? Pick you up at eight?”

  A sizzle of surprised pleasure was followed by an inner happy dance. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  He moved closer, turning the happy-happy into a serious case of butterflies at the thought that he was going to kiss her. He lifted a hand, touched her cheek, lingered there . . . and then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Guess I should walk you out.”

  Torn between frustration at the kissus interruptus and amusement at his unexpected flair, she clipped her lead on to the dog’s collar. “Guess you should. This guy has a family to meet.” And, come Friday, she had a date.

  7

  When Jenny got home, she found her parents and grandparents gathered in the front room, lined up behind the couch like they were just waiting to throw confetti and yell “Surprise!”

  Given the way the dog was pressed up against her leg, suddenly tense and worried, she really hoped that wasn’t the plan. He had handled the car ride just fine, but when they hit the parking lot and she opened the door, he had flattened out on the backseat and started shaking. She had coaxed him up the stairs and through the door, but had a feeling she was pushing it.

  She had him on a short leash, so she wasn’t afraid of him bolting and hurting himself. But she really wanted this to go well.

  “Easy, guys,” she warned. “He’s a little wigged out.”

  Gran, bless her, stepped forward and crouched down, becoming very small and nonthreatening. “Who could blame him after what he’s been through? Poor boy. But, oh, aren’t you a handsome fellow?”

  The goldie gave a low whine, but stayed put, leaning against Jenny. The pressure was kind of nice, making her feel like she was his protector, his safe place. Granted, she was the only thing around that was even slightly familiar, but still.

  Going down beside the dog, she edged around so the others could see him, saying softly, “Nothing to worry about here, buddy. They just want to get to know you.” Even her mom was smiling, standing there next to her dad, and Big Skye might’ve been giving one of his goldens aren’t ranch dogs scowls, but there was a suspicious twinkle in his eyes.

  “Turn me around,” an unexpected voice said suddenly. “I can’t see him!”

  Jenny’s jaw dropped. “Krista? What are you doing back— Oh!” She grinned when her dad reached over to an end table and reversed an open laptop, and she saw her sister on the screen. “Hey!”

  “Hey yourself. Who have you got there?”

  “Don’t you recognize him? Imagine him wearing five pounds of matted fur and wishing he could jump in the truck with you and Junior.”

  “Wow, he looks great! What did Nick say about his ribs?”

  Hoping the sudden heat in her face was of the invisible variety, Jenny played it cool. “We’re supposed to keep him leashed or confined for the next week or so, then gradually increase his exercise, etcetera. Otherwise he looks good. His blood work is fine and he’s heartworm negative.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “I’d say he dodged a few bullets. You here to chime in on names?”

  “You betcha!”

  All eyes went to the dog, who had come out to stand in front of Jenny with the leash slack and his tail doing a hesitant back-and-forth as the sisters chatted. Now, he cocked his head, eyes a little worried, as if to say Do you like me? Am I being a good boy?

  Jenny heard the words in a goofy, hopeful voice. “I was thinking maybe we could call him Rusty Too,” she said. “R2 for short.”

  Krista gave a meh shrug. “I think he deserves his very own name. Weasley?”

  “Because a Harry Potter reference is more original than naming him after Rusty?”

  “Hello, R2-D2?”

  Their dad put in, “If we’re going for Star Wars references, how about Chewie?”

  “Gimpy?” Big Skye suggested. “Stumpy?”

  “If he was a she, we could’ve called her Biscuit,” Gran said wistfully. “Or Cinnamon.”

  “What about Emeril?” said their mom.

  “Or Drop-off?” Big Skye added unhelpfully.

  “Mack, for the truck that almost got him?” Krista offered with a grin.

  “No, and not ‘Roadkill,’ either, thankyouverymuch.” Jenny ruffled his fur. “Come on, people, let’s help the poor guy out! No clichés, either. Not Fido, Yeller, Lassie, Rex—”

  The dog’s head whipped up and he gave a low “whuff.” It was the first noise he’d made since coming into the house.

  Jenny looked down at him. “You’re kidding. Your name is Rex?”

  His eyes were bright, his body quivering. “Whuff!” Yes, yes, that’s me!

  “Seriously?”

  Their dad chuckled. “If that wasn’t his name before, I’d say it is now. What do you say, Rex?”

  When that got another indoor-voice bark, Jenny threw up her hands. “Okay, cliché it is. Welcome to the family, Rex m’boy.” She patted the dog bed by the fireplace, with its laundry-smelling cover and newly donated fleece blanket. “I think you should park it here. You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

  The dog obediently curled on the bed, forming a loose ball of reddish guard fur and rabbit-soft undercoat, and looked up at her as if to say Now what?

  And suddenly Jenny knew exactly what came next.

  “Come on, everyone.” She waved toward the hearth. “Get yourselves organized. It’s family photo time.”

  As she headed up the stairs for a camera, she heard her mother say, “I should go change. And my hair—”

  “Looks great,” her father interrupted firmly, wrapping an arm around her waist.

  From her bedroom, Jenny snagged the big padded bag that contained her second-best yet absolute favorite camera, a Nikon she called Old Faithful. Back downstairs, she found her whole family—including Skype Krista—gathered around the dog bed. Her gramps stood in the back wearing his this is ridiculous face, but the others were bumping shoulders to sneak a pat of the golden fur.

  And the dog, thank goodness, was soaking it up. Smart guy.

  “Everybody ready?” Jenny asked, lifting Old Faithful and tweaking things for an inside shot.

  Gran beckoned. “You should be in here, too.”

  “My tripod is packed and the timer died on Machu Picchu.” She lifted the camera and framed her family. “Squish in closer around the dog.”

  “His name is Rex,” Krista reminded her

  “Right. Cuddle
up, everyone, and say ‘Sexy Rexy’!”

  • • •

  By quitting time on Friday, Jenny felt like she was starting to get the hang of the make-nice-to-the-guests thing. She had turned Missy around by hitting the “he’ll love the surprise and you can throw a party to announce the trip” angle exactly right, and had dealt with a minicrisis with one of the suppliers. She had even upsold a few cabins and two more of Gran’s special-occasion packages to new guests, and was surprised by the sense of accomplishment.

  Then again, it had helped to have the advertising project to fall back on when the ranch stuff made her want to poke her eyes out with a Bic.

  She had gone through the photos she’d taken around Mustang Ridge over the past few years and pulled together some possibilities, and sketched out ideas for the short interview clips. She was meeting with Shelby next Thursday, and wanted to have at least two videos to show her. Which meant it was time to get down and dirty with Old Faithful and Doris, her trusty digital vidcam.

  But not tonight. Tonight, she had plans.

  “Happy date night to me,” she said, pushing away from the desk and opening her arms wide in a back-cracking stretch.

  Rex gave a hopeful chuff from the corner, where he was sacked out in a nest of old blankets. The dog had settled into the family like he’d been raised beside the woodstove, even staying off the doily-studded frou-frou pillows that Jenny’s mom insisted looked just darling in the rustic living area. The dog had proven to be a cheerful, easily distracted fellow with good manners, at least so far. He was still moving slow, favoring his injured ribs and gimping on his infected paw, so Jenny had been keeping him close by her side most of the time, either in the office or her bedroom.

  She gave him a sympathetic ear rub. “Sorry, buddy. You’re not invited. Come on, let’s see if you can hang with Gran in the kitchen.”

  That got her an enthusiastic tail wag. Cookies?

  But the kitchen was deserted, with even the ovens powered down, suggesting she wasn’t the only one with Friday night plans.

  “Gran?” Jenny called, walking back into the main room with Rex padding unevenly behind her. “Dad?” When there was no answer, she tagged on, “Mom?”