Winter at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  And the next time she came home, he would still be here.

  Whatever the source of the impulse, she found herself wanting to cling to the five-date rule.

  “Yeah, that helps.” He took a slug of his own cocoa and shifted in place, as if he, too, was itching for the sensation of skin on skin, but holding back. “How many actual dates have we had, do you think?”

  Relief bubbled up in a laugh. “I think we can call this number four.”

  “You’re counting the farm call to Michelle’s as a date?”

  “Well, you did buy me dinner.”

  “Clearly, excellent planning on my part. And going after your grandfather?”

  “A romantic moonlit ride. And there were snacks involved. Work with me here.”

  “Trust me, I am. Okay, so we’re on date four. Good to know.” He looped his free hand into the pocket of his worn jeans and cocked a hip, looking more relaxed suddenly, now that they knew where things stood. Or maybe that was an illusion, because if he was feeling anything like she was at that moment, his blood was still running hot, his lips tingling from a mix of kisses and cocoa. “You hungry?”

  “For French toast?”

  “Actually, I was thinking of cheese and crackers, maybe some grapes and apple slices. I’ve even got some wine to go with it.”

  “Somebody send you a gift basket?”

  He grinned. “Grateful client.”

  “Lucky us. And, yes, that sounds perfect.” Wine and cheese with a handsome vet, tucked in together during a storm along with his cat and her dog. It certainly wasn’t what she had been expecting when she got off the plane in Laramie two weeks ago.

  It was infinitely better.

  • • •

  For the next hour or so, they cuddled together on the couch and demolished the gift basket while 007 did his thing on the TV, and Rex and Cheesepuff mooched slivers of cheddar and pepperoni. The whiteout beyond the windows had turned gray-blue by the time the credits rolled. As Jenny cleaned up the leftovers, Nick went into the kitchen and poured wine into a pair of coffee mugs.

  He made a mental remember to buy wineglasses note, then handed over her mug and held out his own. “To blizzards.”

  “To blizzards.” She clinked and sipped. “Mmm. Nice. Another gift?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “You seem like more of a beer guy.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Definitely.” She said it with such conviction that he laughed. “What about—” His phone buzzed from the living room, then pounded out the Indiana Jones theme, which had Jenny clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a whoop. “Hold that thought,” he said. “That’ll be my old man checking in.”

  He snagged the phone and answered it. “Hey, Dad. How are you holding up?”

  “Like a maiden cow, son,” Bill Masterson said in a humor-filled voice that cracked around the edges. “Tight as a tick.”

  Nick stifled a chuckle. “Glad to hear it. Power’s still good? Got enough food to make it through?”

  “You worry too much.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes and yes. How’s Molly handling the weather?” His father’s constant companion was a big, rangy dog with a lot of shepherd and maybe a little wolf in her. Well trained and confident in her old home, she had come partially unglued when they moved up to the cabin, going overboard on protecting her human and her territory. An experienced trainer, Bill had worked hard to get her comfortable in her new surroundings, but any animal could get a little wonky during a big storm.

  “She’s okay. We heard some wolves just before the weather hit, and that got her blood up, but after wearing a track by the front windows for a while, she’s finally settled down.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  In the kitchen, Jenny was chatting with Cheesepuff while Rex did a wiggle-dance at her feet. Fed up with being ignored—at least in his doggy brain—he hopped up, put his paws on the edge of the counter, and gave a big “whuff!” right in the cat’s face.

  The tabby hissed, swiped at his nose, and bounded down the other side of the breakfast bar while Jenny ordered Rex to go lie down in the corner and behave himself.

  “You finally get yourself a dog?” Bill asked, interest lighting his voice. It had been a bone of mild contention ever since Nick had moved to Three Ridges, with his father insisting that a man needed a dog of his own.

  Up to this point, Nick had stuck to answering “I’ll get around to it,” part of him hoping his old man would drop it while another part warned that his father would just move on to the next step in the house-plus-dog-equals-settled-down equation. Not that he was against starting a family—it was in the five-year plan he was going to initiate one of these days. It just wasn’t in the cards anytime soon.

  Now, he said, “Rex belongs to a friend. They’re hanging out here for the duration.”

  “A lady friend?”

  He glanced at Jenny, who was fussing over an indignant Cheesepuff. “You could say that.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “It’s . . .” He couldn’t say yes and didn’t want to say no, and he’d be darned if he copped out with “complicated.” Especially when it wasn’t complicated at all—there weren’t any games here. Just two people who enjoyed each other’s company.

  “Never mind, forget I asked. That’s your business, not mine.”

  “I’m not keeping secrets. I just don’t have a good answer.”

  “I should go anyway. Molly is scratching at the back door like she needs to go out.”

  Nick was grateful for the subject change, but not so much for the image of his father following the wolf-dog out into the storm. “Keep her close to the house. Did you set up a tether rope to the woodshed and back?”

  “Stop fussing. I’m fine. Go back to . . . whatever you were doing.”

  “Watching a movie. Call me tomorrow?”

  “Will do. And maybe you could come out to the cabin with your lady friend. I’d like to meet the woman who’s got you second-guessing yourself.”

  The line went click, leaving Nick to groan and give a good-natured curse.

  “Something wrong?” Jenny asked from the kitchen.

  “My dad has this thing about getting in the last word. But no, nothing’s wrong. Sounds like he’s doing just fine up there.” And Nick wasn’t second-guessing himself about anything. He liked where he and Jenny were right now, liked where they were going. And he didn’t need a dog. He had Cheesepuff.

  “Good to hear. Want to cue up another movie?”

  “Got anything good on that computer of yours?”

  “What, like Netflix?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a Jenny Skye original.”

  She blinked, lips curving. “You want to see the videos?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  A few minutes and an HDMI cable later, she had her computer hooked to his TV and a prompt showing on the screen.

  “Want more?” he asked from the kitchen, lifting the wine.

  She held out her mug. “Definitely. In fact, maybe just bring the bottle in here.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I’m nervous. Why am I nervous?”

  “Rex and I are on your side, but Cheese can be a tough audience.” He topped off her wine and settled them on the couch, with him and Jenny twined together on a reclining section, Rex on a blanket beside them, and the cat perched Sphinx-like on the high leather back, glaring down at the dog as if still offended. Or plotting revenge.

  “Ready?” Her finger hovered over the touchpad.

  “Still nervous?”

  “Nope,” she said, but didn’t quite meet his eyes, like she wanted to impress him but didn’t want to admit it.

  Thing was, she had already impressed the heck out of him in a hundred different ways, from saving Rex to working at finding a middle ground with her mother. The cool factor of her career was just an added bonus. Grabbing a remote, he killed the lights, plunging the room into a darkness
broken only by the glow from the flat-screen. Then, taking her hand, he folded their fingers together and squeezed. “Okay. Now I’m ready.”

  She hit the button, the screen faded to black, and a few notes sounded from a single guitar, low and weepy. Slowly, an image coalesced in gray scale—a grainy black-and-white photograph of a dark-haired boy, maybe eight or nine, wearing a kid-size cowboy hat and chaps, and riding a full-size horse along the edge of a huge herd of cattle. He had a stiffly looped rope in one gloved hand, the reins in the other, and a look of fierce concentration on his face, like the fate of the world—or at least this part of it—depended on him not letting the animals stray out of formation. At the horse’s heels loped a lean black-and-white border collie, ears up and alert.

  After a moment, a man’s voice said, “Back then, we didn’t use satellite phones or walkie-talkies, and helicopters were for the military or a rich-man’s toy, not herding cattle. We rode out on mustangs that we caught and gentled ourselves, with the help of dogs that ate from our tins and slept on our bedrolls. It was the same way our grandfathers had gathered the herds, and their grandfathers before them. It was the cowboy way.”

  The screen faded back to black, and then a title came up: Mustang Ridge: The Cowboy Way.

  The back of Nick’s neck prickled as it hit him hard and fast that this wasn’t just a YouTube clip or an advertisement. He had expected it to be good, of course. This was Jenny after all, and he was rapidly learning that she didn’t do anything halfway. But he hadn’t expected to be unable to pull his eyes off the screen, hadn’t expected the words and music to surround him, making him feel the sunlight on his skin and taste the trail dust at the back of his throat.

  Then the title faded, a new image came to life, and he was looking at Jenny’s grandfather, face etched with character, faded blue eyes looking faraway. “The cowboy way wasn’t something a boy learned back then, wasn’t something you printed on fancy signs or slapped on a T-shirt. It just was, deep down in your bones. I knew to walk my horse the first mile out and the last mile back, not just because my pappy would tan my hide if I ran my horse in wet and bothered, but because my horse depended on me, just like I depended on him.”

  The screen went to a slide show of old photographs, a flip book of years as the dark-haired boy aged. Black-and-white went to grainy color. His clothes changed, his horses changed, even the dog disappeared and was replaced with another, fluffier version. But always there was that look of do-or-die concentration, the rope in his hand, the border collie at his heels.

  As the images played out, Big Skye shared stories from the trail, interspersing them with pieces of advice, like “Don’t kick dirt in the fire or another man’s meal” and “Always triple-check your cinch.”

  The montage ended with a photograph of the boy-turned-man, riding at the front of the herd now rather than its flanks, leading the way through the wrought-iron arch that welcomed visitors—and tired, trail-worn cowboys—to Mustang Ridge Ranch.

  In a beat of silence, the image shifted, centering on the figure and then zooming to his face, looking grainy in the close up for a moment. Then the pixels dissolved to Big Skye looking solemnly into the camera. “The most important part, at least to me, is that a cowboy, especially a trail boss, sees to his horse, his men, and his family before he sees to himself. That’s how it’s always been at Mustang Ridge. And, God willing, that’s the way it always will be.”

  His eyes held the camera for a two count, and then the screen went black and the guitar picked out a few more chords, then fell silent.

  Jenny froze the image and looked at him sidelong. “Well? What do you think?”

  I think that you amaze me. That you’re selling yourself short doing what you do . . . and that there’s no way you belong in a place like this. The last part came out of nowhere and felt like it came from somebody else, a guy who was actually thinking along those lines. A guy who wished she would stay, wished that what they had was more than temporary. “I think it’s amazing,” he said, able to put that one out there, at least. “Seriously incredible, and not just as an advertising piece. It’s a little movie, all wrapped up in what, five minutes? Eight? But the advertising works, too, because after seeing that, I’m so going to jump in on Roundup Week next summer. You just juiced every cowboy fantasy I ever had, and even added a few new ones.”

  “That was all thanks to Big Skye. And Gran, too. She’s the one who started pulling the photos together a few years back. I just picked up where she left off.” But Jenny’s cheeks were pink, her lips curved.

  “The stories and pictures are pure gold, but it’s the filmmaking that wraps it all up and ties a big fat bow on it.” He leaned in and planted a quick kiss on her. And then, compelled by the taste of her lips and the buzz from watching her movie, he went back for another that lingered.

  She murmured and shifted against him, making his body suddenly very aware that they were curled together, practically horizontal. He rose over her, letting his lips trail across her jaw to her neck, the dip of her collarbone. Rather than pushing him away, she slid her hands under his shirt and along his ribs, leaving little licks of fire behind.

  Groaning, he pulled back. “Jenny, I—”

  “Whuff!” Rex’s bark was close to a howl as he shot to his feet and shook off twenty pounds of aerial tabby attack. When Cheese just clung, Rex bolted off the sofa.

  “Ow!” Nick rolled, shielding Jenny from the canine stampede, which was followed by a blur of stripey orange. “Darn it, you two!”

  Cheesepuff disappeared around the corner into the spare room, flicking his tail.

  Nick felt a tremor beneath him, and looked down to find Jenny laughing silently, with both hands clapped over her mouth and her eyes filled with mirth.

  When their gazes met, she lowered her hands and wheezed. “What a pair of brats!”

  “Not to mention a buzzkill.” He levered away from her. “Yes?”

  “More like a reality check.” She straightened and ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing the sleek, dark strands. “I don’t want to seem like a tease—”

  “You’re not. We just got carried away.”

  She slid him a sidelong look. “Started to, anyway.”

  “Yeah . . . so.” He stood and held out a hand. “Want to play a game?”

  “What, Halo?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of backgammon or a puzzle or something. It’s a family snow-day tradition.”

  “Aw, that’s nice. Not to mention that it’ll keep our hands busy.”

  He hauled her to her feet and patted her on the behind. “Smart lady. No wonder I like you. Games are over here. They came with the house, along with an extensive collection of VHS tapes that I Freecycled.”

  She peered at the stacked boxes in the built-in. “You have any preference?”

  “Scrabble?”

  “You have a second choice?”

  “How can you not like Scrabble? It’s a classic.”

  “Not to sound like the blonde that I am underneath the dye, but I’m Scrabble impaired. I even suck at Words with Friends.” Eyes lighting, she reached for a different box. “Aha! Trivial Pursuit.”

  “How is that less mental effort than Scrabble?”

  “It’s the Silver Screen Edition.”

  “In other words, I’m doomed.” But he took the box and headed for the couch. “What color do you want?”

  • • •

  They were more evenly matched than Nick had predicted—Jenny kicked butt in the on-screen stuff, but it turned out that he had an edge when it came to titles and settings. He won the first game by a few moves, but she trounced him in game two. By the time they neared the end of game three, pretty much neck and neck, Rex was fast asleep on the floor and Cheesepuff was sacked out on the couch, stretched out to cover more square inches than seemed possible.

  The humans had switched from wine to water by unspoken consent, so she was stone sober, but there was nothing cold about it. She was warm
and flushed all over, and entirely aware of Nick as he sprawled out opposite her, loose and limber, like a high school jock all grown up into a man’s body.

  He picked a card and read. “What movie won best picture in 1981?”

  She didn’t care anymore, didn’t want to play anymore. “Gandhi?”

  “Nope. Chariots of Fire.”

  “Drat,” she said, but without much heat. She was six spots short of the center of the wheel, and he was only three. But it didn’t matter who won—all that mattered was what happened after the game.

  What was she trying to avoid here? Why? She wanted him, he wanted her; it ought to be an easy choice.

  He rolled. “Three! I’m so making it to the middle.” He moved his game piece.

  “What category do you want?”

  “Titles, baby.”

  Snagging a card, she scanned the question, lips curving. “This is a tough one. A silent romantic comedy from 1925 starring Marie Provost, with no known copies in existence.”

  Dimples deepening, he sat up and leaned across the board. “Kiss me again.”

  Stomach flip-flopping, she obliged, moving in to brush her lips across his and then find his mouth in a deep kiss that was familiar yet not, as if her body was just beginning to recognize his. Against his mouth, she murmured, “You’re stalling.”

  He drew away, grin going cocky. “No, I’m not. That’s the title of the movie: Kiss Me Again.”

  “That’s—” She looked back down at the card. “You’re joking.” But he wasn’t. Laughing, she swept the board aside and closed the small gap between them. “Well, never let it be said that I can’t obey orders when it suits me.”

  She leaned in to him, kissed him, and let the rising heat wash away the lingering nervousness. And when the kiss ended, she rose to her feet and held out her hand. He took it but didn’t put any pressure on her, even though she could feel the tension in his big body, see it in his eyes. “Time to call it a night?” he asked with a rough catch of desire in his voice.