Jenny’s mouth dropped open. “What did he say?”
Nick nodded to the bison, all serious, like they were carrying on a conversation. “It’s time. Tell them to bring him on in.”
Heat rushed to Jenny’s face. Anticipation. Was this what she thought it was? “What’s going on? Bring who in?”
Nick stood and held out a hand. “Come and see.”
Pulse thudding, she followed him around the table while the others watched. Ruth and Nick’s dad were beaming, making her think This is it.
A moment later, the hostess reappeared in the doorway, leading a new guest.
A four-legged guest, with a gorgeous honey-colored coat and a long brush of a tail that swept side to side like an overcharged metronome, while liquid brown eyes looked around, then locked on Nick in recognition.
Jenny’s. Heart. Stopped. “Is that—” She broke off because it wasn’t Rex—this dog’s coat was lighter, his nose narrower. But he looked so much like Rex, right down to the eager wiggle and the expressive eyes, that it reawakened the little voice in her head when he looked from Nick’s face to hers with an expression of Do you like me? Do you? Can we be friends?
“Oh.” She leaned down and wrapped her arms around the wriggling dog, heart going pitter-pat at the feel of soft fur over the strong, sturdy body. “Oh, look at you. Who are you?”
Nick crouched down at her feet, caging the eager goldie against his body. “This is Roger. He’s Rex’s full brother, a few litters younger.”
“Oh.” She straightened and covered her mouth, throat tightening. “How did you . . .”
“I called Miranda, partly to check on Rex—he’s doing great, by the way, as is her husband—and partly to see if I could get info on his breeder. Turns out, Rex had been partway trained as a service dog, but flunked out because he had focus issues.”
A laugh bubbled up. “You don’t say.”
Roger was doing his best to hold the sit-stay, but his body vibrated with the effort. Can I play now? Can I? Huh? Huh? Am I a Good Boy?
Nick grinned. “I do say. And, lo and behold, his breeders just happened to have a younger brother of his in the same predicament.” He paused. “So, what do you say, Jenny? You ready to put down another set of roots?”
“Cheesepuff will be annoyed.”
“He’ll adjust.” His eyes bore into hers. “Will you?”
She leaned into him and brushed her lips across his. “I already have. You gave me the time and the room to figure out what’s really important, and I’ve got it down now: You’re important. Our life together is important.” Grinning, she looked down. “And Roger!”
Yippee! The dog leaped up to lick her face, almost knocking her down in the process.
Laughing, she fended him off. “Okay, enough. Roger, sit!”
His butt plonked down, but it was more of a contained wriggle than an actual sit, and his eyes had gone to the table, prospecting the desserts.
Deciding that was close enough, she patted him, then laid a big, smacking kiss on Nick’s lips. “Nice work, Doc.”
“You like your present?”
“I love him.” She kissed him again. “And I love you.”
“Love you, too, sweetheart.” He stood and moved away to rummage in his coat. “Check his collar for me, will you? It felt a little loose just now.”
“What? Oh, sure.” She worked her fingers through the dog’s silky fur and found the soft nylon collar. “It feels okay to . . .” She stopped. Stared.
Stitched into the nylon, where Roger’s name or a phone number should’ve been, were the words: MARRY ME.
She gaped as the air rushed out of her lungs, and she whipped up her eyes just in time to see Nick go down on one knee in front of her and the dog.
He had a ring box balanced on his palm and a wicked gleam in his eyes. “What do you say, Jenny Skye? You willing to take a chance on a landlocked vet who promises to play hooky with you as often as humanly possible, and when he can’t, swears he’ll cheer for you from back home?”
“I . . . Yes! Of course, yes!” She flung herself at him, trusting his strong arms to catch her, his tough body to absorb the impact, and his heart to hold her close no matter what. “I love you. Yes, I’ll marry you.”
They embraced and kissed while the others whooped and clapped, and Roger whirled around in dizzy, excited circles.
I’ve got a family of my own. Oh, boy!
Read on for a preview of the next book in the series,
HARVEST AT MUSTANG RIDGE
Coming from Signet Eclipse in August 2014.
A quiver ran through Krista at the sight of that brown felt Stetson—its wearer was turned away from her, with his boots planted even with his shoulders as he gestured toward the horse pens. She caught a glimpse of dark hair that had a touch of red to it, like a black horse that had bleached in the sun.
It’s not him, she thought. The cowboy was taller and broader than Wyatt had been, and big enough that she couldn’t picture him as a champion bull rider. The center of balance was all wrong.
Exhaling a relieved breath—she would rather deal with a stranger than the Ghost of Boyfriends Past—she approached the huddle just as it broke up and the two younger men headed into the barn, presumably to shoo her mare into the chute.
“Hi, there,” she said to the big guy’s back. “I’m here for hip number forty-one.”
“Figured you might be.” The familiar low baritone of his voice wasn’t nearly enough warning before he turned.
Krista froze at the sight of dark brown eyes and the seam of a faded scar running alongside his square jaw. The electric-fence zap from before hit her again, only a thousand times stronger, while something in her head went bzzzzt, like her brain had just short-circuited. So much for the whole it’s not him thing. Because it totally was, from the ends of his trail-worn boots to the top of his Stetson, with a plain leather belt in the middle, clasped with a geometric brass buckle, which was understated for the crowd, but still drew her eye to dangerous territory.
“Wyatt.” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but that was definitely her voice, headed for a squeak.
He nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on her like she was a spooky horse and he was waiting to see which way she was going to bolt. “Hey, Krista. Long time no see.”
Her pulse pounded in her ears and her tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth. Which was okay, really, because talking was probably a bad idea. After all, what was a girl supposed to say to the guy she had almost married, eight years after they broke up instead?
“Um, hey,” she said, the words sounding like they were coming from far away. “Nice belt buckle.”
• • •
Wyatt had known she would be there, had figured they would cross paths. He had tried to picture how it would go, and had decided not to overthink it after all those years. And even when he had seen her across the crowd and felt the gut punch of too many memories threatening to bust through, he had told himself it wouldn’t be a big deal. Just a tip of the hat, a “good luck with your horse,” and moving on.
Except that now, when he was face-to-face with her, his arms were suddenly too heavy to do the hat thing, and that “good luck” had turned into “long time no see.” And he was having trouble looking away from her, like he’d gotten caught staring at the sun.
She gleamed like the sun, too, with her white straw hat, yellow-blond hair and pale honey tan. And she looked exactly the same as he remembered, fresh and vibrant, like it had been eight days rather than eight years.
How was that possible? Sure, there were small differences—her hair was a shade or two darker beneath the sun streaks, and the co-ed bounce had turned to a woman’s poise—but he could’ve picked her crazy long legs and cowgirl swagger out of a crowd. Heck, he had picked her out of the crowd. But now that he had her right in front of him, he didn’t have a clue what came next.
Tearing his eyes off a pair of baby blues the color of the wide-open Wyoming sky, he looked
at the woman beside her, who was a carbon copy done in brunette and a T-shirt that had I’M STARRING IN MY OWN REALITY SHOW splashed across the front.
Jenny, he thought, though he’d never met Krista’s identical twin. There was a harder, sharper edge there, one that made him think she wasn’t one to pull her punches. Or maybe that was because of her narrowed eyes and the way her lips shaped his name, making it look like it was something that would’ve gotten his mouth washed out with Ivory back in the day.
“So,” she said dangerously. “You’re Wyatt Webb.”
Well, that answered one question. She clearly knew the whole wretched story. Or at least one side of it.
He tipped his hat. “At your service.”
She bared her teeth. “How about you take your service and—”
“Time out!” Krista made a T with her hands and stepped between them. To her sister, she said, “I’ve got this. How about you get the truck ready to roll? Sounds like they’re getting our new horse out of the pen.”
Deep in the barn, clanging gates and agitated whinnies said she was on the mark. There was no telling whether it would take Sam and the others thirty seconds or thirty minutes to get the mustang onto the trailer, but things would move fast after that.
“You sure?” Jenny demanded.
Krista nodded. “Positive.”
Moving off, the sister shot Wyatt a warning look that he could’ve told her wasn’t necessary. He wasn’t trying to start anything—far from it. He had just figured it’d be best for him and Krista to get the “hey, how are you” over with in relative privacy rather than bumping into each other in town, when they’d both be shocked down to their boots.
Not that she had looked particularly shocked, except for those first few seconds, when her eyes had widened and her cheeks had flushed like she was happy to see him. That had faded fast, though, and he didn’t blame her for it.
When Jenny was out of earshot, Krista turned back to him, hooked her thumbs in her pockets, and stood with her elbows akimbo, making her outline larger than her petite frame. “I didn’t realize you were in town.”
“I’m spending a couple of weeks with Sam.”
“Thinking about going into the oil business?”
“More looking for inspiration.” When her brows furrowed, he added, “The Independence Pioneer Museum commissioned a big piece for their rededication ceremony, and it’s been a while since I’ve had trail dust in my teeth.” Too long. “I wanted to get back up into the high country and see the sights before I got to work.”
Expression blanking, she said, “You’re an artist?”
“Metalworker.” Art wasn’t his thing. Forges and hammers were. He was just lucky that the pieces he liked to build had struck a chord with the money crowd.
She shook her head slowly, like her brain was going “does not compute.” Not that he could blame her. It’d taken him a while to wrap his head around the idea, too. After a moment, she said, “I didn’t know.”
“No reason why you should.” Also no reason to mention that he’d looked her up, and had seen the success she had made of Mustang Ridge. What was the point? They weren’t catching up so much as passing by. “Anyway, they asked me to build—”
He broke off as a rapid-fire thud of unshod hooves came from the barn area, intensifying as pebbles kicked up against the pipe panels. There was a flash of movement in the shadows of the barn overhang, and then the trailer rocked as the mustang hit the closed-in end and doubled back.
“Oh!” Krista said, surging forward. “Don’t let her—”
Wyatt was already on the move, ducking through the pipe panels to shut and latch the back gate of the trailer. The moves were automatic, ingrained, though he’d been off the rodeo circuit since before he and Krista had been a thing.
The horse gave a high, frightened whinny, which was echoed immediately from the pens as the rig shuddered, then started rolling. Moments later, Jenny leaned out the window and waved. “Krista, come on! Hurry!”
“I—” Krista threw him a baffled look, then took off after the truck, calling back over her shoulder, “Bye, Wyatt. Have a good visit.”
Her boots kicked up dirt as she jumped on the running board. Her laughter trailed back as she popped the door and ducked in the cab, and then the truck accelerated away, turned past a falling-down corn dog stand, and disappeared behind the caution-taped grandstands.
And she was gone.
Telling himself that it wasn’t a letdown, that he’d done what he had intended on the get-it-over-with front, nothing more or less, Wyatt turned back to the barn. He bit back a groan to find Sam standing there, wearing battered jeans and a work shirt in place of his new-money clothes, along with the sort of look he usually reserved for coiled-up rattlers and explosives, like his friend might blow any second.
Which he might’ve been entitled to eight years earlier, when he’d gotten in Wyatt’s way during the postbreakup fallout, and the two of them had pounded each other to a pulp. But that was a long time ago, damn it.
“Shut up,” Wyatt growled. “We’ve got horses to move.”
Winter at Mustang Ridge Page 28