Harvest at Mustang Ridge (19 page)

“You don’t,” she said, flattening her hands on his T-shirt and going up on her tiptoes for a second, more lingering kiss. “You look like you’ve been working. How’s it going?”

“I’ve finally got it, I think,” he said, drawing her to the workbench.

The three drawings showed a campfire scene that could have come straight out of her childhood, with a whiskered, dour-looking Cookie crouched over the fire, a young whip of a cowboy hauling wood, and a cattle dog eyeing the supplies like he was looking for an opening to snag a piece of bacon. Her lips curved. “I see the dog made it back in.”

“Can’t seem to get rid of him. There’s more.” He brushed his fingers across the other sketches, which showed other little scenes—cowboys tending their horses and tack, with herds and mountains in the background, while notes and arrows suggested materials and fabrication techniques. “It’s just a start, but”—he gestured to the fossil pile—“it’s what I was looking for
without even realizing it—something new and different, and not like anything I’ve done before.”

That struck a chord, but not in a good way. She pushed the twinge away, though—she was happy for him—she
was
. “Congratulations.” She wrapped her fingers around his wrists, holding him close. “It’s going to be amazing.”

“It’s just a few lines on a piece of paper at the moment. But, yeah, I think I can get to work for real now.” Looking down at the sketches, he added, “In fact, I need to head south. I’ve got some pistons back home that I can use with the stuff I have here. I figured I could cut out after the ride on Friday, be back by Saturday night.” She didn’t know what he saw in her face, but his expression softened. He pulled her in, kissed her forehead, and then held her close, saying against her temple, “This doesn’t change anything, Krissy, except that I won’t be able to dance with you at the bonfire Friday night, and I’ll miss waking up beside you Saturday morning.”

“And I’ll be sleeping in my own bed.” The prospect bothered her more than she would have expected, more than she wanted to analyze right then.

“You could stay here while I’m gone,” he said.

“Alone? No, thanks.”

“Invite the girls over. Use the hot tub. Call it a spa night.”

“No, that’s . . . Hm. Tempting.”

“Good.” He gave her a smacking kiss on the lips. “That’s settled. Now, what do you say we get dressed
and head up to breakfast? Rumor has it there’s a new crop of greenhorns in town, waiting for us to teach them which end kicks, which end bites, and why it’s a good idea to set the saddle so the horn goes in front. And, Krista? I’ll be back Saturday afternoon. That’s a promise.”

“T
o Wyatt,” Jenny proclaimed, lifting her wine. “For finishing the Jacuzzi.” Submerged to her collarbones, with frothy bubbles camouflaging her strapless bathing suit, she could’ve been naked.

Krista was tempted to snap a phone picture for future blackmail, except that Jenny’s ideas of revenge tended to be both public and creative.

“Hear, hear!” Shelby pantomimed a toast across the tub. Sitting with the water just below her breasts, she wore a killer red bathing suit with all sorts of cutouts and push-ups that made Krista feel flat and boring in her blue one-piece. But she had long ago decided that it was okay for her to envy Shelby’s body and wardrobe, on the theory that if you couldn’t fake-hate your best friend, who could you fake-hate?

Sitting between them, Krista clinked her wine with one and then the other. “To girls’ night in.”

Jenny nodded. “May it be the first of many, because why have a luxury guest cabin if you can’t sneak it for yourself now and then? You’ll have to block it out for a
week or two next summer so we can still have access once this place is being rented out.”

Shelby studied Krista. “This
is
a guest cabin, right? Or are you thinking of turning it back into a bunkhouse for your head wrangler?”

“Foster is my head wrangler.”

“Your second-in-command wrangler, then. That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it.”

“I don’t . . . I’m not . . .” Krista took a sip of her wine, buying herself a few seconds. It wasn’t like she hadn’t thought about it—this was the Girl Zone, after all, and she knew the questions would be coming. But now, sitting between her twin and her best friend, she didn’t want to talk about Wyatt’s lack of interest in anything long-term when the others were married to men who had loved them enough to make it work. “Wyatt and I have an agreement.”

Jenny waved that off. “So did Nick and I. We renegotiated.”

“That’s not on the table.”

“Why not? You’re falling for him, aren’t you?”

“No!”
Krista said, so quickly that the panic didn’t have time to take root. “That would be”—stupid, suicidal, contrary to everything she’d worked so hard to do right—“ridiculous.”

“You’re in a relationship, aren’t you?”

“It’s not a relationship. We’re just lovers.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Lovers enjoy each other. A relationship implies a future. Can we change the subject? Please?”

“I don’t mean to nag.” Jenny even managed to look contrite. “It’s just—”

“You’re one of those annoying happily married people who think everybody around them should get married, too,” Krista finished for her.

“Yes, I am. And I want you to be one, too. Is that so much to ask for my favorite sister? Remember how you used to plan your wedding? You wanted Great-grandma Abby’s ring and even had your kids’ names picked out. What were they again? Abby, Edith, Rose, and . . .”

“Edward Arthur,” Krista filled in, “after Dad and Big Skye. Too bad it sounds like a knight of the Round Table. Sir Edward Arthur, at your service.” She mocked a bow, refusing to feel sorry for herself. “And for the record, we were eight. We also thought that oatmeal cookies could cure a case of the cooties and that babies were made using a special sourdough recipe. Otherwise known as the facts of life, à la Gran.”

Shelby buried a snicker in her wine. “I should’ve sicced her on Lizzie rather than going with the
Dummy’s Guide to Talking to Your Kids About Sex
. Though Foster and I got some good giggles out of the diagrams.”

“Did you follow the instructions to make sure they got it right?” Jenny asked, deadpan.

“Why, do you want to borrow it, see if you and Nick are missing any steps?”

“Ha! We graduated to the
Idiot’s Guide to the Kama Sutra
a while back.” Jenny stuck out her tongue. “So there.”

“Oh? Have you tried page eighty-seven yet?”

“Why, do you need pointers?”

Relieved that the conversation had moved past her and Wyatt, Krista settled lower in the water and sipped her wine.

Maybe she had imagined her wedding and named her children-to-be when she was too young to know what it all really meant, and maybe deep down inside, she had always figured she would get married and have kids before Jenny. But she had let go of those fantasies a while back, along with her five-and ten-year plans. Plus, she refused to put Wyatt in the picture, knowing that when the season ended, so would they.

When the thought brought a stab of anguish she wasn’t interested in dealing with—why mope for the last couple of weeks when she could enjoy herself instead?—she skipped ahead, her mind going to the next project, the next business plan, the next fun thing on the guest list. The things that had kept her happily busy all these years.

Into a lull in the conversation, she said, “Now that the bunkhouse is pretty much done, can you guys put your creative brains together and come up with some ideas for advertising? I was thinking maybe we could offer it for long weekends this fall and winter, as a romantic getaway.” There, she had even said it without a twinge. More or less.

“Hot tub, catered meals, and a big bed far away from the hustle and bustle.” Shelby gestured with her wine. “It sells itself. What do you need me for?”

“A slogan with a little more punch than
A hot tub, catered meals, and a big bed
?” Though she had to admit, it had potential. “And for you and Jenny to get together on the visuals. I was thinking pictures of the interior, maybe get some models for some romantic shots, and—”

“Pictures!” Jenny shot up from the hot tub, creating a mini tsunami that slopped over the mosaic tile as she grabbed a big, fluffy towel and scampered for her bag.

“I didn’t mean—” Krista began.

“Don’t bother,” Shelby advised. “You’ve already unleashed the beast.”

“Ye gad, I know. Jenny, don’t—”
Clicka-click
went the camera, no doubt catching Krista with her mouth flapping, as usual.
Speaking of blackmail.
“I said
models
,” she protested. “I wasn’t talking about me and Shelby!”

“You’re just as hot as the local talent,” Jenny countered. “Well, at least Shelby is.”

Krista gaped. “You did
not
just say that about me.”

“About us, really. Smile!”

Shelby slung an arm around her shoulders, lifted her wine, and said, “
Sex for Dummies
!”

Krista was laughing when the camera clicked, then whooped when Shelby got a hand on her head and dunked her beneath the warm suds. The world went wet and loud for a moment, as the sound of the underwater jets drowned out everything else. Then she broke the surface and lunged for Shelby. “I am
so
going to get you for that!”

She heard the camera doing its
click-whirr
thing but
didn’t care as Shelby feinted and dodged, eluding her in the small, slippery space, then doubled back and dunked her again, shouting, “City girls fight dirty!”

When Krista came back up, she was laughing. “That wasn’t the sort of slogan I was thinking of.” But at the same time, this was exactly what she needed—the camera, the wrestling match, laughing so hard her lungs burned and her ribs ached . . . and the reminder that love might come and go, but friends and family were forever.

*

Late Saturday afternoon, Wyatt turned off the main road and rolled through the stone pillars of Mustang Ridge, wincing when Old Blue bottomed out from all the weight he’d loaded in the back.

“Think she’ll like it?” he asked as Klepto did a whole-body wag, excited to be back at the ranch. “Yeah.” Wyatt patted the wiry back end. “I think so, too.”

It took him an hour to offload his gift, another to install it. Then he stood back and nodded, well satisfied. “Okay, that’ll do it. Let’s go pick up our girl.”

He had called ahead, so she was waiting for him when he rolled in, standing on the bunkhouse porch wearing her patchwork skirt, a denim shirt rolled up past her elbows, and a broad smile of welcome. And his danged heart skipped a beat.

Always before, he’d thought that was just a saying. Now he knew better.

He parked and opened the door, releasing Klepto to
bounce around, barking his fool head off while Wyatt crossed to Krista, caught her by the waist and spun her around, surprising a laugh out of her. When he let her down, he felt her skirt brush his legs as he lowered his head to claim the kiss he’d been thinking about for eight hundred miles, give or take.

Her lips parted; her breath mingled with his. And he felt more of a homecoming in this moment than he had when he pulled up in front of his cabin outside of Denver, or even when he stepped back into the workshop he had built himself from steel, stone, and wood. Burying his hands in her soft, loose hair, he drank in her flavor and surrounded himself with flowers and rain. Then he eased away to feather kisses along her mouth, her cheek, across her jaw to her ear. There, he whispered, “I have a surprise for you.”

“Really?” She craned to look in the back of the truck, which was still half full of pistons and tractor parts.

“It’s not in there. Want to go for a little ride?”

She looked down at her skirt. “Should I change?”

“In the truck,” he clarified. “Just a short drive.” He pulled a blue bandanna out of his back pocket, shook it out. “Oh, and did I mention the part about the blindfold?”

*

With Wyatt’s bandanna tied over her eyes, Krista could see some lights and darks, but nothing more. She could feel the bumps as the truck turned onto the road, the pressure of Wyatt’s fingers where they held hands on
the bench seat, and the warmth of the late-day sun on her skin. Her heart drummed lightly in anticipation—of the gift, of having him back, of the night ahead. The week ahead. “Are we there yet?”

He chuckled. “Almost.”

The truck slowed, then turned. “We’re going to the ranch?” she asked. “Did you bring something for the horses?”

“No and no.” The truck rolled to a stop and the engine cut out. “We’re here.”

“At the end of the driveway?”

“You’re not very good at playing along with surprises, are you?” There was a chuckle in his voice. He came around the truck, opened the door, unclipped her seat belt, and took her hand. “Come on out. I’ve got you.”

“You know I’m not allowed to play in traffic, right?”

“Would you hush already?” He clapped a hand across her mouth and marched her over a section of grass, then onto the driveway. Moments later, the blindfold tugged and fell free, and he said softly into her ear, “Surprise.”

“What—” she began, but then broke off at the sight of twin twisted arches of new metal supporting the old sign. The missing horseshoes had been replaced, welded back into place, so the arch was unbroken, the sentiment unquestionable.

WELCOME TO MUS
TANG RIDGE.

“Oh, Wyatt.” It came out as a whisper. “You fixed our sign.”

He hooked an arm around her waist, and snugged her back against his body. “I did. Do you like it?”

“I love it.” Her voice broke slightly. “You didn’t just fix what was there, you made it look even better. More modern. But you kept the bones.”

“That’s the story of Mustang Ridge, isn’t it?” He kissed the top of her head. “Every generation takes what’s already there, preserves the best parts of the past and brings the rest up to date.”

Tears prickled. “I wish Big Skye could see that.”

“Maybe he doesn’t, but I do.” He looked up at the sign. “This is important, Krista. What you do here is important. You make Mustang Ridge a home, not just for your family and employees, but for the guests, too. And that matters.”

She closed her eyes and felt a tear break free. “Thank you. For understanding me, for making the sign so much better than it used to be.”
And for coming back,
she managed not to say. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she went up on her tiptoes to kiss him, whispering against his lips. “Now I owe you one.”

“Not even close.”

“What if I said I was going to repay you by . . .” She whispered it in his ear.

“Annnd, we’re headed back to the bunkhouse!”

She laughed as he practically dragged her to the truck, boosted her in, and slammed the door, getting them back down the road in no time flat. They barely made it through the door before he was kissing her, holding her, overbalancing her onto the couch in a
tangle of limbs and half-attached clothing. Then they were rolling, tugging, stripping each other naked in a flurry of kisses and happy sighs until, finally, Krista arched her body, took him inside her, and let the heat carry her away.