Harvest at Mustang Ridge (3 page)

“You should give him another chance.” Her voice merged with the memory, sparking a burn of frustration in his gut. “Ashley loves him. And she loves you, too. You should call her. Tell her you’re not mad.”

“I thought I
was
calling her.” But where the first few minutes on the phone with his mom had been fine, now he just wanted to hang up.

“She’s got a new cell. Let me get you the number.”

“Just tell her to call me when she gets a chance, okay?”

“Are you coming for a visit soon? The side gutter is overflowing again, and with Jack’s back bothering him . . .”

“I’m not sure. I’ll let you know in a few days.” He
ducked a few more questions and finally said, “I’ve gotta go, Ma. I love you.” Which was true—he loved them both, her and Ashley. But he had long ago learned that loving someone wasn’t the same as wanting to be with them, or even having much in common.

Hanging up the phone with more force than necessary, he grabbed a couple of beers out of the fridge and headed for the game room. Suddenly, he was in the mood to kill the heck out of some aliens.

T
he next morning, when the alarm went off, Krista woke fuzzy-headed and fuddled from dreams that had involved lots of prancing hooves and a cherub wearing fringed chaps and wielding squirt guns.

“Ohhh-kay, then,” she said, and sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes as things came into focus around her—mercifully without the kid.

A few months ago, her mom had insisted that the room needed a facelift, and in a two-week orgy of paint chips and fabric swatches, the rodeo-princess-turned-businesswoman décor had given way to a rustic, homey blend of earth tones and comfortable fabrics. The centerpiece was a hand-carved bureau that had a herd of galloping mustangs flowing around three sides, with the same movement picked up in the swirling pattern of the bedspread and a wall collage made from Krista’s favorite prize ribbons.

Her mom had described it as “equine eclectic with a modern Italian touch.” Krista didn’t know about that,
but she figured it said, “You’ve come a long way, baby.” And she liked that.

After dressing for the day, she headed downstairs and followed her nose to the big commercial kitchen that took up the back of the main house. There, exposed beams and potted herbs provided homey touches, baking racks bulged with muffins and sourdough rolls, and she could practically feast on the yeasty air.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Gran caroled as she bustled between the ovens and the pantry. Wearing jeans and a mock tee under a bright yellow apron decorated with singing peppers, she looked far younger than her years, even with the wispy white of her hair escaping from beneath a denim ball cap.

At the butcher-block end of the long counter, her round-cheeked assistant cook, Dory, said, “Hey, Krista,” and waved a jalapeno. Then she went back to her pile, coring the small peppers and sticking them upright on a custom-made rack. Over the course of the day, the peppers would be roasted, skinned, and turned into Gran’s famous green chili, which had its own page on the Web site, its popularity second only to her sourdough starter, fondly called Herman. Who had his own Twitter account.

Krista may not’ve had
pretend to be bread dough online
on her life list, but she figured that you never knew what the fans would glom on to—and when they did, you had to run with it. Given that Herman had more followers than the official Mustang Ridge account, she
had gotten pretty good at sharing ranch tidbits from a biscuit’s point of view.

“Good morning, you two.” She headed for the coffeepot, thinking maybe she should start an account for Marshmallow, too, so kids like Claire could keep in touch with their favorite pony. “How were things yesterday?”

“Your mom and I did just fine with the guests and vice versa,” Gran assured her. “No problems to report.” Which a couple of years ago would’ve seemed like a miracle. But just as Big Skye had found himself a new purpose in managing the ragtag herd of rescued horses and cattle that had accumulated because Krista couldn’t say no to protruding ribs or a hard-luck story, Gran and Rose Skye had made peace at long last, agreeing to a cease-fire that left Gran in control of the kitchen and Rose in charge of special guest services and events.

“Is there anyone I should keep an eye on?” she asked. It was Reunion Week, with a full booking of twenty-four guests split up into families, friends, and couples, all looking to reconnect with one another.

Gran pursed her lips. “Maybe the McConnells.”

Krista flipped through her mental “Who’s Who This Week” file. “Married couple, looking to put the spark back into things?”

“Looks more like Mr. McConnell and a new, much younger girlfriend.”

Krista hissed out a breath. “Well, that’s just . . .”

“Totally not what Reunion Week is for?” Dory suggested.

“We’ll go with that.” Krista took a swig of her coffee, feeling the rich, thick sludge—which was how the old-timers had made it and how her Gran preferred it still—hit the back of her throat. “I guess things must’ve changed since he booked the trip. Oh, well, most of the getting-to-know-you activities are carryovers from Singles Week. Hopefully, they’ll still have a good time.”

“You haven’t met her yet,” Gran warned. “I’ll bet you a biscuit she’s going to kick up a fuss about something. If not the cabin or the food, then how she stepped in manure or broke a nail. Maybe all of the above.”

And Gran’s radar was good like that. Krista nodded. “Gotcha. I’ll keep an eye on her. How about the Nixons? Father and teenage son trying to patch things up.” Before putting down his deposit, Bradley Nixon had quizzed her up, down, and sideways, wanting her to guarantee that a week of trail riding would make him and his son best buddies in the wake of a rough-sounding divorce. That had earned him a yellow flag in the reservation database:
potentially high maintenance
.

“They didn’t set off any real warning bells,” Gran said. “Randy doesn’t seem like he wants much to do with his dad, but he’s polite enough. He asked if it was okay for him to throw his baseball up on the roof for some practice. I told him he needed to stay away from the horses and the main house, but it was fine for him to use their cabin or your father’s shop.”

Krista grinned. “You mad at Dad for something?”

“No, I just figured it wouldn’t hurt to mess with his
bubble. He’s too much like his father for his own good, and your Gramps has been in a mood this past week.”

“I noticed. Is Betty Crocker giving him grief again?” The brown-and-white spotted cow had come to Mustang Ridge after being found abandoned on state land, seemingly shuffled off because she was too old to produce milk anymore. As soon as she’d gotten some food into her, though, and perked up, it became obvious that she was a devil in cow clothes. Someone had raised her as a pet and taught her to come into the kitchen for treats, and now she did it for sport—sneaking away from the Over the Hill Gang, finding her way through the fence, and making a beeline for Gran’s kitchen. Which, given the whole guest-ranch thing, was a big problem.

“He hasn’t mentioned Betty in particular, but I wouldn’t be surprised if something like that hasn’t gotten under his saddle.” Gran patted Krista’s hand. “He’ll settle down. He always does.”

“Or maybe,” Dory put in slyly, “he’s planning something supersecret for your big anniversary. When is it again?”

When Gran pinkened and flapped her towel at them, Krista answered for her. “December tenth. The big five oh. You’re coming to the party. Right, Dory?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world! Especially if Arthur has something up his sleeve.”

Gran touched her hair with a sweet smile. “Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Note to self,
Krista thought.
Make sure Big Skye comes
through with something special.
She’d get Jenny to help lean on him. “Is there anything on your wish list?”

Her grandmother’s eyes went dreamy. “Breakfast in Paris, dinner in Venice. You know, the usual. Oh, and the opportunity to kick bug-eyed Billy Bollinger in the nuts for kissing Mindy Cassidy when I was wearing his letter jacket back in tenth grade.”

“Gran! You did not just say
nuts
.”

“What, you’d prefer a synonym? Well how about—”

“No! Please.” Krista put her hands over her ears, laughing. “I don’t want to know what you call them.”

“I’ve got lots of names for them. How else do you think your grandfather and I made it to forty-nine years and counting?” Gran grinned as she tweaked an oven timer. But then her voice got more serious. “Speaking of exes we’d like to kick in the tender bits . . .”

It took a second for that to sink in, another for Krista to mostly smother the wince. “Jenny told you what happened yesterday.” She had been trying not to think about her run-in with Wyatt. It was too pretty a day to start off with a cloud over her head.

“She wanted me to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” At Gran’s narrow look, she put up both hands. “Seriously, I’m good. Sure, I was surprised to see him again, but it really wasn’t that big a deal.”
Over and done with, nothing to see here, move along.
A decent night’s sleep—weird dreams notwithstanding—had put things into better perspective, leaving only a residual ache that she figured would disappear once she got into her groove with the guests.

“I don’t know how you can be so calm about it. When I remember”—Gran pressed her lips together, no doubt thinking back to the night of Krista’s college graduation party—“it makes me so mad that he did that to my girl.”

“I was barely out of my teens, Gran. If I’ve learned anything from the guests, it’s that teenage girls do most everything with their emotional volume cranked to ten.” Maybe twenty. “You haven’t seen me like that since then, have you?”

“No, but I also haven’t seen you get serious about anybody else,” Gran pointed out, then lifted her apron to pantomime a kick. It was more shin-high than crotch-level, but it got the point across.

“I’ve been busy.” It sounded weak, even to Krista. “And, hello, I’ve dated.” A little, anyway. “In case you haven’t noticed, the pickings are a little slim in Three Ridges.” It was the sort of place young singles escaped from and retirees escaped to.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Gran parroted, “you’ve got guys parading through here—a fresh crop each week.”

Dory nodded. “If you count out the families, single women, and guys who are too young, too old, taken and/or gay, there are probably, what, two or three dozen legitimate candidates per season? Even if you figure ninety percent of them aren’t a good match, that still leaves a couple of datable guys coming through Mustang Ridge per year.”

Krista blinked at the math. But while she’d certainly
had a handful of male guests who ranked up there on the good scenery scale—not to mention ten times that many hookup offers ranging from charming to “eww”—she’d never been tempted. “Sorry, ladies. Besides the whole ‘holy unprofessional behavior, Batman,’ it takes longer than a week for me to get interested in a guy.”

“I’d say it depends on the guy,” Dory said.

She’d had her whirlwind. It hadn’t ended well. “I’m not dating a guest. Period.”

“Fine.” Gran nodded like Krista had made her point for her. “You’ll go on one of those Web sites.”

“Hang on. I didn’t mean—”

“If the local dating pool is too small, then it’s a woman’s God-given right to widen it. At least that’s what Ruth says.” At the thought of Nick’s administrative assistant, Gran brightened. “In fact, you should ask her to help you! Before she met Nick’s father, she was an online dating pro.”

Ruth was also seventy-something, purple-haired, and hadn’t been all that picky. Or maybe it was fairer to say that after losing her husband, she had been ever hopeful that the next first date would turn out to be her new Mr. Right. But whereas Ruth had seemed to enjoy the process, the thought made Krista want to stick her head in one of the commercial ovens. “I don’t know, Gran. I don’t think the online thing is for me.”

“Promise me you’ll think about it?”

“I promise.” Which wasn’t at all the same as promising she would think about it in any sort of positive
light. Krista lifted her mug in a salute. “Thanks for the pep talk, ladies, but I need to get going. I told Foster I’d meet him to check out the new horse before things get started for the day.”

“You’ll take him a muffin,” Gran said. “And one for yourself.”

“Thanks.” Krista snagged the muffins and kissed her gran’s soft, sweet-smelling cheek. “You’re the best.” Which went without saying but was still worth saying now and then.

“Poosh.” Gran waved her off. “Go on and see to your horse. Keep an eye on the clock, though.”

“What, me lose track? Never.” Well, hardly ever.

“And call Ruth.”

“I said I’d think about it, okay? But, and this is just a word to the wise”—Krista fixed her gran with a look—“if I find out you and Ruth put your heads together to make me a profile and chat up random guys on my behalf, I’ll . . .” Okay, she didn’t actually know what she would do—she’d never had to threaten Gran before. She snapped her fingers. “Got it. I’ll post your cookie recipes on the Web site.”

Dory gasped, and Gran’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You wouldn’t.”

No, but when she was twelve, Big Skye had taught her how to win at poker. “If I start getting e-mails like ‘
Roses r red, violets r blu, I saw ur profile, and I want to do u
’? Count on it.” As Gran and Dory whooped, she waved her way out the door. “Catch you guys later.”

Outside, it was shaping up to be a gorgeous summer
day, perfect for a picnic ride up to one of the high lakes with a new crop of dudes. Excited to see the gray mare—she was toying with “Jupiter” as a name—and talk to Foster about a training plan, she jogged down the steps from the kitchen door and headed for the barn. Halfway there, her phone let rip with the
Lone Ranger
theme, and she grinned and took the call. “Hey, Foster. Sorry. I got caught up with Gran. I’ve got muffins, though, which should make up for it. I’ll be there in a sec.”

“Actually, it’s Shelby.”

Krista stopped dead at the sound of choked-back tears in her best friend’s voice. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“I’m at the hospital.”

Her stomach plummeted. “
Shelby!
What happened?”

“Foster fell under one of the horses. It’s his knee, and it’s bad. But when it first happened, I thought . . .” She didn’t finish.

“I can be there in forty minutes.” A tangle of half-formed thoughts whipped through her head—
Mom can handle the opening remarks. Is the trailer unhitched? Doesn’t matter. I’ll take one of the cars.

“Krista, no! You’ve got guests.”

“If it was me, would you stay home?”

Shelby’s voice strengthened. “No, but I don’t have one less wrangler than I was expecting for Reunion Week.”

The bad thing about doing business with friends was that your friends knew your business. “I don’t care,”
Krista said stubbornly, even though Shelby was right, dang it. She had gotten away with being shorthanded all summer—what with Ty going on the road with a country band, and Stace part-timing it while she finished her thesis—but now her inability to find more riders to add to Team Mustang Ridge was poised to bite her in the butt. “Damn. I wish I could be there for you.”