Winter at Mustang Ridge (18 page)

He turned to look at her, and swallowed a grin at the sight of her in his drawstring sweatpants, with the legs cuffed to show a pair of thick wool socks that flopped at the toes. The sweatshirt fit a little better—it was one of the ones he’d shrunk before figuring out the dryer—but it still sagged off one shoulder, giving him a glimpse of skin.

What were they talking about again? Oh, right. Marshmallows.

“What does this look like, base camp? Here at Chez Masterson, you’ve got your choice between full-size marshmallows that aren’t even stale yet, or a slightly used tub of marshmallow fluff. And the hot chocolate is Keurig-ized and close to sinful.”

“What, no hand towels, but he has a Keurig?”

“The gadget gene is on the Y chromosome. Is that a yes on the hot cocoa?”

“If you’ll join me.”

“Count on it. In fact, how about you pull out the milk and chocolate syrup? I like to layer.”

“On it.” She pulled open the fridge, and laughed. “Bread, eggs, and milk, huh? Did you have to fight for them at the grocery store?”

“Just about.” He shrugged. “It’s a blizzard, which means we’re constitutionally obligated to eat French toast. Or maybe egg-in-toast with a glass of milk.”

“Or scrambled eggs with toast on the side.”

“Where’s the milk in that scenario?”

“You put it in the eggs to make the texture smoother.”

“Your gran teach you that?”

“I got banned from the kitchen the second time I used baking soda instead of cornstarch in a recipe that also involved white wine.” She pulled out the milk and Hershey’s syrup, bumped the door shut with her hip, and slid him a look. “You know the vinegar-and-baking-soda volcanoes you make in science class? Yeah. It was like that.”

He held up his palms in surrender. “Just hand over the milk and chocolate syrup, nice and slow, and nobody will get hurt.”

“Ha-ha.” She faked a toss with the half gallon, then crowed, “Made you flinch.”

They teased their way through prepping the hot chocolate, and the back-and-forth leveled things out between them. But although he stopped feeling like he had to watch what he was saying, that didn’t mean the sizzle had died down. If anything it was stronger, connecting them when their bodies brushed in the small galley-style kitchen, making him want to move in and hold her tight.

He didn’t, though. Instead, he made himself enjoy the anticipation.

The storm winds pounded the building intermittently, but the sturdy timbers held without protest and the weather stripping dulled even the rattle of windows, making his quarters feel snug and the rest of the world seem very far away.

“How’s your dad?” she asked. “Are you worried about him being up in the foothills, all alone?”

“Yes and no. I wish I could get him to spend more time down here, especially in weather like this. But at the same time, I know he’s in good shape up there. He’s got backups for his backups, and enough know-how to be on one of those survivor shows. He said he’d check in tonight. How about you? Did you phone home?”

She nodded. “My gran said to say hi and my mom said, ‘I can’t believe you’re not here to help me paint.’ Which, for the record, is the first I’ve heard about us having a painting date this afternoon.”

He chuckled. “How is the redecorating going?”

“Honestly? Better than I expected. I think having negotiated the terms of my surrender helped. She’s been good about getting my approval on most everything, and the stuff that she’s picked out isn’t nearly as crazy looking as I was afraid it might be. So far, anyway.”

“Good to hear.” He held out her mug. “Cocoa’s done. You ready to have your world rocked?”

“Fluff
and
marshmallows? You’re really pulling out all the stops.”

“Let’s call it a blizzard special for my special lady.”

“Your special lady,” she said softly. “I like that.” And there was something new in her eyes. He couldn’t identify the deep, drugging emotion, but it reached inside him and cranked up the heat and the tenderness. More, it made him want to haul her into his arms and carry her to the bedroom.

When she reached for the cocoa mug he didn’t let go, so their fingers overlapped, the pressure as tangible as the way their eyes synced up. “Jenny,” he began, and then stalled, caught in her gaze and the push-pull of wanting this, yet wanting it to be right for her.

“Yes?”

“This,” he said. And instead of giving her the cocoa, he reached past her to set the mug on the counter, then slid his hand up her arm to the back of her neck, and kissed her. The heat that had been on a slow simmer all week boiled over in an instant, but he held himself in check, loving the smooth suppleness of her skin against his, and the way she murmured softly at the back of her throat, wrapped her arms around his neck, and returned the kiss with a sweet, wondrous enthusiasm that said this was all exactly right.

E
ver since Jenny had decided to turn toward Nick’s clinic rather than home, the question had been there, running beneath the surface like a delicious itch.
How far are we going to take this?
She would be spending the night; that much was clear. But would she be in the guest room or his bed? She hadn’t been sure. Now, as he kissed her with all the pent-up heat that had been building since the first moment she walked through his door two weeks ago, she still didn’t have any of the answers, but she wasn’t sure she cared. Because if she knew one thing, it was that she trusted him. Whatever happened—or didn’t happen—next, they could talk about it, figure it out together. And that was a wondrous thing.

Parting her lips beneath his, she sighed into his mouth and let him in. Their tongues touched, stroked, and he pulled her against his body, banding his arms around her and holding tight. He tasted sharp and intoxicating, making her head spin like she’d been sitting around a campfire, passing around a bottle of something strong and spicy.

He changed the angle of the kiss, diving in, devouring, enfolding her. Warmth went to heat, and from there to an inferno.

On one level, she was aware of the howling wind and lashing snow, and the way it made his place into a warm, safe shelter. On another level, though, the storm was inside her, making her want to rake her fingers through his hair and down his back. Making her want to accept all that he was giving her, and then take more.

Instead, he eased back and let out a long breath that was almost a growl. Then, taking a moment to pull himself together, he reached past her once more, handed her the mug, and took a big step back. “Drink.”

Shaky enough to follow his order without protest, she took a sip. Then, as the spicy chocolate and almost too-sweet sugar of the marshmallows hit her tongue, she moaned and took another, longer drink.

“Don’t do that,” he warned.

“Do what?”

“We need to have a serious conversation, and it’s not going to happen if you make chocolate orgasm noises.”

“Then you shouldn’t have added the fluff.”

The laugh lines deepened at the corners of his eyes. “Noted.”

She took another sip, then studied him over the rim of her mug. “Would it help if I said I’ve got a hard-and-fast rule about not doing what I think we’re talking about doing until at least the fifth date?”

It was a good rule, one that had kept her from making several hormone- and cocktail-driven blunders over the last few years. If a guy didn’t want to put in at least a little effort to get to know her—and vice versa—then sex was a bad idea. But this was different, wasn’t it? She already knew him better than she had known her last few just-for-fun guys. She liked him, trusted him, wanted him. . . . The thought of being with him sent her senses into overdrive, heating her center with a low throb and making her very aware of his cracked-open bedroom door. Something inside her held back, though. Maybe it was the suspicion that the storm was moving up their timeline, or the way he was so different from the guys she usually went out with. He was settled, centered, landlocked.

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.”