Summer at Mustang Ridge Page 2

  As the would-be speed daters started shuffling around under Krista’s direction and with some nudges from Tipper and Gran, who were making sure nobody got left on the sidelines, Shelby whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “Lucky for us, we’re not—” She broke off. “Lizzie?”

  The bench beside her was empty.

  Shelby’s heart went thudda-thudda and adrenaline kicked through her in a mom’s instinctive fight-not-flight response. But while she would’ve gone into berserker mode if she’d lost Lizzie back home, here she knew right where to look . . . and it was the most kidlike stunt her daughter had pulled in ages.

  Grinning, she slipped out the back and headed for the barn.

  2

  “Aren’t you a big one?” Foster mimicked, grinning as he led Brutus in from the geldings’ pen, where a dozen or so mustangs were munching hay and snoozing in the sun.

  The chestnut snaked his head around, feinting for a nip.

  “Quit that.” He nudged the horse out of his space, reminding him how the pecking order went. The mustang had been at the ranch since last fall’s gather, and had been under saddle for nearly six months. He’d only been in the working string for a few weeks, though, and was still reserved for the wranglers’ use because his better-than-average smarts were paired with an unpredictable streak wider than the stripe running down his nose. He wasn’t dangerous, but Foster wouldn’t exactly call him reliable yet, either. Given his quick mind, big feet and smooth gaits, though, Foster figured he was worth putting some time into.

  Annoyed that his nap had been interrupted, the gelding rolled an eye back at him.

  “Yeah, yeah, life’s tough. You think this is hard work, try being a real cow horse. Compared to them, you’re just a glorified trail pony.”

  Then again, what did that make him? Head trail-pony wrangler? Executive greenhorn herder? Overlord of make-sure-the-dudes-don’t-kill-themselves?

  It made him employed, that was what. And saving for better days.

  As his shaggy black-and-white dog, Vader, whuffed and darted into the barn, Foster clucked to Brutus. “Come on there, trail-pony-with-attitude. Let’s fix that flat tire of yours and get you back in action.”

  As they came into early June, they were leaving a wet-dry-wet weather pattern that had turned the horses’ hooves brittle, leading to a bonanza of quarter cracks and loose nails. Which meant that Foster—who was the ranch’s farrier in addition to lead merry-go-round attendant—was busier on the horses’ day off than he was just about any other day of the week.

  He’d left Brutus ’til last because the gelding had pulled his shoe clean off yesterday up on the ridgeline and did some serious damage on the ride home, largely because Junior hadn’t noticed. The young wrangler had gotten an earful, but it’d be up to Foster to bang a new blank into shape, clean up the hoof, and find some good horn to nail into.

  “I’m onto you,” Foster said, giving the gelding another nudge as they reached the barn, where the bright sun turned to murky shadows at the doorway and a nervous horse—or one with a questionable sense of humor—could spook. “Don’t even think about it. This is supposed to be my day off, and I’m not in the mood to deal with your—”

  Movement flashed in his peripheral vision as they stepped from light into dark, and Brutus gave a sudden elephant snort and exploded in a spook that was part pent-up energy, part “aieeeee, mountain lion!” The big gelding’s shoes struck sparks on the cement as he tried to wheel and bolt, dragging Foster around with a thousand pounds of momentum and a cement-strong neck. Vader got in front of him and splayed all four feet, barking, trying to head off the runaway.

  Foster hauled back on the lead. “Whoa, dang it! And, Vader, git!”

  As the dog scurried out the back, Foster caught a flash of brown hair and wide, scared hazel eyes. He had only a split second to realize that the little girl was about to get flattened. Then Brutus swung his haunches around and bumped her hard, and she went flying across the aisle.

  She hit the wall and went down in a pink-and-denim heap.

  Foster’s stomach headed for his boots, but his body kept reacting, using thirty-some years of experience to juggle the gelding away from the kid and down to the other end of the aisle.

  “Knock it off!” he growled, getting right up near one of Brutus’s white-rimmed eyes. Where normally he would’ve soothed, now he muscled the blockheaded chestnut under some semblance of control, then kicked open a nearby stall and sent him into it, still wearing his halter. “Don’t you dare get tangled in that lead,” he ordered, then ran the door shut and latched it tight.

  He spun back, expecting to find the little girl still down. She wasn’t, though. She was on her feet, plastered in the corner where the tack stall jutted out a few feet into the aisle. Her pink T-shirt and jeans were streaked with dust, her face sheet-white. All arms and legs, with a long torso and those big hazel eyes, she reminded him of a yearling in the middle of a growth spurt, when all the pieces didn’t go together quite right.

  She hadn’t made a sound, wasn’t crying now, just stood there, staring at him.

  “You okay?” When she didn’t say anything, he took a step toward her and reached out a hand. “Are you hurt?”

  “Lizzie!”

  Foster’s head whipped around as a dark-haired woman in a ridiculous pantsuit raced into the barn wearing the same sort of look he’d seen before in a half-wild heifer’s eyes when he made the mistake of getting between her and her newborn calf. The kind of look that said she didn’t care what happened to her or anything around her as long as she got up close and personal with the little one, pronto.

  He did what he should’ve done back then, saving himself a whole bunch of black-and-blues. He got the heck out of the way.

  • • •

  “Are you okay?” Shelby dropped to her knees, hitting so hard that the cement grated through her pants. Not seeing any blood, she whipped a look over her shoulder at the stranger. “What happened?”

  “She spooked one of the horses, zigged when she should’ve zagged, and took a tumble. By the time I got Brutus in a stall, she was up and moving.” He was straight out of central casting, filed under “cowboy, circa twenty-first century” in worn jeans, scarred brown boots, and a black felt hat that sat low on his forehead. Compared to the guys in the dining hall, he looked faded and authentic. And concerned. Points there.

  Focusing on Lizzie, she brushed at the dirt smudges on her daughter’s clothes and tried to remember how to breathe. She’s okay. It’s okay. But it wasn’t, not when Lizzie could’ve gotten seriously hurt because her idiot mother had stopped paying attention for a few minutes. “Why did you leave the dining hall? I told you not to go near the horses without a grown-up!”

  Lizzie didn’t answer, didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t give her anything to indicate that she’d heard or understood.

  “Is she okay?” He sounded dubious. “I don’t think she hit her head, but she seems kind of out of it.”

  Shelby stood and faced him, tucking her daughter behind her. “She’s fine.”

  “Maybe somebody should take a look at her. It’s Stace’s day off, but Gran has doctored more banged-up riders than your average E.R.”

  She’s seen plenty of doctors. “We don’t need anybody, thanks. And thanks for containing the situation.” She had some idea of how fast things could get out of control when horses were involved, shuddered to think how much worse it could’ve been. “I’m very sorry she got underfoot. It won’t happen again.” She tightened her grip on Lizzie’s shoulder. “That’s a promise.”

  “But she’s—”

  “Perfectly okay just the way she is.”

  His eyes snapped up to hers, as if she’d just said more than that. “Oh. Sorry. I, ah . . . sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not.” Don’t you dare pity us.

  He frowned at her, instead, and then looked at Lizzie. “What is she, seven? Eight? And you brought her to singles week? This isn’t going to be our usual
family vacation vibe, you know.”

  It wouldn’t have irritated her so much if she hadn’t already been thinking the same thing. “She’s nine. Not that it matters, because we’re not here for guest activities. I’ll be working in the kitchen.”

  “You’re . . .” He trailed off.

  “The new assistant cook,” she filled in.

  “What happened to Bertie?”

  “The doctor wants her on bed rest until she has her baby.” Which was why Shelby and Lizzie had hit the road a week ahead of schedule, arriving in the middle of speed dates rather than next week’s family reunion.

  “You’re a chef?”

  “Nope. I’m in advertising, but a friend of mine knows Krista and the ranch. When she found out I wanted to get Lizzie away from the city for the summer, she set things up. The next thing I knew, I had a summer job and a place for us to stay.” It was such a simple summary for what had been, in reality, a really tough choice involving dire warnings from both her boss and Lizzie’s doctor, and the inner fear that they’d go into fall with Lizzie no better and Shelby’s clients having forgotten who she was. In her line of work, you were only as good as your last campaign.

  “A summer job.” His face was deadpan.

  “Yep. Now through Labor Day. Three months, give or take.” She tipped her head. “Problem?”

  He gave her an up-and-down just like the guys in the dining hall, only he didn’t look nearly so appreciative of her round-toed shoes and clingy pants. “Nope. No problem at all. What Krista does up at the main house is her business. What happens in the barn is mine.”

  Shelby wasn’t sure which annoyed her more, the way he’d zeroed right in on Lizzie’s issues, the implication that she wouldn’t be able to handle herself as a ranch cook . . . or how she was way too sensitive on both fronts.

  Refusing to dwell on it—or on him—she snagged Lizzie around the neck in a fake choke hold they’d gotten from watching too much TV wrestling for a pitch that hadn’t gone anywhere—Women’s Xtreme Wrestling. Fight like a girl!—and tugged her toward the door. “Come on, kiddo, it’s back to orientation for us. And consider yourself lucky if I don’t tattoo a couple of those rules on the insides of your eyelids.”

  • • •

  Foster watched them leave, telling himself it was because he wanted to be sure the little girl was moving okay. He wasn’t sure whether she’d been shell-shocked or what, but it seemed that her mother had it covered. Still, he’d had a fall or two that he’d walked away from, only to feel it later.

  “Kid’s fine,” he muttered, and it didn’t take Brutus’s snort to tell him that his eyes had wandered. Okay, so little Lizzie’s mama had a fine rear view, with nice curves and a feminine wiggle. And the front view was just as good, all sleek and pretty.

  So, that was Bertie’s fill-in? Huh. Wouldn’t have been his choice . . . but then again, it wasn’t his choice, was it? And while Krista was whip smart, she had a soft heart and a penchant for good deeds. He should know; he’d been one of them a few years back. He only hoped she didn’t get burned by this one.

  “Ah, well. Not my problem.” Besides, Gran might be a little nutty around the edges, but she was plenty sharp when it came to her kitchen, and she had Tipper, Topper, and Krista to back her up. They’d be okay, even if Ms. Fancy Pants flaked on them.

  Whistling softly, he bent to pick up Brutus’s chipped foot, determined to enjoy the rest of his so-called day off. Because starting tomorrow, he’d spend the next six days being the cowboy the guests wanted to see, the wrangler they’d ooh and aah over, the horseman they needed to have making sure they didn’t kill themselves or any innocent bystanders. They would ride, laugh, drink, dance, pair off—some of them two or three times—and have a good time, thinking they were living the Wild West experience, when really they were getting the Disney version. In this case, the R-rated version. And then next week, Mustang Ridge would do it all over again, starting fresh with a whole new cast of characters and a different theme.

  Rinse, repeat, and be grateful for the work, he thought, casting another glance away from the barn. He wasn’t looking after the new assistant cook and her daughter, though. No, this time his eyes went past them to the horizon as he reminded himself that fancy females were a distraction he couldn’t afford when he had plans of his own.

  • • •

  Shelby stuck her head through the dining hall doors and winced. “Oops. Looks like we missed the rest of orientation.”

  The cocktail party was back in full swing. Most of the singles were clumped together in groups, with one or two main players talking with wide gestures and animated features while the others orbited like electrons. A few pairs were hunkered together, heads close in earnest conversation, and an intense foursome looked headed for disaster, with a dark-haired guy trying to get the attention of a brunette, who was clearly more interested in the salt-and-pepper gentleman next to her, even though he was deep in conversation with a strawberry blonde.

  And so it goes.

  Grateful not to be part of that particular dance, Shelby started to back out, but then heard someone call her name. The crowd eddied and Krista emerged, hands outstretched. “You made it. I’m so glad you’re here!”

  “I’m, um . . . thanks?” Reminding herself she wasn’t on the East Coast anymore—the land of avoiding eye contact in public—Shelby accepted a hug from a woman she knew only from Gertie’s description, one phone call and a couple of e-mails. But that seemed to be enough for the owner of Mustang Ridge, who seemed like she hadn’t ever met a stranger in her life.

  Then again, that was probably a requirement in the business.

  Up close, Krista was a thoroughly natural beauty, from the tips of her boots to her casual ponytail and makeup-free face. Shelby—a brunette whose lighter-toned eyebrows and lashes disappeared if left to their own devices—envied her the ability to pull it off.

  With a Gwyneth Paltrow smile that lit her whole face, Krista looked down. “And this must be Miss Lizzie! Are you ready for an adventure?”

  “She already had one,” Shelby said drily, figuring it’d be better to fess up now than have it get back to the boss later.

  “Uh-oh. That sounds ominous.”

  “Lizzie here snuck out of orientation and headed for the barn, where she spooked one of the horses and nearly got trampled.”

  “What?”

  “She’s fine,” Shelby said quickly, “and so is the horse. Lucky for her, one of your men was there to do damage control.” At Krista’s raised eyebrow, she elaborated, “Jeans, T-shirt, black hat, and a scowl?”

  “That’s our trail boss, Foster.” She grinned. “Did he give you the old ‘barn’s closed, get out of my space, it’s my day off’ routine?”

  “That was the vibe, though he was pretty decent given that he’d just had to pull my kid out from underneath one of his horses.” Even saying it brought a shudder.

  “Don’t let him fool you. He keeps to himself, but he’s a total sweetie once you get to know him.”

  Shelby wasn’t sure that would ever be a word she’d use to describe the cowboy. The lines in his face had been set in a frown, his eyes cool. And there had been something about him. “I think I’ll go with ‘no comment’ on that one.”

  “I knew I was going to like you. Come on. Let’s go get you two settled into your cabin.”

  “I don’t want to interrupt—”

  “Please, interrupt. I’m begging you.”

  Shelby glanced back at the party. “Well, if you put it that way.”

  “Don’t get me wrong—I love meeting all the new people on changeover day and making sure we get off to a great start. But this is different. You guys are here for the whole summer! I’m so happy to have you here. I’m a twin, did I tell you that? My sister, Jenny, is a videographer, and she’s always off on all these cool assignments, which means I never get to see her anymore, not really.” She slid Shelby a sidelong look. “No pressure intended.”

  “None taken.�
� And no promises, either. But although Krista was proving to be something of a whirlwind, she was a happy one, bright and bubbling, like a soda fountain rather than a geyser.

  “Do you have brothers and sisters?” she asked as she bopped them out the door and down a wide gravel path.

  “A sister,” Shelby said. “We don’t speak anymore.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I’m not. But in a way she was. Not that she and Mercy had stopped even pretending to have anything to say to each other, but that Lizzie had wound up with such a crappy extended family. “Life happens.”

  “That it does, leaving us to make the best of it.” Krista linked an arm through hers, and tugged. “Speaking of which, let’s check out your new digs!” She led the way along a gravel path that wound around the other side of the dining hall.

  Now that she wasn’t rushing to make it in time for orientation, Shelby could look around the ranch a little. She decided quickly that she liked what she saw, though she couldn’t deny the sense of “we’re not in Boston anymore, Toto.”

  The main house was a sprawling gray two-story structure with breezeways connecting it to the dining hall and another large wing, making it look like it had outgrown itself and octopused to the other spaces. Beyond it, the huge barn and several smaller shelters were all interconnected with a network of pipe corrals and split-rail fencing, where plump horses and pointy-hipped cattle munched from round bales and dozed in the sun. It would’ve looked like something out of Blazing Saddles, except that glossed atop the Old West was a newer, resort-type layer in the single-story log cabins that sat in clusters, maybe twenty or so of them marching down to the lake. At the shore, rowboats were tied to an L-shaped dock, a wooden pavilion held a dozen picnic tables and a huge fire pit, and an open area nearby was home to a herd of sawhorses wearing plastic cow heads for roping practice.