“We’ve got a little time if you want to hit the Lady Clairol,” Jenny offered with a wicked twinkle. “I bet Mom’s got some you can use.”
Laughter bubbled up, followed by a guilty look toward the main house.
“Shh,”
Krista said. “She thinks nobody noticed.”
“She can’t possibly be that delusional. Anyway, if I’m your good luck charm, does that mean you’ve decided on your top picks?”
Krista patted her back pocket, with its folded-up program. “Foster and I swung by the holding pens earlier in the week and took a look. We came up with our top three choices and the bottom five, and I’ve got notes on the others, in case we wind up selecting in the middle of the pack.”
Fingers crossed we go early, though,
she thought, because she really, really wanted a certain big gray mare.
“Well, then.” Jenny hooked an arm through hers and aimed them toward the parking lot, where the horse trailer was hitched and the truck was ready to roll. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go get lucky!”
T
he fairground took up a hundred or so acres of high-country prairie, with a fringe of pine in the middle distance and the mountains rising beyond, jagged against the blue summer sky. The parking lots and paths were overgrown, wildflowers sprouted around half-repaired concession stands, and the smells of fresh sawdust and new paint mingled with the scent of horses. Trucks and trailers were clustered near the livestock building like cattle jostling for water, and the two hundred or so lottery-hopefuls and hangers-on were crammed into the adjoining arena, waiting for the selection process to begin.
Thanks to a longer-than-usual line at the diner, where they had stopped for burgers and fries, Krista and Jenny had missed out on the folding chairs and wound up sitting on the three-rail fence at the back, far away from the announcer’s stand, where a cylindrical wire crank-cage held several dozen Ping-Pong balls.
“They totally stole that setup from Wednesday-night bingo,” Jenny said, pitching her voice to carry over the
crowd noise. “What do you think we’re going to be? B-8? Maybe N-31?”
“How about something in the G’s, for
good-looking gray mare
?” Krista bounced her boots on the bottom rail as four people climbed up into the judges’ stand. “Here comes the committee, or at least part of it.”
Tempe Tepitt stepped up to the microphone. She was short and bulldoggish, with steely hair pulled up under a baseball hat that was probably intended to play down the plum-colored power suit, but instead made it look like her head and body didn’t belong together. Behind her stood Marsh and Martin Lemp—a couple of sun-bleached, weathered cowboys Krista had known all her life, and who had been in charge of picking the makeover mustangs from the latest gather.
It was the fourth person in the small group that caught Krista’s attention, though. “What’s Sam Babcock doing up there?”
Dark-haired and dressed down in the same sort of jeans-and-a-plain-shirt routine the Lemps were rocking, the thirty-year-old rags-to-riches owner of Babcock Gems looked like he could be just another hired hand. More, he looked much as he had in college—big framed but thin to the point of gauntness, with his hands clasped behind his back to keep his fingers still.
Or maybe not. Maybe he had changed since then, just like she had.
“I guess he’s on the committee,” Jenny said, “or donating. Probably both. Trust me, by the time the mayor got done with Nick, he had gone from ‘sure I’ll sponsor
one of the prizes’ to doing all the health exams and gelding operations for free.” She slid a look in Krista’s direction. “You okay?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not Sam’s fault that his best friend turned out to be a jerk.” He had warned her, after all. “Besides, that was college. Everybody does dumb stuff in college.”
“I didn’t.”
“Two words: naked skydiving.”
“Hey!” Jenny protested, laughing. “That was in the cone of silence!”
The mayor leaned in, gave the microphone a couple of taps, and then said in a rah-rah voice, “So, what do you say, folks? Are you ready to give me a ten-count, and we can get this party started?”
That got a cheer, and the crowd chanted along with her: “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .” Krista and Jenny chimed in at six, and when everybody got to “One!” all four big sliding doors on the nearby livestock building rolled open, revealing the horse-filled pens. The crowd clapped and whooped, and a few of the mustangs whinnied as if to say, “What’s going on out there?”
Little did they know how much their lives were about to change. And while Krista hated knowing how scared and confused the horses would be at going from open range to holding pens and now to their new homes, the wild herds were growing too quickly for the shrinking rangeland to handle, making the sales and lotteries necessary.
When the crowd noise mellowed, the mayor lifted her microphone and said, “By the power vested in me, I declare the Harvest Fair Mustang Makeover officially open!” She paused for another cheer, this one louder and longer. “Today, you’ll be drawing names and choosing your mustangs. You’ll have six weeks to train your horse from the ground up, and when we all get together for the final ride-off, I expect to be blown away. So choose wisely!”
Krista took another look at the catalog, wondering if the gray mare was really her best bet. At seven, she was older than most of the others, which could mean that her training would move faster . . . or she could be too set in her ways, too used to being in charge of things. The last thing Team Mustang Ridge needed was for their mustang to take one look at the screaming-kid-loaded roller coasters and Tilt-A-Whirls, decide the horsepocalypse had come, and try to round up the others and stampede them to safety.
“No second-guessing,” Jenny said without looking up from her camera, where she was making the last couple of tweaks in prep for filming the lottery.
“Taking a minute for a reality check isn’t the same as second-guessing.”
“It is when you’ve got good instincts.” Jenny turned on the camera and aimed it up Krista’s nose. “What does your gut say?”
She batted the camera away. “That nobody wants to see my nostrils on YouTube. And knock it off. I’m being serious here.”
“Go for the gray. First choice is usually right, and all that.”
Boots bouncing harder on the bottom rail of the fence, Krista focused as the mayor finished reading through the rules and shifted back to her rah-rah voice to say, “In addition to helping bring attention to our part of the great state of Wyoming and getting some well-earned bragging rights, the winning team will take home cash and prizes totaling over twenty thousand dollars.”
As she ran down the list of sponsors—with Babcock Gems front and center, no big surprise there—Krista craned to see into the back corner of the barn, looking for something that said she was making the right decision. Was it too much to hope for a big foam finger coming out of the sky and pointing to one of the mustangs in a cosmic moment of “Hello, Universe speaking here”?
Nada. There was never a good foam finger around when she needed one.
Inside the barn, four guys moved around the pens with the saddle-swagger she associated with lifelong horsemen. Closest to her, grizzled, crotchety old Mel Lemp—an older cousin of Marsh and Martin—was holding a clipboard and glowering like he’d rather be somewhere else. Behind him, two younger cowboys were muscling additional pipe-corral panels into place, building the loading chute they would use to chase the horses onto their new owners’ rigs. And beyond them, over by the gray mare’s pen—
Krista straightened, feeling like she’d grabbed on to a strand of hot wire while standing barefoot in a puddle. “Whoa. Who is
that
?”
“Where?” Jenny swung the camera toward the barn.
“Don’t—” She bit off the protest, knowing she was lucky to have Jenny’s help in promoting the ranch, even if the whole being-filmed thing sometimes put her on edge. Especially when she was seeing things. “In the back corner. Jeans, dark shirt, brown felt hat.” Which stood out against all the summer straw and brought on a full-body shiver, followed by a whole lot of,
It’s not him. It
couldn’t
be.
Except that it totally could. Sam was there, after all.
Jenny zoomed in and hummed. “Hello, he is
built
. Get a load of those guns!”
Which argued against it being Krista’s one-and-only ex, who had been wiry rather than jacked. “Is he . . .” She didn’t even know what she was trying to ask—couldn’t think past the sudden buzzing in her ears.
“Maybe you should pick him when the mayor calls your name.” Jenny dialed up the zoom. “Let me see if I can get his hip number.”
“Give me the camera.” She needed to get a look at his face, needed to know for sure.
“In a minute. Oh, yes. Very nice.”
Krista tugged at her arm. “Give it here.” Someone called her name, but she waved them off. “Hang on just a sec.”
Laughter sputtered and then swelled, yanking her attention away from the barn and back to the lottery,
where most everybody had twisted around to look at her. Realizing she and Jenny had missed something major, she shot out an elbow and hissed,
“Ssst!”
Her sister swiveled around, camera and all, and did a double take. “Um. Hello?”
“Are we interrupting something?” the mayor drawled over the loudspeaker, looking at them with the oh-for-Pete’s-sake expression worn at some point by every teacher who’d ever wound up with the two of them together in class.
Intensely aware of the red
blink-blink-blink
that said Jenny’s camera was getting every nanosecond of this, Krista called, “I’m sorry, Mayor Teap—er, Tepitt. Please continue.”
“I will . . . as soon as you pick your horse.”
“I—oh!” Excitement kicked. “Is it my turn?”
The mayor gave an exaggerated eye roll. “Okay, rewinding.” Holding up a Ping-Pong ball, she pantomimed taking it out of the bingo barrel and intoned, “And now, first choice in the inaugural Harvest Fair Mustang Makeover goes to”—she spun the sphere and read the name inked on it in Sharpie—“Krista Skye!”
The applause was sprinkled with laughter, and somebody yelled, “Go, Krista! Woo-hoo!”
Grinning, she shouted, “Well, then, I’ll take hip number forty-one!”
A murmur ran through the crowd, along with some knowing nods and a couple of
Awww
noises that said she and Foster weren’t the only ones who’d had their eyes on the gray.
“Forty-one goes to Krista Skye of Mustang Ridge Ranch,” Mayor Tepitt confirmed. “Best of luck with your new horse!” There was more applause while Martin got the bingo balls bouncing again, and then the mayor stuck in a hand and grabbed one. “Next up is going to be . . . Amos Allwood!”
As a skinny young cowboy with spidery arms and legs shot to his feet, Krista turned to Jenny and whisper-squeaked, “We got the gray mare!”
“Whee!” They high-fived, hugged, and did a little seated wiggle-dance to celebrate the lottery win.
Jumping down off the fence, Krista beckoned. “Come on. Let’s get her loaded and hit the road!” She turned for the barn and started for the nearest open door, but then hesitated, remembering the cowboy in the brown hat.
She didn’t see him, but he was back there. Somewhere.
“Hang on. Call me stupid, but I’m just putting two and two together and getting ex-boyfriend.” Jenny grabbed her arm and pulled her close. “You don’t think that was—”
“No.” Krista said, cutting her off before the name got out there in the universe, tempting the foam finger. “As far as I know, he’s never set foot in Three Ridges. It was seeing Sam that made me think of him, that’s all. The power of suggestion.”
She hoped.
It didn’t take them long to get the rig into position—they had both pretty much learned to drive with a
trailer in tow, and the aluminum gooseneck was one of the nimblest in the Mustang Ridge fleet. It also had the bonus of being open inside, with padded walls and not too much room for the mare to hurt herself in the panic of being separated from her herd and chased into an unfamiliar metal box.
“The minute she’s on board, I want you to get moving,” Krista told Jenny, who was behind the wheel of the big white dually. “She’ll be less likely to bounce around in there if she has to focus on her balance. Keep it slow and I’ll catch up.”
After swinging open the trailer gate and fastening it in position, she headed for where Mel and the two younger wranglers were gathered beside the loading chute, muttering over clipboards. As she approached, another figure stepped out of the barn—big guy, brown hat, shoulders that went on for a mile.
Krista didn’t let herself slow down.
The cowboy kept his back to her as he gestured toward the horse pens. She caught a glimpse of dark brown hair that had a touch of red to it, making her think of a black horse that had bleached in the sun. Just like he-who-shall-not-be-named. This guy was taller and broader, though, his center of balance high in his chest rather than low on his hips. More like a calf wrestler than a bull rider.
Exhaling a relieved breath, she approached the huddle just as it broke up, and Mel and the two younger men headed into the barn. “Hi there,” she said to the big guy’s back. “I’m here for hip number forty-one.”
“Figured you might be,” he said, and turned.
Krista. Stopped. Breathing.
Because after all that it-couldn’t-possibly-be-him, it totally was. Wyatt Webb, her one-and-only ex, was standing right there in the flesh. And the bastard looked good.
A
thin trickle of oxygen seeped into Krista’s lungs as she took in the familiar dark brown eyes, angular jaw, and the nose that carried a pronounced bump from one too many face-first landings off a bucking bull. There were those extra inches of height and breadth, though, and a layer of heavy muscle outlined beneath his work shirt. Even his hands were different, wider and thicker, with heavy calluses that didn’t come from reins or ropes.
He had grown up and done it well.
Annoyed by the sudden urge to tug at her logo’d polo shirt and wish that she had gone for something more in the makeup department—she looked good, too, dang it—she forced air into her lungs and refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her surprise. Because he had clearly been expecting her.
Jerk.
“I need hip forty-one,” she repeated, forcing everything to be level and professional—her expression, her voice, her body language. “The gray mare in the far pen.”
“She’ll be along in a minute.” He paused, searching her face. “You looked good out there.” A nod to the arena, where a cheer said another name had gotten picked. “Happy.”
Heat stirred at the knowledge he’d been watching her. As metal gates clanged and unshod hooves thudded into the loading chute, she said, “What do you want, Wyatt?” He had to want something. Otherwise, why even make himself known?
“I wanted to apologize to you. To . . . I don’t know”—he scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck—“clear the air. I know it was a long time ago, and we’ve both lived our lives since then, but I wanted to say I’m sorry for how I handled things. You deserved better.”
“Yes, I did.” And once upon a time, she would’ve given anything to have him admit it. “Nice of you to make such an effort to track me down. Oh, wait. You didn’t.”
He shifted in his boots. “I’m staying with Sam for a couple of weeks in between jobs. He volunteered me for this, said you’d be here. I thought it would be easier this way, just running into each other.”
Easier for you, that is.
Though, really, there wouldn’t have been a good time for this. She didn’t need an apology, didn’t need the mere sight of him bringing back a whole lot of memories that were better off forgotten. Didn’t need
him
. Jamming her hands in her pockets—and only then realizing they had balled into fists—she stepped back. “Like you said, it was a long time ago.” Behind her, the truck door slammed.
Moments later, boot steps approached, and Jenny said, “Is everything okay?” Coming up beside Krista, she fixed Wyatt with a look that said
I know who you are and what you put my sister through
. “Is this guy bothering you?”
Yes.
“No. It’s fine. We’re done here.” To Wyatt, she said, “You’ll get the trailer gate when she’s loaded?”
He held her eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Will do. You take care, Krista Skye.” It was more of a good-bye than he had given her before.
“You, too, Wyatt,” she said, if only to have the last word. She didn’t let herself run, didn’t let herself shake, just climbed in the truck and slammed the door.
And wanted to weep.
Jenny grabbed her arms. “Ohmigosh! That was him, wasn’t it? That was—”
“Wyatt.” She made herself say the name. “Yes.”
“Unbelievable.” Jenny craned around to look toward the barn, where he had moved to man the gates of the loading chute. “Did he . . . Did you . . .”
To Krista’s relief, there was a sudden commotion in the barn, a couple of hoots and hollers, and then hoofbeats clattered on metal and the trailer rocked and rolled, making the truck shimmy and signaling that the new horse was aboard. Moments later, the trailer door banged shut and the latches clanged into place, and Wyatt’s voice called, “You’re all set!”
She put the truck in gear and hit the gas, not letting herself stomp down nearly as hard as she wanted to.
As they rolled past the hot dog stands, Jenny stuck
her head out the window to get a better look at the trailer. “I can see her ears through the Plexi,” she reported. “You want to stop and double-check the latches?”
“No. We’re good.”
“You trust him?”
“To close up a trailer? Yes.” She would trust him with a horse anytime, anywhere. But as for anything more than that? Forget it. She may have gotten the care-and-nurture gene from Gran, but it was balanced by the one-strike-and-you’re-out attitude that came straight from Big Skye’s DNA.
“Soo . . .” Jenny drew it out as they turned onto the main road and the ride smoothed out. “You want to tell me about it, or should we pretend we spent the morning shoe shopping?”
So tempting. “If we went for shoes, then where did the horse come from?”
“Get one free with every flat of annuals at Maas’s Feed and Grain next door?”
Given Ernie Maas’s recent “two ducklings and a shrub, one low price” ad in the local paper, it wasn’t all that farfetched. Unfortunately, the charade wouldn’t appease Jenny’s curiosity, which on a scale of one to creepy stalker, fell somewhere around the
National Enquirer
level.
“Shoes, marigolds, and a bonus mustang,” Krista said, trying to keep it light when there was suddenly a whole lot of heavy inside her. “That sounds way better than an ex who couldn’t be bothered to get in touch,
but wanted to do the apology thing when we ran into each other.”
Jenny made a face. “Which part was he apologizing for? Stringing you along, standing you up in public, or dumping you with a crappy Dear Jane letter?”
Ouch. Trust the filmmaker to bring things down to bullet points. They were accurate, though, and eight years was long enough for the wounds to heal. “We didn’t get that far. And, frankly, I don’t care. I’ve got better things to worry about—like a ranch full of guests arriving this afternoon, and a new mustang to train.”
She didn’t need Wyatt Webb or his apology. She had Mustang Ridge.
*
Wyatt was dog-tired by the time he got back to Sam’s ridiculously big house and let himself in through the kitchen. Dragging ass worked for him, though—the more tired he was, the less his brain would spin. And after his run-in with Krista, there was some serious spinning going on.
He had known she would be there today—hell, he’d had his guard up ever since arriving in Three Ridges, figuring they would cross paths at some point. He hadn’t figured he’d have trouble looking away from her when they came face-to-face, though, and he hadn’t expected to feel like he’d gotten caught staring at the sun. She had gleamed like the sun, too, with a white straw hat, yellow-blond hair, and tanned skin the color of pale honey. And she had looked exactly the same as
he remembered, fresh and vibrant, like it had been eight days rather than eight years. Her hair was a shade or two darker beneath the sun streaks, and the coed 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, even before the mayor called her name.
It was no surprise that the beautiful girl had grown into a knockout of a woman. It was also no surprise that she didn’t want anything to do with him. But being in Three Ridges had gotten him thinking about her, gotten him remembering. Maybe too much.
Lucky for him, he was good at moving on. He had just hoped to do it with a clearer conscience this time.
“That you, Wyatt?” Sam called from the front of the house, voice echoing through the under-furnished space.
“Yeah. Hey, hon, I’m home.”
“Ha! I’m in the game room.” The sounds of canned gunfire, explosions, and screams suggested he was killing zombies or something.
Wyatt followed the noises and paused with a shoulder propped on the door frame. One of the few fully furnished spaces in the whole place—along with the home theater, master bedroom, and kitchen—the game room at Casa Babcock bore a strong resemblance to the bridge of the
Enterprise
, except with a ratty sofa, a relic from their college days, facing the wall of monitors instead of captain’s chairs.
Not zombies,
he noted, glancing at the screen.
Aliens.
Sam froze the game and spun in his chair. Wearing sweats, a ripped T-shirt, and yesterday’s stubble, he looked nothing like the unexpected heir to a gem-mining fortune, and everything like the guy who’d made it through his last year of college by volunteering for any medical study that would pay him a few bucks. “Well? I saw you talking to her. How’d it go?”
“About how you’d expect.”
Sam lifted the controller. “You want in on this game? Blow some stuff up? Might make you feel better.”
Wyatt wasn’t big into gaming but appreciated the offer of mayhem rather than touchy-feely. “Maybe in a minute. I’m going to call my sister first. It’s her birthday.” And he was already riled up. Might as well call the fam.
“Tell Ashley I said hey. Oh, and when you come back, bring my blue water bottle with you.”
“Sure. Where is it?”
“Ask Klepto,” Sam said darkly.
“Right.” Wyatt smothered a snort and headed for the kitchen.
He hadn’t figured out where his scruffy gray mutt was hiding his stash in the huge house, but when he did, it would be a heck of a pile. He should probably feel bad, but as far as he was concerned, Sam’s life needed some shaking up. Besides, he and Klepto had an understanding: He didn’t try to stop his dog from “appropriating” the occasional sock or shiny thing, and Klepto acquiesced to act housebroken.
As Wyatt rounded the corner to the kitchen, he was
just in time to see the tip of a gray, wirehaired tail disappear around the corner of the fridge. He considered following but figured that finding Klepto’s stash would entertain Sam when they’d left. So instead, he grabbed the landline handset—cells were seriously unreliable out in the high country—and punched in his mother’s number, doing his damnedest to get Krista out of his head.
Case closed, moving on.
His mom picked up on the third ring. “It looks like a Wyoming number,” she said, her voice muffled like she was relaying the info. “I think it must be Wyatt.” Then, voice becoming clearer, she said, “Wyatt? Is that you?”
He scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Hey, Ma. Yeah, it’s me.”
“It’s Wyatt,” she called, like that was news to anyone in her immediate vicinity. “How are you, sweetie? How did the lottery go?”
“It was . . . interesting.”
“How so?”
“Lots of horses, lots of people.”
“Did you see anything that you liked?”
About five three, one ten, blond, and blue-eyed, with a swagger that makes a man want to do something stupid.
So much for getting her out of his head. He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t have kicked any of them out of the barn. Why, you in the market?” As far as he knew, she hadn’t been on a horse in thirty years. Back in the day, though, she had been a rodeo queen—it was how she’d met his old man.
“Not on your life. How are your sketches going?”
“They’re going.” And by that, he meant he’d thought about unpacking his pencils the other day. “How is Jack? Did that new chiro help any?” His mother’s husband had come along too late to be a father figure, but Wyatt would always be grateful to Jack for giving him his life back.
“He’s good. He said to say hello.”
They spent a few more minutes catching up, keeping to surface things because they did best that way. Then Wyatt said, “Is Ash around? I want to wish her a happy birthday.”
There was a beat of silence before his mom said, “She went back to Los Angeles last week. Didn’t she call you?”
“She—” He bit off a few choice words. “No. She didn’t. I take it she’s back with Kenny?”
Kenny was his younger sister’s deadbeat ex-boyfriend . . . or he had been, the last time Wyatt checked. After two years of on-again, off-again, she had finally moved back home, got a waitressing job, and started saving the money she wasn’t paying in rent to attend community college in the fall.
At least that had been the plan the last time Wyatt had talked to her.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” his mother chided.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“There was a tone.”
“Maybe we should change the subject. How is your garden coming?”
“You just don’t understand how women think.”
So much for changing the subject. “The guy is a loser, and he drags her down with him.” The drummer for a band that booked just enough gigs for its members to convince themselves that they didn’t need real jobs, Kenny was a self-absorbed, self-important dope who, when Ash had spiked a temp of one oh four with the flu on a night he was supposed to play, had loaded her in a cab and told the driver to take her to the ER, leaving her to figure out how to pay for the ride and the meds.
“He’s young,” his mother said. “They both are. They’ll figure it out as they go along.”
Like you did?
Or like he had? His mother’s marriage to Jack—her only marriage, mind you, as Ash and Wyatt’s old man hadn’t ever quite made it to the altar—was the exception to the otherwise ironclad rule that both sides of his family sucked at relationships, and that was because Jack had the perseverance of a limpet. “I’d rather see Ashley figure out things for herself,” Wyatt added. “Once that starts happening, ten bucks says she’ll go for a different kind of guy.” Like one with a job. Maybe even a retirement plan.
Hey, there’s a thought.
“She doesn’t want another guy. She’s in love with Kenny.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“You don’t get to choose when to love someone,” she said tartly. “It’s all or nothing.”
Which was ironic, really, given how many times she
had fallen in and out of love with his old man. “I’m just saying I’d rather see her stay with you guys and go back to school. Maybe while she’s doing that, Kenny will pull himself together.”
“You could help him with that, you know. You’ve got connections.”
Not as many as she liked to think, but still. “I tried.” Several times, in fact, allowing Ashley’s pretty-please eyes to overrule his common sense. “I got him a sit-down with Nigel at Studio 101. He never showed.”
“He was having car trouble, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.” It had been his car that time, the flu the time before, and a hangover the time before that. Always an excuse, just like he’d heard from his mother all through childhood.
Your father didn’t mean it; he’s just tired; he’s changed; you should give him another chance.
. . .