“Don’t say it,” she warned.
“Say what?”
“Whatever you were thinking. This is going so well, you’re just dying to do something to set me off. Well, guess what? I’m hanging up before this perfectly lovely conversation goes off the rails. There’s one more thing, though.”
He grinned, appreciating her in a way he hadn’t done for a long time. “What’s that, sis?”
“Welcome back, Wyatt.”
“Huh? I didn’t go anywhere.”
“If you say so. Love you, big brother. Maybe I’ll even visit you one of these days.” She hung up before he could answer one way or the other.
Shaking his head, he set the phone aside and said to Klepto, “Well, that was interesting.” When was the last time they had talked like that? Years, he thought, pretty much since she bagged out on college and he had blasted her for it, seeing her setting up to make so many of the same mistakes that Ma had.
He had missed talking to her, he realized. They had come from the same place, had some of the same experiences. There was continuity there, and maybe he
hadn’t given it enough credit, hadn’t given
her
enough credit.
Besides, if he’d learned anything from being around the Skyes, it was that family mattered. So maybe he should find a way to think of his as something other than a chore. “Now there’s a thought.”
“Whuff?” Klepto tilted his head in inquiry, or maybe to see if Wyatt was going to fork over a biscuit.
“Nothing. Just talking to myself.” And staring at the mess-in-progress, where the cowboy in the middle suddenly looked okay, with his thumbs hooked in his pockets and his hat tipped down low, but the dog looked wrong again. Stepping back, Wyatt frowned at the metal skeletons, at the sketches, and felt something nibble at the edges of his mind—an aha moment that wouldn’t quite gel. After a moment, though, he shook his head. “Nope. Not seeing it.”
Oh, well. He would figure it out—at least the ideas were flowing now, and the pictures were there in his head. And if worse came to worst, he could always tear things down and start over. He was good at that.
*
Bootsy’s Saddlery was a local fixture, from the two-story tall fiberglass boot out front to the faux-log exterior and the scent of expensive leather coming from the back rooms. And from the way the greenhorns’ eyes lit when they walked in and looked around at the walls of hats and boots, the spinning racks of colorful clothes, and the towering displays of blinged-out belts and glittering buckles, Krista could tell it had been the perfect
choice for the “pick your outfit for the Harvest Fair” portion of Makeover Week.
“Dibs!” Bob beelined for a display of horse blankets, and held one up against his chest. “It’s my color, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know.” Sabra pretended to consider the question. “Do you really think Black Watch plaid says
country fair
?”
“So you’d go with the solid blue, instead?”
“Hello, everyone!” Bootsy called from the back of the main room, where she stood on a short flight of stairs that led up to a tack-filled loft. A lithe, dark-haired fiftysomething, she wore a flamingo pink cowboy hat with a peacock feather stuck in the band, along with tight jeans and a flirty, jewel green top that showed off cleavage and rhinestones, and somehow stopped short of making her look like a disco ball. She gave a little wave and came down the stairs, angling her body to show off her generous curves and the high-heeled boots that made tapping noises on the way down.
The lady knew how to make an entrance, that was for sure, and Krista wasn’t surprised to see Peter’s jaw drop. The recently divorced dentist was determined to get on with his life—ergo, Makeover Week—and appeared to have “vacation hookup” pretty high on his to-do list. He had struck out with Joan and Vicki, but as Bootsy sauntered through the front room of the shop with an extra wiggle in her walk, she gave him an up-and-down, as if she liked what she was seeing.
Or else Bootsy was just being Bootsy and Krista was
doing the same annoying “I’m getting some, so you should be, too” thing she had accused Jenny of just the other week.
“I thought you said you were bringing me city folk,” Bootsy said cheerfully to Krista. “This crew looks like it’s ready to hit the roundup trail.”
“They can hold their own in the saddle,” Krista agreed. “But we need to get them ready for a night of square dancing, cotton candy, and good old country fun.”
“We can do that!” Bootsy cupped her hands around her mouth and called, “Come on, girls. We’re going to need reinforcements!”
Four more employees, all in feather-topped hats—which wasn’t the norm, and Krista appreciated that they had gone the extra mile—came out of the back rooms and descended on the greenhorns, splitting the herd and driving the smaller groups through the racks.
“My group is doing hats first!” Bootsy announced. “The perfect party outfit starts with the right lid!” She held out a hand to Claire. “What do you say, kiddo? You want to try on an awesome hat like mine?”
Krista started toward them, wanting to intervene before it got too awkward—Bootsy was big and loud, and Claire had only just started talking to the other guests. “How about we—”
She broke off as Claire put her tiny hand in Bootsy’s manicured one, and said, quite clearly, “Can I have a feather like yours?”
Vicki’s face blossomed into a smile. She met Krista’s
eyes over her daughter’s head, and gave a little air-punch of victory, mouthing,
Score!
Seeing it, Bootsy grinned at Krista. “How about you, Krista? You in for a hat party?”
“Heck, yes,” Krista said, joining the group. “You know what they say—a girl can never have too many hats or too many friends.”
The guests spent a raucous hour selecting their outfits and then regrouped for try-ons. There were only two fitting rooms, so it turned into a fashion show of sorts, with Joan and Sabra kicking things off by coming out together in matching fringed shirts—breast cancer pink, of course—and body-hugging jeans, and swinging each other around in an impromptu square dance while the others laughed and applauded.
Peter and Bob were next up. Peter came out to strut his stuff in his same jeans, but with upgrades on the boots and shirt that transformed him into a real cowboy—albeit one fresh off the rack and in need of some scuffing.
“Hot dang!” Bootsy gave him a twirl, followed by a pat on the rear. “You’ll do.” Then, spinning away, she knocked gently on the door of the other fitting room. “Bob, honey? You doing okay in there? Need a different size?”
There was a low murmur from inside.
Bootsy gave a little nod. “I’m coming in, okay? Trust me, there’s room for two, and I can help.”
A brief pause, then the door cracked open.
Vicki came up beside Krista and said in an
undertone, “He was worried about all the extra skin. He doesn’t want to do surgery, but he hates when it shows.”
Bootsy emerged a moment later, did a quick tour of the racks, and disappeared back into the dressing room.
“Who’s next?” Krista asked brightly. “Allison? How about it? I’d love to see that skirt on you.”
The plump, pretty brunette dimpled at being singled out—she was going to nursing school by day and waiting tables at a chain restaurant by night while working on not disappearing into the crowd of identical uniforms—and headed for the empty fitting room.
Just as her door closed, Bob’s swung open and Bootsy stepped out. With a flourish of her arms, she intoned, “I’d like to introduce you all to . . . Cowboy Bob.”
A man moved into the doorway, and logic said it had to be the same person that had gone in a few minutes ago—a cheerful guy who liked to tell jokes on himself, and whose personality was far bigger than the body inside his saggy, low-slung jeans and the too-big shirt that puffed out above his belt. But the sagging and puffing were gone now, and his body made an impact of its own in a pair of Wranglers and a dark green snap-studded shirt, unsnapped and hanging loose to show a narrow strip of plain white T-shirt and a studded black belt that matched the chunky biker-style boots on his feet.
With a black Stetson pulled low on his forehead, and wearing a layer of stubble Krista hadn’t noticed before, he was unexpectedly sexy. “Wow!” she said. “You look awesome!”
The others chimed in seconds later, with hoots and
wolf whistles. And rather than brushing it off with a joke, he grinned and sketched a bow, then gave Bootsy a quick hug and whispered something in her ear before he rejoined the group, looking more at home with himself than he had all week. He was just in time to lead the applause when Allison came out with a vivid blue skirt swishing around the ankles of her sparkly boots, and wearing a smile that nobody in their right mind could lose in a crowd.
Grinning so hard that her cheeks hurt, Krista worked her way around to where Bootsy was sitting on the edge of a display riser. Crouching down, she leaned in to say, “Thank you. This is everything I hoped it would be, and more.”
“They’re wonderful. And they’re making it easy on us. Did you see Bob’s face when everyone started whistling?” Bootsy nodded. “That was a moment, sure enough.”
“Thanks to you.”
“He just needed someone to tell him how to make the shapes work together. It’s not about hiding the soft spots, or sucking them in; it’s about fooling the eye into looking somewhere else.”
“Hopefully, he’ll take that to heart.” Krista looked over at where Bob was down on his heels, letting Claire check out the patterned leather band on his hat. “He’s a good guy and he’s done some amazing things, but he doesn’t think it’s enough.”
“It doesn’t matter what anybody else says,” Bootsy pointed out, with an air of
been there, done that
. “It takes
a long time to stop seeing the bad stuff that used to be in the mirror.”
“Amen to that. And thanks again.” Krista stood, intending to get Vicki and Claire heading into the fitting rooms. She stood up too fast, though, and the room turned suddenly gray and spinny. Sagging, she grabbed for Bootsy’s shoulder. “Whoa.”
“You okay?” Bootsy shot up, concerned. “Here, sit down.”
“No, I’m okay.” Krista took a couple of deep breaths and her vision cleared. “Just a head rush.” And the last thing she wanted to do was mess with the makeover mojo.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m fine, really. Probably a little low on blood sugar, that’s all.” She’d gotten busy with Jupiter that morning, and hadn’t really eaten much. Even the usual
snag a muffin on the way out the door
routine hadn’t sounded all that appealing.
“Go grab something in the break room. We’ve got this under control.”
Krista hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. Go. Help yourself to whatever looks good in there. We’re not territorial.”
But once Krista was in the small kitchenette, the smell of coffee and microwaved soup made her wrinkle her nose, and the brief burst of appetite fled.
Knowing she needed to eat something, she scrounged some leftover soup crackers and filled a mug with tap water, and alternated little sips and bites until she
stopped feeling like she was going to fall down, pass out, or puke. Which was totally not her usual style, even when she was hungry, making her think she was more nervous about the ride-off than she had realized. That was the only thing she could think, unless . . .
Oh, no. Hell, no.
Heart pounding, she frantically scrambled to do the math, counting weeks that wanted to blend into one another. And then, legs turning to rubber, she sank back against the counter as a round of applause from out in the main room said that someone else had come out to do a twirl. “No. It can’t be.” Was she
pregnant
?
“W
e used protection.” Sitting at the edge of the plush couch in Nick and Jenny’s TV room later that evening, Krista rocked back and forth. “Every single time. Condoms, condoms and more condoms. We’ve gone through cases of the things.”
“Now you’re bragging,” Jenny said, but she kept a steady grip on Krista’s knee, and her eyes were full of understanding. “And, well, they’re not a hundred percent.”
“But they’re ninety-nine-point-nine-nine whatever! And . . .” Throat locking, she buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe it. This is . . .” She didn’t have the words, didn’t know what to think about the three tests she had taken, which had yielded two little pink lines, a blue plus sign, and the digital word that made it a done deal.
Pregnant.
“Hey.” Jenny shook her. “Hey! It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Dad is going to kill me.” Worse, he would be
disappointed. They all would, because Skyes didn’t have babies out of wedlock any more than they fell in love with the wrong men.
“Of course he won’t,” Jenny reassured her, but then added, “He might go after Wyatt, though.”
“Aaaaah!” Krista screamed into her hands. “Don’t say that! It’s not his fault.”
“But it’s his baby.”
“Don’t say that, either.”
“That it’s his?”
“No.
Baby.
I’m still wrapping my head around
pregnant
.”
“One follows the other.” Jenny scooted closer and hugged Krista. “And you’re starting to sound pretty nuts. You know that, right? This isn’t the end of the world.” She tightened the hug. “You’re going to be a
mommy
!”
“Don’t say that, either. I’m not ready.”
“Sweetie, you’ve been ready since you were eight.” Jenny paused. “Okay, that sounded weird, but you know what I mean. You’re the most nurturing, patient person I know. And, come on”—she gave Krista a little shake—“Mom managed it, didn’t she? And she didn’t have the nurturing or patient parts going for her.”
“But she had Dad.”
“And you’ve got Wyatt.”
“No,” Krista said sadly. “I don’t.” Because that was the worst part of the shock—not just knowing that he absolutely didn’t want a family, but knowing that whatever happened next, the good times they had shared over the past couple of months were over.
“Give him a chance,” Jenny urged. “He’s in deeper than you think. I bet he’ll surprise you.”
“And do what? The last thing I want him to do is propose because he knocked me up!” Krista launched to her feet and paced the wide room, needing to move. “If being in a relationship for more than a couple of months makes him feel like he’s suffocating, what do you think this will do?”
“Make him man up?” Jenny suggested with a bit of an edge. “It seems to me that he’s pretty darn good at taking the path of least resistance, at least when it comes to relationships. You need to make him care enough to dig in his heels and fight for what he wants—like he’s doing with the sculpting.” A corner of her mouth kicked up. “And this is coming from the
it takes one to know one
department. For the longest time, it was more fun for me to keep moving than to stay put. Then I met Nick, and staying put became the fun part.”
“But you and Nick love each other.”
“So do you and Wyatt.”
“No.” Krista’s eyes were so dry they burned. “That wasn’t our deal.”
“So change the deal. Seems to me, you don’t have a choice. It’s not like you’re going to keep this a secret from him.” An eyebrow lifted. “Right?”
“No. I’ll tell him. I just . . . I need to think things through first.” Krista pressed a hand to her stomach, as nerves and nausea mixed with the discomfiting knowledge that she wasn’t alone in her body anymore. There was something growing in there that was going to
change her life. More, it was depending on her to make the very best choices she ever had, starting now.
“Tell him,” Jenny urged. “Now. Tonight.”
“Maybe.”
Not.
“I’m pushing. I’m sorry, I’ll back off. I’m just . . .” Her lips curved and her eyes went all soft. “You’re going to have a
baby
, Krissy. This is a good thing. Such a good thing.”
Something loosened inside Krista, letting her finally take a breath. “I know. It’s just . . .” Her voice climbed to a wail. “Why can’t anything except the business go according to
plan
? This isn’t the way it was supposed to happen! Mustang Ridge doesn’t
do
single parenting. And where the hell is my perfect guy? He should have
been
here by now!”
Jenny sat back. Blinked. “You had a plan?” Then she shook her head. “Of course you had a plan. What was I thinking?”
Krista pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s stupid. I’m being stupid.”
“Maybe a little unrealistic. But you’ve had a pretty crazy day, so I’d say you can be excused. Maybe you should go home and turn your brain off for a while, if you can manage it. Or do you want to stay here? Nick should be home in a bit. We could watch a movie or two, and the pullout in the guest room doesn’t suck.”
“Don’t talk to me about pullouts,” Krista grumped. “Maybe we should’ve used that instead of condoms.”
Jenny snorted. “Science suggests otherwise, but I’m glad to see you’ve still got your sense of humor.”
“I’m going to head home,” Krista decided. “It feels too wimpy to hide out here.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Maybe I’ll make a plan. That seems to be a good way to ensure that the exact opposite happens.”
“Let me know if I can do anything.” Jenny hugged her tight. “I love you, kiddo. And remember, you’ve got a lot of people on your team.”
“I love you, too, sis.” But as Krista burrowed into Jenny’s embrace, the hollow ache inside her said she didn’t want a team—she wanted Wyatt. Problem was, she didn’t know how to make that happen without trapping him . . . and if she did that, sooner or later, he would hate her.
*
Wyatt had just treated himself to a beer and Klepto to a couple of slices of turkey from his small stash in the bunkhouse fridge when his phone rang. Thinking that the cell was getting a workout today, he checked the ID and grinned as he answered, “Hey, stranger. How did everything go at Bootsy’s this afternoon?”
“Good. Everything was . . . good. I think the guests had fun.” Krista’s voice was blurry.
“You okay? You sound tired.”
“It was a long day.”
“There’s a hot tub here, calling your name.”
“Can I have a rain check? I think I’m going to crash here tonight.”
He did a double take. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, really. Just need some down time.”
“Want me to come over and make you soup, or tea or something?” Which was stupid, given that she lived with her parents, and her grandparents’ cottage was just down the hill. But she didn’t sound like herself.
“I’m good. Just tired. See you in the morning?”
“Sure,” he said, doing his damnedest not to be disappointed. She wasn’t obligated to spend every night in his bed, after all. “Sweet dreams, cowgirl.”
“Thanks, Wyatt. You, too.”
“Call me if there’s anything I can do. And if you change your mind, the door’s always open.”
After ringing off, he stood for a minute, dangling his beer and trying to laugh at himself for suddenly being all
now what?
about having a night to himself. “Looks like it’s just us guys,” he told Klepto. “You want a beer?”
He doled out more turkey, instead, and then they headed for the workshop, where the cowboys sitting around the fire had stalled out and he’d gone back to the drawing board. He kept coming back to the
Doorknob Kiss
, the piece he and Krista had made together. It didn’t say “Wild West,” of course, or “pioneer spirit,” but something about it kept tugging at him, the same way he kept looking at the main cowboy and the dog together and thinking that it was almost there, but still missing something major.
Staring at the doorknob statue, he could picture a whole line of the tabletop sculptures, each of them different, always with a man and a woman, and sometimes a horse or two, made from household scrap
metal. But that didn’t solve his more immediate problem—the APM was doing its post-reno relaunch in the spring, and expected him to have something more than a couple of half-finished cowboys and a dog that really ought to be something else.
But what?
“What do you think?” he asked Klepto. “A calf, maybe?” That could work—maybe there was a tame dogie with the cowboys, an orphan that tagged along with the Cookie. Possibly named Mini-burger. Or Slider. “Okay, forget the calf.”
He needed movement in the foreground, though, something to draw the eye up to the main cowboy’s face. Flipping to a fresh sheet of paper, he grabbed a Sharpie because he was suddenly jonesing for bold, black lines that he couldn’t erase. Looking from the doorknob piece to the cowboy and back again, he blocked in the man’s figure, but then paired it with an obviously feminine shape.
He didn’t know what the woman was doing out on the roundup or why she was holding the cowboy’s hand and looking down at the dog, but the shapes sent a shiver down the back of his neck. Like maybe he was finally on to something.
*
Krista sat alone at the dining table, flipping through a box of old pictures and not really seeing the faces. Instead, she was hearing the concern in Wyatt’s voice when he offered to brave the main house to make her a cup of tea.
She hadn’t told him. Why hadn’t she told him? It was just three little words:
Wyatt, I’m pregnant
. Except those three words had such power, maybe even more than
I love you
. Because suddenly there was another life involved in the conversation.
It was strange, really, to think that all of the people in these pictures had started that same way, in one form or another.
Honey, I’m pregnant. We’re going to have a baby. Knocked up. A bun in the oven.
Stopping at a black-and-white of a dozen or so people posed in front of the big fireplace, circa the forties, she picked out her great-grandparents and a blanket-wrapped bundle that, based on the two older kids standing with them, had to be Big Skye. Who, at some point, had been a
Honey, I’m pregnant
.
At least she could think the word now without hyperventilating. She was still sneaking up on
baby
.
“Find anything good?”
She looked up, startled to see her dad standing in the wide entryway. He was wearing a battered old T-shirt, his lucky fishing hat, and the old denim overalls that went under his waders.
“Going fishing?”
“Sure am. You want to come?”
It was more tempting than she would have expected—the tug of the current against her legs, the feel of rocks rolling beneath her boots, and the rushing sound of the river as she and her father cast the light fly lines over and over again, not really caring if the trout latched on or not.
She shook her head, though. “Thanks, but I think I’ll stay in tonight.”
“Everything okay with Wyatt?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Your bed hasn’t seen much of you lately. Seems strange to find you here now.”
Ack.
Fighting not to squirm, she said, “I’ve got everything under control.”
Sort of. Not really.
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
“I didn’t say there was a problem.” But she wrinkled her nose at him. “What do you mean?”
“In my experience, the minute you think you’ve got a relationship figured out or going according to plan . . . well, that’s when you get yourself in trouble, because you’re not the only one in the equation. It’s like working with a mustang—you can train in all the buttons you want, but you’re still dealing with a wild creature that’s got a mind of its own.”
She frowned. “So I should click and treat him until he does what I want?”
He chuckled. “I was thinking more along the lines of asking for what you want, but not getting too caught up in how you get there. But what do I know? I’m just an old man who’s headed out for a wild night on the river with his fishing pole.”
She rose, crossed the room, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Thanks, Dad. And thanks for giving Wyatt a chance.”
He kissed the top of her head. “He’s a good man, in
his own way. But if he messes with your head again, he’ll have to deal with me.”
I think this time it’s going to be
me
messing with
his
head.
But maybe Jenny and her father were right. Maybe it was time for her to ask for what she really wanted, and see whether he wanted her enough to make a change.
And if not . . . well, she would deal with it.
“Good luck.” She kissed her father’s cheek and nudged him toward the front door. “And keep your hat higher than your feet, okay?” It was what she usually said to the greenhorns, but she figured it applied equally well here, too.
When the door swung shut behind him and the house quieted around her once more, she returned to the table and shuffled the photos she had been poking through, sticking them back in their bins to await official cataloging. Because, really, all she had been doing was flipping through and thinking:
face, face, two faces, baby, face, face
—
Two faces with a baby.
And not just faces. Familiar faces in washed-out sepia tones, with a swaddled baby and chickens pecking around the edges of the woman’s skirt.
Krista froze, pulse bumping as she realized that it wasn’t exactly the same picture they had hanging in the dining hall. The chickens were in different spots and the man’s arm was around the woman, his hat tipped down as he looked at her and the baby, as if to say:
Mine
. She didn’t know why the photographer had
taken two of the same picture—maybe because this one was so washed out, or maybe for some reason she would never know. But her hand shook as she lifted this one. Turned it over. And saw faded writing in a spidery, angular hand.
Patience Smith (younger sister to Mary Skye), her husband Seamus, and their adopted daughter, Blessing. A church foundling, Blessing later married Jeremiah Skye. The local pastor refused to recognize the union, believing them cousins (though not of blood), so they had a native ceremony. They died in old age within hours of each other, and were survived by five children.