Groaning, she buried her face in her hands. “This is stupid.” She had to do it, especially now that things weren’t lining up. And especially since she had kissed him, and they had . . . whatever they had going on between them. So she blew out a breath and steeled herself. “Here goes nothing,” she said, and she typed
CHARLES
WYATT
WEBB
into the box, and hit
ENTER
.
It took a second for her mind to process the images that popped up on the screen, another for her jaw to drop.
Wyatt?
She had been expecting rodeo photos, maybe a ranch Web site offering trick training or turnaround of problem horses. Or, after seeing his personal stuff, maybe links to a horse-related white-collar job of some sort. What she got, though . . .
Wow.
The tiny thumbnail images at the top of the screen showed horses, all right, but they weren’t training projects or rodeo remounts. The life-size metal sculptures were made of gears and pistons, frozen images that reared, galloped, and fought, seeming to come alive even in miniature.
“What the . . .” Her eyes went to the top Web site hit, GearHorseGallery.com, and the short description
below.
Unique, one-of-a-kind Western pieces by award-winning artists working in reclaimed metal. The only source for pieces by the renowned C. Wyatt Webb.
There was a Denver address, but it could have been a cross street on Mars for all the sense it made to Krista. She wouldn’t even have believed it was the same Wyatt Webb if it hadn’t been for the thumbnail picture. He was wearing a white button-down shirt that was open at the throat and popped against a background as dark as his eyes. And while his hair might be shorter, his tan less evident, there was no question it was the same man who was living in her bunkhouse.
The one she had kissed half an hour ago, and who had kissed her back. And who was clearly more than just an out-of-work cowboy.
She leaned back. Blinked. Rubbed her eyes until they blurred and cleared again. But none of it changed what she was looking at on the screen.
“That’s . . .”
Impossible,
she wanted to say, but obviously it wasn’t. A lot could change in eight years.
The room took a long, slow spin around her as she clicked to open the Web site, then hit the prominent link to his name. And whatever breath she’d been hanging on to vanished from her lungs in an instant. Not because of the three-quarter picture of Wyatt with his Stetson low on his brow and his sleeves rolled up over his muscular forearms.
No, it was the showcased statue that had her brain vapor-locking.
The metal mustang was caught midgallop, not in the
legs-neatly-tucked nanosecond of suspension that so many artists used, but in the spraddle-legged moment when two feet make contact and the other two claw the air for more speed. The horse’s head was twisted to the side, its ears flat and its mouth open as if snapping at an unseen threat, and every line of its body was perfect, maybe not anatomically—though that was darn close—but in sprit. There was movement in the motionless image, making inaudible hoofbeat sounds in the viewer’s mind.
It would have been impressive had it been carved from stone or cast in bronze. It was even more so because it had been constructed of barnyard scraps—gears, tractor parts, old horseshoes—making it seem like a mustang’s ghost had walked out of a junkyard and glared around as if to say,
Yeah? Come over here and say that, why don’t you?
And Wyatt had made it.
That wasn’t even the craziest part, though, wasn’t the thing that had her shaking her head and brushing her fingers across the screen. Because she knew that horse. She had seen it in person. On a date.
Holy cow.
Two winters ago, she had visited California for a short course in modern dude ranching—four weeks doing intensive course work and two interning at a luxury horse resort. There, she had hit it off with Ballard, an assistant wrangler who liked his coffee black, his horses fast, and his relationships short and sweet. That had sounded just fine to her—she was on
vacation, away from her friends, family, and her usual responsibilities, and sick of having only a single notch on her proverbial bedpost.
They had flirted and shared a couple of drinks, and on her day off he had surprised her with tickets to a dinner-and-dress-up museum gala, celebrating a traveling exhibit of Western-themed art. The mustang sculpture had been the centerpiece of the section devoted to modern pieces. And it had grabbed her instantly. She might have stood staring at it for hours if Ballard hadn’t nudged her along. It had been that good, that powerful.
She hadn’t gotten the artist’s name, though. What would she have done if she had seen
WYATT
WEBB
on a nearby plaque?
She flushed, remembering that she’d gotten her second bedpost notch that night. A week later, she and Ballard had parted with a whole lot of “keep in touch” that neither of them had meant. And she’d never had to reassure herself that she was over him.
Scanning the tabs at the top of the Web site, she hesitated over the one that said
BIO
. Clicked it.
The same galloping horse from the main page was set atop this one, suggesting it was a favorite, or one of his better-known pieces. Below it, she read:
A lifelong horseman, Wyatt Webb grew up wanting to be a rodeo star, a stunt rider, or Indiana Jones. After having some success with the first two, he turned his attention to learning how to hot-forge horseshoes, intending to go into therapeutic shoeing. When master farrier Ryan Dillon agreed
to take him on as an apprentice, he had no idea his life was about to change.
An embedded picture showed Wyatt with a grizzled barrel of a man, both of them wearing heavy suede shoeing chaps and bent over the upturned foot of a bay horse. Krista’s heart squeezed at seeing a younger and leaner Wyatt who was more like the guy she remembered. At the same time, it was strange knowing that this had come after they were both out of each other’s lives. The bio continued:
While learning to create precisely balanced shoes from blank stock, Wyatt became interested in decorative forging. Ryan taught him a blend of old and new techniques, and the two teamed up in forging competitions.
A photo montage showed the two men standing with a series of sculptures made from bent and welded metal bars—everything from a tabletop model of Denver’s Rainbow Arch bridge to a life-size mermaid. As the pictures progressed, the pieces increased in their size and intricacy and the prizes went from ribbons to trophies, and from there to oversize checks.
Soon, Wyatt struck out on his own, using agricultural scrap metal to create life-size representations of Western scenes from yesterday and today.
The bio went on to list a bunch of awards, along with several museums and state buildings that displayed his work. But it was the line of photos along the bottom that caught Krista’s attention. There were half a dozen horses—all caught midmotion and no two the same—plus a bucking bull with a cowboy coming off
the side, and an annoyed-looking cow being hassled by a bristling dog made from pieces of a combine. Each was made up of cleverly combined metal parts—a whole junkyard come alive.
She stared, baffled, her mind buzzing with a strange mix of pride and discomfort. Why had he come to Three Ridges? Why was he still in town? And most of all, why was he working for her?
She didn’t have a clue. But first thing tomorrow, she was going to find out.
K
rista headed for the barn early to get ahead of Wyatt, only to find that he and Jupiter were already gone. She told herself to let it go, catch him later, use the time to chip away at her to-do mountain. Instead, she pulled out her saddle and called, “Hey, Lucky-boy. You up for a morning ride?”
A glossy black horse in a nearby stall nickered, arching his neck and pressing the perfect diamond in the center of his forehead against the bars of the sliding door.
She grinned as she put him on the cross ties. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Admittedly, taking Lucky out to look for Wyatt and Jupiter was the cowgirl equivalent of taking a Lamborghini down the street for a gallon of milk. But it wasn’t every day that a girl discovered that the guy who broke her heart had gone on to become a famous artist.
Once she was mounted, Lucky’s smooth paces ate the distance, putting them at the marker stones in no time flat. Reining in, she scanned the undulating hills. “I don’t see—”
Lucky pricked his ears and bugled at the sight of the horse and rider two valleys over.
“Thanks, buddy. Off you go.” She nudged him into motion, barely needing the cue with him eager to stretch his legs. He flowed down the ridge and settled into a rocking-chair rhythm that would get them to the others in a few minutes.
Hopefully by then she would have figured out what she wanted to say.
*
Wyatt saw her a ways away, cued by Jupiter’s quick shift of attention and the sudden fine tension running through her body. Or maybe the tension was in his body, sparked by the sight of Krista astride the elegant black gelding, with her hair in cowgirl braids and a sassy red bandanna knotted around her neck like she was planning to rob the eleven o’clock stage.
It made him want to stop and stare, as that kiss played back through his mind like it had been trying to do all morning.
She’s not for you,
he reminded himself. There were sparks there, sure—damn near fireworks. But they were traveling on two different roads these days, and he had sworn off hurting people.
He rode up to meet her, letting Jupiter pick her way along a prairie surface that looked smooth from a distance, but had proved to be a minefield of gopher holes and shifting rocks up close. As they closed the distance, he saw that the black horse was as fine a specimen as
he’d seen in a long while, and Krista’s narrowed eyes were aimed full bore at him.
Jupiter did a little dance beneath him, warning that he’d tensed up.
As Krista came up opposite him and the horses touched noses, trading scent, he said, “Morning, boss. Nice horse.”
“Don’t you
nice horse
me, Wyatt.”
“You’re mad.” Was it about the kiss?
“Why didn’t you tell me that you’re famous?”
Oh. That. “Only according to my agent and the PR people.” Seeing her glare narrow further, he added, “I figured you’d look me up if you wanted to know what I’d been doing with my life. And I like being back around people who care about things like crops and calves rather than visual metaphors and social commentary.” He paused. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful. I’m lucky that Damien saw some of my pieces and threw the weight of GearHorse Gallery behind me, lucky that people lined up to buy, talking about the clash between tradition, industrialization, and the green revolution.” He shrugged. “The thing is, I just like making horses out of metal.” At least he used to.
It was probably the most he’d said about it to anybody since coming to Wyoming—the most he’d said to her about anything.
She didn’t seem impressed—more like she was ready to kick him. Was it bad that he found he preferred that over the usual
ooh, ahh
reaction he got from women?
“Okay, fine,” she said. “You’re on your vacation, getting back to your roots, or whatnot, and it’s my responsibility to background check my hires. But why are you
here
? Why take a job you don’t need? I’m having a hard time believing it’s all about making amends when you let it go eight years without a word.”
The girl she had been would’ve taken it all at face value. The woman she had grown into knew better, and she kept her eyes on his as she waited for an answer. News flash: She hadn’t just gotten feisty; she had gotten tough, too. Tough enough that she would walk away from him if he ducked her question. Which would probably be better for both of them—he didn’t want her inside his head any more than she already was, hadn’t expected to feel anything when he stood near her, caught her scent.
Let it go. Isn’t it enough that I’m here?
That was what he should say. Or, better yet,
Lady, I’m just here to do a job.
Instead, he grated, “I wish I could tell you that I came here with you in mind, but the truth is, I came to Three Ridges because I’m blocked, and I was hoping to hell that spending some time in the backcountry would loosen things up.”
Saying it aloud put a fist of self-directed anger in his gut, a punch that came from admitting he didn’t have his head screwed on tight enough, didn’t have control of his process, such as it was.
“Blocked.” She said it levelly, carefully. “Like writer’s block?”
“Something like that. Used to be that I could look at
a pile of junk and see a bucking bull, or picture a mustang and know where to go for the parts. I didn’t think about it, didn’t worry about it, the right answers were just
there
. After a while, though, it started getting harder to go from the pictures in my head to the actual build.” He had told himself it was because he was getting distracted by the business side of things, and hired people to handle the shows, the e-mails, all of it. That had just made it worse. “I got through my last show and promised myself I would take a break and clear my head . . . but the American Pioneer Museum asked me to do a piece for their post-reno relaunch next summer. It’s a career-maker, and they’re open to whatever I want to do. When I sit down to actually start the work, though . . .” He shook his head. “Nothing.” Like his prospects if he didn’t get his ass in gear.
A single blink was Krista’s only outward response. “And you think leading dude-level trail rides and teaching a mustang to do a bellhop skit is going to fix that?”
“We’re doing a bellhop skit?”
“Wyatt.” The word was a warning. One that said he could either be honest with her or brush her off, but he had to make a choice.
Trying to find the right words when he had already said far more than he normally would, he answered, “I didn’t really have an agenda. I hope you’ll believe that. It was more that things fell into place in a way that made sense—you needed help and I was getting bored at Sam’s place, and I figured I owed you one. And,
yeah, I’m hoping that getting back in the saddle full-time will help with the block.”
“Has it?”
“It’s only been a couple of days.”
“Which means no.”
“It means I’m not sure.” Thinking he knew what she was getting at, he nudged Jupiter forward so the horses were parallel and Krista was less than an arm’s length away. He didn’t reach for her, though. Didn’t figure he had the right, even though she had kissed him. “You’ve got me until the end of the season. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about what I do. I guess I just wanted to go back to being a cowboy for a couple of months.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I’m telling you anyway.” He reached out and gripped her thigh—not a move a guy would make in the normal day-to-day, but not that unusual in the saddle, when it was an easy reach. “I’m not going to bail on you this time, Krista. That’s a promise.”
She hesitated, eyes darkening. “I don’t—”
Her gelding jerked his head up and gave a piercing whinny, the kind that said,
Hey! I see a horse!
Wyatt swiveled around to see a lone rider up on the ridge, standing beside the marker stones and scanning his land with a pair of binoculars. And watching them get up close and personal.
*
“Big Skye caught you and Wyatt
kissing
?” Stace’s eyes went big and round, and the chestnut mare she was riding tossed her head.
“Shh,” Krista hissed. “Keep it down.” They were at the back of the double line of riders as the group started up the last set of hills toward home, with Wyatt in front and Junior keeping an eye on the middle of the pack. But just because she and Stace were eating dust didn’t mean she wanted to broadcast things. “And he didn’t kiss me that time. He just had his hand on my leg.” Which didn’t sound much better, did it?
“There was another time?” The assistant wrangler—and soon to be fully accredited child psychologist—was practically bouncing in her saddle. “Tell me, tell me!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Krista said firmly. “It’s not going to happen again.”
“The way he’s been sneaking looks at you all day? I’m not buying it.”
Krista didn’t let herself ask, didn’t let herself glance in his direction. Not when she had peeked far too many times already today, trying to reconcile the cowboy at the head of the line with the man who wore tuxes and worked with steel and iron, or the one who had walked out on her without a word. It was one thing to realize they were both different people now, another to know what to do about it. Her cautious self said the answer was
nothing
. . . but it wasn’t easy to ignore the way everything around her seemed sharper and more interesting suddenly, her body more in tune with the sway of the saddle and the way a subtle arch of her back pushed her breasts up and out beneath her shirt. She had told Gran and Dory that it took her longer than a
week to get interested in a guy, but there was no doubt she was interested now, despite everything. It was like part of her was programmed to want this particular cowboy even when her better sense knew it was stupid.
Stace nudged her with a boot. “You’re totally thinking about it. I can tell.”
“I don’t want to be. I’d rather be—” Krista broke off as the double line of horses ahead of them wavered and broke. “Whoops! Can you grab Bramble?”
“On it!” Stace urged her horse up the line to where Bernie Trigg—a former investment banker who was shaping up to be this week’s “I rode a horse once” know-it-all—had gotten tangled up in his reins again, sending his saintly mustang mare into a slow, disorganized spin. Stace bumped her horse into Bramble and unhooked his left rein with a cheerful, “Bernie, are you showing off for the ladies again?”
“What? Oh, right!” Bernie—stout, florid, and flushed—jumped on the excuse, puffing up his chest. “Absolutely. I was showing them a reining pattern. The horse I used to ride spun on a dime, you know.”
As Stace got Bernie sorted out, Krista filed her thoughts of Wyatt under
chemistry alone isn’t enough
and followed Bernie’s so-called “ladies”—a former nurse who had turned her knitting hobby into a cottage industry and looked more amused than impressed by him, and a Manhattanite who seemed to be buying his bluster—through the outer perimeter fence and along the single-lane dirt road to the parking lot.
The guests dismounted with the help of several barn
staffers, who surreptitiously propped them up while their saddle-locked joints loosened and the pins and needles disappeared. There were far more smiles than groans, though, and signs of growing confidence as the greenhorns gathered their reins and led their mounts into the barn. Wyatt was right in the thick of it all, helping a couple of the guys with their cinches, nudging two horses apart when they started making pissy faces at each other, and directing the steady flow into the barn. As he led Brutus after the guests, he looked over, found Krista watching him, and winked.
Heat washed over her—at the wink, at getting caught staring—but she gave him a thumbs-up for a job well done. Then, shaking her head at herself, she swung down and headed into the barn along with the last couple of stragglers.
One of them waited for her. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Tall and ballerina-elegant, she wore a happy smile and a smudge on one cheek.
Bebe the florist,
Krista’s memory banks supplied, along with the thought that Bebe and Botanist Joe made a good match, but lived on opposite sides of the country. “The backcountry you mean? Gosh, yes, especially on a day like today, when the sky is clear and looks like it goes on forever.”
“That, too. But I was talking about the flirting. Me and Joe. You and Wyatt.” The older woman gave a happy sigh as they passed through the doors into the shadowy cool of the barn. “Even if it doesn’t turn into anything, it’s lovely to feel those sparkles again.”
Krista should probably set Bebe straight and defuse the gossip. Lord knew she was going to have to do the same with her family after what Big Skye had seen earlier. She and Wyatt hadn’t been kissing, hadn’t been doing anything, really—but a ranch boss wouldn’t let a wrangler put his hand on her thigh unless she wanted it there.
As Wyatt’s deep, resonant voice rolled through the barn, though, chiding Tracy and Trixie for underselling their horse experience and getting trilled laughter in return, Krista found herself nodding. “You know what, Bebe? You’re right. Sparkles are very nice.”
If nothing else, it was nice to know she still had them inside her, and that passion—at least the way she did it—didn’t belong solely to her younger self.
Over the next half hour, the guests untacked and groomed their horses, then filtered back to their cabins to shower and get ready for dinner. As the barn quieted down, Krista slipped into Lucky’s stall and methodically ran her hands over his body and down his legs to his hooves. Straightening, she patted his shoulder. “Looking good. Do me a favor and keep it that way, okay?”
“Does he need the reminder?” Wyatt asked.
She turned to find him standing in the doorway with his shoulder propped and his thumbs hitched in his pockets, making a picture that she could imagine getting shared around on the Internet with all sorts of
Save a horse, ride a cowboy
captions.
Reminding herself it was one thing to feel the sizzle,
another to act on it, she brushed Lucky’s forelock away from the white diamond in the center of his forehead. “I threaten to bubble wrap him some days. It’s hard to see now because scar hair comes in white, but he tried to lobotomize himself at eighteen months. He was playing with his buddies, lost his footing and fell on the fence. Three months later, he stepped on himself and nearly tore off one heel. A week after that, he got hold of a two-pound bag of individually wrapped peppermints and ate the whole thing, wrappers and all.” She sighed. “And that’s not even counting the two hoof abscesses and a summer cold.” Except she was totally counting them. It was one thing to deal with her retirees’ many issues, another when her favorite baby horse seemed bent on self-destruction. “Anyway.” She gave the gelding a final pat and left the stall, waiting for Wyatt to get out of the way so their bodies wouldn’t brush. “Good job today,” she said as she closed the door. “The guests love you.”