“It seems I can’t do that, either.” The regret in his voice made her heart shudder, as did the feeling of his body pressed against hers.
He would let her go if she struggled, she knew, leave if she insisted. But she was weak, darn it, and he was solid and strong, and offering a shoulder. Against all her better judgment she sagged against him as the tears broke free once more. Burrowing into his chest and finding that her head didn’t hurt so much when the lights went out, she wailed, “Why did you say all those things?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I thought you and your family should know what happened back then.”
“I didn’t want to know!” It hurt to cry, hurt to hold him, hurt to let herself be held.
He tightened his arms around her, like he was afraid she would pull away when he said, “I’m sorry I took off on you, Krista. I’m sorry I left that letter. I was afraid if I told you in person, I’d never make the break.”
Let it go. It doesn’t matter anymore. But the words came unbidden, feeling like they were being ripped from her chest. “You said I was different, that the way you felt about me was different!”
“You are. It was.”
“Don’t!” She beat at his arms. “Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. Tell me the truth, damn you!”
He was holding her so close that she could feel his pulse. “That is the truth, always was. I never had the same feelings for anyone else, before or since. But it turned out that I wasn’t wired for forever. I wanted to be. I tried to be. But I didn’t have it in me back then. Still don’t now, but at least I know better than to try.” His voice went hollow. “I was a stupid kid and I pulled a crappy stunt taking off like that, but whether it happened then or a few months later, the end result would’ve been the same. We were too young to get in that deep so fast.”
She wanted to argue, but wept instead, sobbing like she had that night.
Stupid to cry, stupid to feel anything. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Shh,” he said against her temple, rocking her. “Any boy who treats you like that doesn’t deserve you crying over him.”
She sniffled. “That’s what my father said.”
“Smart man. You should listen to him.”
She pushed at him. “Let me go.”
“Not yet.” He tightened his grip on her. “Give yourself another few minutes.”
But as the tears drained to an empty ache, she was too aware of how their bodies lined up, hard to soft, and how badly she wanted to nestle in close. Which so wasn’t happening.
Forcing her voice level, she said, “I need to get cleaned up for dinner. You should come. We’re playing strip Bingo. I’m sure Trixie and Tracy would let you sit with them.”
He chuckled obediently and finally let go and eased away from her, but his eyes were serious on hers. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” She used the tail of her shirt to swipe her face dry, aware that his eyes followed the motion as he waited for a real response. She gripped his wrists, then stepped back, breaking his hold on her. “I’ll be fine. Honest. It just hit me harder than I would have expected.” She would think about what that meant later.
When she released his wrists, he let his hands fall to his sides as he studied her. “How about us?” he asked with a new note in his voice. “Are we okay?”
She hesitated, then said, “Not yet. But I think we’re getting there.”
*
Later that evening, after the sun dropped behind the mountains in a fiery ball that turned the cloud-feathered sky to salmon and purple, Wyatt dragged out his sketch pad and a fountain pen, on the theory that maybe vintage would spark vintage in his stubborn brain. Heck, he’d sketch with a quill if that was what it took, or use a charred stick.
“And it’s a bad sign when a change of writing implements is as creative as I get,” he grumbled.
Klepto’s head came up from his doggy bed, his ears angled forward. “Whuff?” You missing something?
“Yeah, my spark.” Except that wasn’t really true—he had plenty of sparks going on in other parts of his life all of a sudden. But when it came to the piece for the pioneer museum, he had nada.
The furry gray face tilted in inquiry. You want me to find the pretty lady again? I’m good at finding the pretty lady. Which was true. Klepto had tracked Krista to the boathouse, giving Wyatt the opportunity to see firsthand the damage he had done by following the grand Webb tradition of loving and leaving.
He had known it before, but now it was burned into him like a brand. He had quit on her, bolted on her, taken the easy way out. Not that it had been easy for him—he wore his own scars from that night. But he’d spared himself the big, messy scene . . . until today. He wasn’t sure if he’d helped or hurt by telling her the truth about that night, or if it didn’t matter one way or the other now. All he knew was that he’d made her cry, and he never wanted to do that again—which meant staying away from her and keeping his hands to himself. He needed to forget the sparks, forget the way the sunlight turned her hair to gold, and do the jobs he’d been hired to do.
Like be her head wrangler. Train her mustang. And design the biggest sculpture of his career when he totally wasn’t feeling it.
Muttering under his breath, he flipped open his sketch pad. It fell to the page of notes he’d jotted down during his meeting with the museum board—snippets like go beyond the wagon train, embrace the vaquero tradition, and something indecipherable that probably didn’t say rampant rubber mice but sure looked like it.
Not that he needed the notes—he knew what the museum folk were after, knew he could deliver if he could just get his blasted brain back in the game. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He had hung out at the museum, done a boatload of research, and had even taken a wagon train ride near Jackson Hole. More, he had scoured his usual sources—a mix of repair shops, junkyards, auctions, and falling-down barns where decades of farm equipment had gone to die—for scraps that would put themselves together in his mind and make his fingers itch for a torch. He had even called Ryan for help, and on his mentor’s advice had ordered some raw bar stock so he could get back to basics.
None of it had worked though, forcing him all the way back to paper and pencil, hoping that the sketches would shake something loose.
Muttering under his breath, he flipped the page. Then kept flipping, past several variations on the same theme—a cowboy hunkered over a fire, making coffee while a scruffy mechanical dog begged for scraps. “Hm.” He stared at the least lame of them, getting a glimmer as the last bit of pink bled from the sky and darkness closed in.
Maybe he was overcomplicating things.
Swapping out his pen for a worn pencil, he scrubbed the eraser over the dog, wiping it out and leaving the cowboy alone. There. That was better.
11
“Okay.” Krista opened up a blank page on her laptop. “We need a new script for Jupiter’s freestyle. Ideas?” She, Jenny, and Shelby had sneaked in a rare midafternoon meeting, and were celebrating the hour off with fresh fruit, wine, and cheese. Since it was Friday—farewell barbecue night for the golden singles—Gran and Dory were manning the big grills out by the gazebo, leaving the kitchen free.
“Are you sure the old skit is a no-go?” Shelby asked. “You were fine doing it with Foster.”
“I never slept with your husband.”
“Good to know.”
Krista made a face. “It’s one thing to play honeymooners with a guy friend. It’s another to do it with your ex.” Especially when she wasn’t nearly as over him as she had thought when she got the bright idea to hire him. “Besides, have you looked at the script lately? I don’t know what we were drinking when we wrote it, but there’s a whole lot of naughty in there.”
“Sex sells,” Jenny said. “Why do you think the singles weeks are the first ones to fill up?”
“Followed by the reunion weeks in close second,” Krista countered. “Hello, irony.”
�
�Everything in the script is PG,” Shelby put in. “It’s more innuendo than anything.”
Not exactly. The skit cast the two humans as gown-and-tux-wearing honeymooners who first arrived together on horseback, with Jupiter trailing tied-on cans and noisemakers—a sure test of any horse’s nerves and training—and wearing a JUST MARRIED sign on her rump. A quick costume change put the horse in a huge cowboy hat, standing behind a prop reception desk, checking in the oblivious honeymooners, and ringing for a luggage cart. Next, wearing a bellhop’s uniform, Jupiter would push and then pull a giant, overflowing luggage cart with a couple of interruptions to round up the honeymooners, who kept stalling to kiss. Finally, in the honeymoon suite—a big prop bed with a whole lot of reinforcement—the mare would pour champagne into two glasses, look at the humans, and shake her head at seeing them kissing again. Then, she would climb into bed and curl up to sleep.
It was cute. It was funny. It was manageable, given how well Jupiter’s clicker training was coming along. Most of all, it would be a killer advertisement for Mustang Ridge: luxury, romance, and well-trained remounts. What could be better?
And Krista couldn’t do it. “Why are you guys pushing it, anyway? You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Do you want us to hate him?” Jenny asked. “We can do that if you want. Thing is, we’re pretty sure you don’t hate him at this point, and if you don’t, why should we?”
“I . . .” Krista bit into a strawberry. “I’m trying to hate him. Life would be a whole lot easier if I did.”
“It’s hard to hate somebody who’s doing the right thing now,” Shelby said, “and who probably did the right thing back then, too, even if his delivery sucked.”
“Oh, shut up.” But Shelby was right, darn it. Krista sighed. “Okay, fine. Maybe that’s part of it.” In the four days since her and Wyatt’s blowout, a busy week had kept them from spending any real time together except for trail riding at opposite ends of the line and exchanging quick “Jupe was a rock star today!” progress reports on their training project. He hadn’t been out of her head for more than a few minutes at a time, though. And, yeah, maybe it was time to admit that they had been on completely different trajectories when they knew each other before, even if she hadn’t realized it. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. I think I got it in my head that I was going to be like Gran and Big Skye, or Mom and Dad—you know, meeting The One before twenty-one, getting married and starting a family right away. When it didn’t happen, it was more than just a breakup. It was a failure.” Saying it out loud put a catch in her throat.
“Oh, sweetie.” Jenny pulled her in for a one-armed hug. “No. Never think that.”
“Too late.” Krista returned the hug, then straightened, squaring her shoulders. “But having figured that out, I can walk away from it. I am walking away from it.” Working on it, anyway. “As for the other stuff, we were young and clearly dumber than I want to admit, and he probably did us both a favor.” She narrowed her eyes at the other two. “But that doesn’t mean I want to play newlywed with him.”
“It’s just for a few minutes,” Shelby pointed out, “and it’s not like you’re supposed to really kiss each other. Unless there’s something you and Foster want to tell me?”
“Nope.” Krista pinched the bridge of her nose, not sure if she was on the verge of a headache or a wine buzz. “Okay, how about this? We keep the bones of the skit the same, but lose the kissy-touchy parts. Our honeymooners could be all wide-eyed about the pretend mountain views instead of each other. That would still have them wandering off during the luggage bit, and then oblivious once they’re in the pretend honeymoon suite.”
“That might work,” Jenny said, tipping her head to one side as she pictured it. “I think we need more, though.”
“I agree.” Shelby snagged a raspberry off Krista’s plate and popped it into her mouth. “What about—”
“There are my girls!” Gran trilled, coming up the stairs to the side door and using her hip to bump through. Her arms were stacked with barbecue-sauce-streaked bowls. “How goes the brainstorming?”
Shelby popped up. “Let me get those.”
“Oh, poosh, I’ve got them. You stay right where you are and tell me what you’ve come up with.”
“We mostly know what we’re not going to be doing,” Krista said, “but here’s what we’ve got so far.” She sketched out the skit and the four of them bounced some ideas around while Gran washed the bowls and threw together a salad with fat tomatoes providing pops of red against the fluffy green.
Struck by the visual, Krista said, “What about room service?”
Gran blinked at her. “What about it?”
“Maybe we could switch out the luggage bit for a room service gag. It’d be mostly the same tricks—Jupiter could push the cart, take the cover off the food and—”
The front door slammed, startling her, and heavy footsteps crossed the main room with slightly arthritic unevenness.
“We’re in here, Arthur!” Gran called. There was no answer, though, and the footsteps continued through to the back of the house.
“Guess he didn’t hear you,” Shelby said.
Gran pursed her lips. “Maybe.”
“Everything okay?” Krista asked, not liking the sudden hint of hurt in her grandmother’s eyes. “Is he being Grumpy Gramps again?”
Gran gave the salad an unnecessary fluff with the tongs. “He’s . . . I don’t know what he is these days.” Her eyebrows drew together. “I love the man, but some days I just want to thump him upside the head.”
“Is he feeling okay?” Krista asked. She hadn’t seen much of Big Skye over the past couple of weeks, but that wasn’t unusual. He may have gotten resigned to the dude-ification of Mustang Ridge, but he still avoided her as much as possible.
“He had a checkup a couple of weeks ago,” Gran said, “and the doctor said he was good to go for another sixty thousand miles, at least.”
“Let’s go see what he’s up to.” Krista nudged Jenny. “He’ll get a kick out of visiting with his favorite granddaughter.”
Jenny poked her back. “I’m only his favorite when I’ve got my camera.”
“Want us to wait while you run out to the car and get it?”
“Ha!” Jenny sailed past her. “Last one to the sitting room is a rotten egg!”
Krista hung back as Jenny and Shelby headed for the main room. To Gran, she said, “You coming?”
“I’ve got the barbecue to see to.”
“Do you need help?”
“No, you go on. If anybody can jolly Arthur out of his mood, it’ll be you three girls.” Gran concentrated on setting the last of the bowls in the drying rack, banging them together with more volume than usual.
“Hey.” Krista crossed to her, wrapped her arms around her gran’s waist, and put her chin on her shoulder, as she’d been doing ever since she grew tall enough to pull it off. Rocking them both, she said, “Talk to me. What’s going on with you two?”
Gran covered Krista’s hands with her own and gave a little pat. “Nothing we haven’t gotten through before, and nothing we won’t get through this time. But if we agree that all men are stubborn, I’d say your grandfather is worse than most.”
“Amen.” Krista kissed her cheek. “But he loves you.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“Then what is?”
“When I figure it out, I’ll let you know. Now go on. See if you can get him to smile. I’ll even settle for not stomping around like he’s a Clydesdale with a fly on its belly.” Gran squeezed her hands, then stepped away. “I’m going to see how Dory is doing with the smoker.”
Krista hesitated, tempted to press but not wanting to overstep. With three generations living and working together, there had to be some boundaries—and “I don’t want to talk about it right now” was a biggie. “I could make you a batch of cookies. They might make you feel better.”
Gran’s expression lightened. “Don’t
you dare, young lady. It took four coats of paint to cover the soot marks from the last time.”
“Hey! I was fourteen. I’m not sure it’s fair to still be holding that one over my head.” But at least it had made Gran smile. “Okay,” Krista said, pretending to settle a suit of armor on her shoulders. “Cover me. I’m going in.”
“Oh, poosh. He’s not that bad!” Gran’s laughter warmed Krista as she headed out of the kitchen.
The main room was empty, but in the brightly lit dining room beyond, she found Big Skye, Jenny, and Shelby sitting around the big table with an archival box open, old photos spread out in slippery piles, and their heads together as they studied a picture.
“Whoa, Gramps,” Jenny said. “What’s with the lapels?”
He harrumphed and scowled, but there was a thread of amusement beneath the bluster.
“Cut him some slack,” Shelby said. “It was the seventies.”
“What have you guys got there?” Krista asked, coming around to stand behind Jenny and Big Skye. “I’m guessing this isn’t a box of eighteen-whatever, guess-who’s-in-the-tintype mystery photos?”
“Better.” Jenny held up a five-by-seven. “Big Skye doing Saturday Night Fever.”
Krista snicker-snorted at the sight of her gramps wearing a light blue tux and a wide-collared shirt with way too many buttons open at the top, looking so young, yet somehow exactly the same. He had his arm around a younger Gran, who was wearing a shiny sequined dress that clung to her slight body and ended well above her knees. Behind them, a dessert buffet sagged under its load and dancers filled the floor. The grainy color snapshot had probably been state-of-the-art in its day . . . but then again, the clothes probably had been, too.
“It wasn’t anybody’s fever,” he grumped. “It was the Cattleman’s Ball.”
“You don’t say?” Krista marveled, and got a dirty look in return. At Shelby’s raised eyebrow, she said, “The local stockmen’s association is plenty progressive when it comes to computerized databases, cattle genetics, and using the latest and best veterinary tech, but when it comes to the annual ball . . . well, let’s just say that big hair and plaid may come and go, but the party swag, big-ass steaks, and playlist are set in stone.”
Harvest at Mustang Ridge Page 10
