“Who’s that?” Jenny pointed to the dark-haired dancer in the background. “He looks familiar.”
“That’s . . .” Big Skye frowned, making a humming noise. “It’s . . .”
“He looks like a Lemp,” Krista noted.
Her grandfather scowled at her. “Of course it’s a Lemp. Anyone can see that. Maybe Max? Humph. I know it starts with an ‘M.’”
“Martini?” Jenny suggested. “Or Melba?”
Shelby studied the picture. “He looks like a Manfred to me.”
“Nope,” Krista said decisively. “That’s the family rebel. He goes by Bob.”
“Ask your grandmother,” Big Skye said, flicking the picture away. “She’ll remember who it is. Probably his whole life story, too.” He snagged another from a nearby pile. “Now this is a good one.”
As he and Jenny put their heads together over a Polaroid from some rodeo or another, Krista pulled out a chair and sat on the other side of her grandfather, relieved that he seemed like his usual self. “Who’s got a pen? Remember, we’re supposed to be documenting this stuff, not just flipping through for crimes against fashion.” And, as they settled in for an hour of “hey, remember this?” and the unutterable disconnect that came from a photo of Big Skye water skiing in a Speedo, she felt some of the tension drain away.
Maybe her five-year plan had gone off the rails, and maybe Jenny’s marriage had put more green in her eyes than she wanted to admit, but if scraping the surface of the family photos had proven anything, it was that the Skyes always found love eventually—and once they did, it was forever.
*
“Come on, don’t be shy.” Trixie looped an arm through Wyatt’s and urged him along the gravel pathway to the gazebo, where the farewell barbecue was already in full swing, with mouthwatering smoke coming from the pit, happy-looking guests scattered at picnic tables, and chirpy fiddle music coming from hidden speakers.
“Shy isn’t usually the first word people think of when it comes to me,” he drawled, knowing it would make her laugh.
It did. She patted his arm with her free hand. “Fine, then. Circumspect. Don’t tell me you’re antisocial, because I don’t buy it, which means there’s another reason you’ve been avoiding the dining hall. And don’t think we haven’t seen what’s going on between you and Krista. I’ve got ten bucks on a spring wedding.”
He coughed as a lungful of air somehow got caught sideways. “A suggestion? Put another fifty on just friends.” And even that was pushing it. Ever since that night down by the boathouse, they had been giving each other a wide berth.
“Nonsense,” she said as they reached the party. “I’ve seen how you two look at each other.”
He wouldn’t ask, because it didn’t matter. There was no arguing the attraction, only what he and Krista were—or, more accurately, weren’t—going to do about it. Even if he wanted to go there on her turf, surrounded by her family, he kept remembering those tears. “You should get those glasses checked, Trix. I think you’re seeing things.”
“Ha! You know what I think? I think you’re smart enough to know there might be something real there, and it’s got you spooked.”
He nudged her toward the buffet line. “Go on, get yourself a plate before it’s all gone.”
“Like Gran would let that happen!” But she moved off, tossing a wink over her shoulder, and calling, “You just think about what I said, cowboy. You don’t want to let things like this slide, or pretty soon you’ll turn around and find that it’s already too late.”
He watched her go, shaking his head. Not because she was all that far off base, but because part of him wished it was that simple.
“Dare I ask?” Krista said behind him. “Or do I not want to know?”
He sucked in a breath, and the scent of wildflowers and rain hit him in the gut. Steeling himself—to not stare at her, not react to her, not let her know that the man he was today wanted the woman she had grown into, despite everything—he turned. “Let’s call it an inside joke,” he said, and then fell silent.
She had left her hair down and dressed up for the farewell barbecue, in a flowing red-and-blue patchwork skirt that showed the tops of her flower-tooled brown leather boots, and a stretchy red shirt that bared just a hint of cleavage, making a man want to take a second look.
“An inside joke. I like that.” Her lips curved, but her smile went wistful as she scanned the crowd. “I can’t believe they’ll all be gone tomorrow.”
“If you ask me, you’ll see some of them again.” He nodded to Terry M. and Terry P., an auto mechanic and a children’s book editor who had bonded over sharing the same first name and now sat close together.
“I hope everyone got something out of the week, with or without a hookup.”
“I think I can guarantee that. You do good work here, Krista. Real good work.” It still felt strange to say her name, like he was riding on an eyebrow trail on a horse that might stumble any second.
“You did your part this week. I’m grateful.” She paused, then slid him a sidelong look. Started to say something, but didn’t. His pulse kicked up a notch for no good reason, and he stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from doing something he’d already decided he wasn’t going to do. In the end, though, all she said was, “Have a nice day off tomorrow. I’ll see you Sunday morning for Riding 101.”
She moved off with a swing of golden hair and a swish of red and blue skirt that left him staring at the patches of color on the back that seemed to say “put your hands here.” Which he so wasn’t going to do.
“You should come to the bonfire tonight,” said Trixie’s voice behind him, “and ask her to dance.”
“What I should do,” he said as he turned, “is put my back against the wall so nobody can sneak up on me.”
She hooted with laughter and turned away, calling, “Patrick! Yoo-hoo, Patrick. You’re going to save me a dance, right? Krista’s taking requests for tonight’s playlist. What do you think about that song from Dirty Dancing?”
Taking the opportunity to escape, Wyatt whistled for Klepto. “Come on, buddy. Let’s head home.”
He got a “whuff” in response, and a wiry gray body emerged from under a nearby picnic table. With it came a pink-flowered shirt clamped in happy jaws.
Wyatt sighed, but there was some relief, too. Long after the summer ended and he left Mustang Ridge, Klepto would still be with him, still be “borrowing” things and bringing them to him with that goofy expression of Look what I found! Isn’t it cool?
“What did I tell you . . .” he began, but then gave it up because there was no real point. It wasn’t like complaining was going to make a dent, and it was his fault for not keeping a better eye on the dog. “You’re lucky I find you entertaining. Drop it.” He snagged the shirt, shook it out, and draped it at the end of a picnic table, figuring it’d be reunited with its owner when things wound down.
Then, whistling his unrepentant mutt to heel, he headed out along the trail to the bunkhouse.
The party noises faded as they crested the first hill, leaving them surrounded by a whole lot of grass and fresh air, all of it turned red-gold by the first few hints of dusk.
This, he thought, filling his lungs with air that he didn’t have to share with anybody else. This was why he’d needed to get out of Denver, away from crowds, Wi-Fi and coffee shops on every corner. Away from Damien and the rest of the people who, when they said, “How’s it going?” were really asking when he’d have a new piece to show. He could breathe out here. He could hear himself think out here. Especially when he was away from the clamor. Once upon a time, he had pictured himself surrounded by family and ranch guests . . . but he was learning that it could close in on a man real fast.
Klepto sniffed his way to and fro, zigzagging along Wyatt’s track as they topped the second hill and started down into the shallow valley that held the bunkhouse. When they reached level ground, Wyatt turned for the steel building where he’d stashed his tools. Stopping with hi
s hand on the lock, he looked into the distance at the rippling hills and darkening mountains, and imagined there was a small, rough-hewn cabin behind him, maybe a revolver on his hip and a hungry ache in his belly.
Still nothing. Damn it.
Turning away, he said to Klepto, “What do you say we take a look at that hot tub instead?”
He had a blowtorch and some know-how, after all. And if he kept busy—even if he wasn’t working on what he was supposed to be doing—he wouldn’t give in to the temptation and go down to the lake, where Krista would be dancing in that ruffled skirt and low-cut shirt, and a man could easily get himself in trouble.
*
“I had the perfect idea for your grandparents’ anniversary,” Rose said brightly late that night, pitching her voice to carry over the music and the chatter of the dozen or so guests who were still gathered around the bonfire. “Skydiving!”
Krista, who had been trying to decide if she should add more wood or let the fire burn down, took a second to process that one. “What, like having an aerial display team come down over the ranch with a HAPPY ANNIVERSARY banner or something?”
“No, silly.” Rose waved that off. “I mean we should send them skydiving. You know how much your grandfather loves those old aerial photos of the ranch.”
How that translated to “we should totally send them skydiving,” Krista didn’t know. “Gran doesn’t like heights,” she pointed out, “and their anniversary is in December. They’ll freeze.”
“So we’ll give them some sort of presentation at the party, and schedule the jump for later.” Her mom’s eyes lit. “How about next year’s Harvest Fair? They could parachute onto the track and then wave the flag to start the big stock car race!”
Stifling the sudden image of Gran dangling from a Ferris wheel by a tangled-up parachute, Krista said, “I was more thinking we should send them to Paris for lunch.” Or was it breakfast in Paris and lunch somewhere else? Full of good food and warm from the fire, she couldn’t remember.
“Why Paris? She doesn’t like French cooking.”
Actually, she did. Just not how Rose did it. “It’s just a thought.”
“Anyway, I’m pretty sure your grandfather is thinking along those lines. He asked me the other day about travel agencies and those discount Web sites that do the all-inclusive packages to Europe.”
Way to go, Gramps. “So you’re helping him out with the planning?”
“You betcha. I hate to think what he might end up with otherwise.” Rose shuddered. “A bus tour of student hostels, or paying for a hotel that only renovated the one room they photographed for the Web site. If they rented a room in a bad part of the city and got mugged, I’d never forgive myself.”
“This from the woman who wants to send them skydiving.”
A couple of years ago, her mom would’ve dug in for the battle. Now, she sent Krista a sidelong look. “You think it’s too much.”
Remembering the pictures of Big Skye on water skis, she said, “Maybe not, but they’re getting up there, you know. Speaking of which . . . how does Gramps seem to you?”
Instead of the immediate “Fine, sweetie, why do you ask?” that Krista was expecting—and admittedly hoping for—there was a pause that dragged on long enough for the fire to pop a few times and her to notice that the party was down to six—her and her mom plus two diehard couples hunkered together, talking in low voices as the flames burned low.
Then, finally, Rose said, “Any marriage has its bumps along the way, even one that’s coming up on fifty years.”
Gran had said something similar, but she hadn’t been working so hard to pick the right words. “You know something, don’t you? Tell me. I want to help.”
But her mom shook her head. “I’m just guessing, sweetie, based on having been married to your father for as long as I have. Don’t worry. It’ll pass. These things always do.”
Reunion Week said otherwise, but Krista didn’t want to think along those lines when it came to her grandparents. “You’ll tell me if I can do anything to help?”
“Just the usual. Love them. Tell Gran her cookies are the best and make Big Skye feel like he’s indispensable.”
“They are. He is, even though he’s a grouchy pain in the you-know-what sometimes. I just worry about them.”
“They’ll be fine.” Her mom patted her hand. Then, seeming to think that wasn’t enough, she squeezed Krista’s fingers, then held on. “Speaking of relationships.”
“Don’t tell me you and Dad are having problems. Or Jenny and Nick. My worldview couldn’t take it.”
“No, dear. Haven’t you heard? Us Skyes mate for life, like wolves.”
Krista let out a relieved breath. “I think the wolf thing is a myth.”
“Swans, then. Or fruit flies. Whatever species does for better or worse. But that’s not what—or, rather, who—I wanted to talk to you about.”
So much for relief. “Wyatt, you mean.” A quick glance showed that the others were happily oblivious, but it still felt like his name had come out too loud.
“Of course I mean Wyatt. Unless you started something this week I wasn’t aware of? With Bernie, maybe, or Patrick?”
“Ha. No. And, anyway, I thought you wanted grandkids? I think this weeks’ guests are beyond that phase.”
“I do want grandbabies, but not—” Again, Krista’s mom picked her words. “I hope you’re being careful, that’s all.”
Stifling a condom joke—not going there, especially when the subject was Wyatt and she was talking to her mom—Krista shifted in her chair as a log hissed and popped. “I thought you guys were okay with him now, after his apology and all.” Even her father had agreed to give him a chance.
“Okay with him working here, sure. As for anything more than that”—Rose tightened her grip on Krista’s hand—“I just don’t want to see you get hurt again, baby. He’s a handsome, charming man with a good smile, and he’s an artist, to boot. I can see the attraction.”
Krista shook her head. “There’s nothing going on between me and Wyatt. Nothing. Nada. Nyet. Capisce?” She hoped that didn’t fall under the category of the lady doth protest too much, but she wanted to get the point across. “Seriously, Mom. There’s no way Wyatt and I are picking up where we left off. That’s over and done with. Finished. Buh-bye.” And she was stopping now.
“There hasn’t been anybody else for you, baby, and you’re not getting any younger.”
Ouch. “I’m twenty-eight, Mom, not ninety. And I’ve dated other guys.”
“Not seriously.”
“So . . . what? Do you want me to start back up with him, see if he was supposed to be my one-and-only after all? Because, trust me, he’s not.” If he had been, they would’ve been inseparable from college on, just like her mom and dad.
But Rose said gently, “No, sweetheart. I want you to use this time to get over him. Then you’ll be free to look for your wolf.”
“Swan,” Krista said automatically.
“I don’t care if it’s a monogamous bedbug, as long as he—or she—makes you happy.”
And, dang it, she didn’t have a comeback for that. Especially since it had struck a chord—not the bedbug thing, but taking the opportunity to get over Wyatt. All these years she thought she had moved on . . . but she hadn’t had a relationship other than her fling with Ballard, had she? And there were still sparks—big ones—with Wyatt. “I am happy, Mom.” She swept a hand at the landscape that was lost in the darkness beyond the flames. “How could I not be?”
“In other words, butt out.”
Krista grinned. “I didn’t say that.”
“Sure you did, but I can take it.” Her mom dusted the crumbs off her fingers and stood. “Just think about it, okay?”
“I will.” Krista stood and kissed her cheek. “Thanks. Sleep well.”
As the darkness swallowed Rose’s tall figure and her footsteps receded in the distance, Krista crossed to the fire, where the crowd had dwindled to a single co
uple snuggled near the blaze. “Do you guys want me to throw on some more wood?”
“Not on our account.” Joe stood, brushed himself off, and helped Bebe to her feet. “Thanks for the bonfire. It was the perfect finale for one of the best weeks of my life.”
Bebe tipped her head against his shoulder. “We’re going to stay in touch with each other, see where it leads. Maybe we’ll see you next year for a different theme week.”
Krista smiled. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“Would you like help cleaning up?”
“No, you guys go on. I’ll take care of it.”
But once they were gone, Krista turned the music down low, snagged a nearly empty bag of marshmallows, and leaned back on a log facing the lake, where the blue-white light from the half-moon and the red-orange of the bonfire made the water sparkle like it was coated with jewels. She didn’t bother toasting the marshmallows, instead nibbling straight from the bag as the night quieted around her.
The snack didn’t fill the hollow in her belly, though, because it wasn’t the hungry kind of emptiness. It wasn’t that she was worried about Big Skye, either. At least not entirely. No . . . here in the darkness, in a rare moment of privacy, she had to admit that her mom was right about one thing—she wasn’t all the way over Wyatt. If she had been, she wouldn’t be disappointed that he’d been a no-show for the bonfire.
Which was stupid. It wasn’t in the job description, and the guests had partied to their hearts’ content. . . . Yet she had wanted him there, more than she had admitted even to herself when she had traded her jeans for a long skirt, switched her work shirt out for a red number that showed some cleavage, and left her hair down. Sure, she had gotten plenty of compliments at dinner and hadn’t lacked for a dance partner when the bonfire kicked into high gear, but the one man she had hoped to dance with hadn’t shown.
She didn’t know why she had thought he might. Didn’t know what it really meant that she had wished for him. But maybe that was her mom’s point. Did she want to waste time wishing for him to show up?
Harvest at Mustang Ridge Page 11
