Harvest at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  No doubt for Kenny’s skanky van. “How are you guys doing?”

  There was a beat of silence. Then Ashley said, “What, no dig about Kenny’s skanky van?”

  He chuckled. “Would it have done anything other than annoy you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why bother? Besides, I don’t want to dig at you. I’d rather hear what you’ve been up to.”

  There was another pause, then she said, “Well, we went to see the tar pits the other day. Have you ever been there?”

  “Mammoths and stuff? Sure. Pretty cool.”

  “I thought so. Some of the skeletons reminded me of your sculptures. It was like they were moving without actually moving, you know?”

  “Yeah.” He tucked the phone tighter against his ear, suddenly hearing an echo of the little girl who’d had a question for everything and an eye for the beauty in ordinary life. Back then, he’d thought she would do something artsy with her life. Funny that it had wound up being the other way around. “I liked the fishbowl thing they’ve got in the tar pit museum. You know, where you can watch the archaeologists working?”

  “They weren’t there when we were, but I’d like to go back and see them on my next day off.” She hesitated. “I’m, um, working in an art supply store. It’s just part-time, and I don’t make much . . .”

  Did she always sound so hesitant, or was it only with him? He hoped not. “Do you like the people?”

  “They’re pretty cool. The boss is obsessed with cleaning the coffeemaker and making sure all our lunches have our names and dates on them if we use the fridge, but other than that everyone seems nice. I’ve only been there a few weeks, but I made a display the other day and Carrie—that’s the boss—really liked it. She said maybe I could do others.”

  “Send me a picture, okay?”

  “You want to see it?”

  “I asked, didn’t I?” And it had made her voice stronger, even put a hint of pleasure in her tone. Not to mention that this was probably the longest they had been on the phone in forever. “And take a picture of the coffeemaker, too. You’ve got me curious.”

  Her laugh was a light, tinkling noise he hadn’t heard nearly enough of lately. “What’s up with you? Is the new sculpture going awesome or something?”

  “Actually, it’s complete crap at the moment.”

  “Then why do you sound happy?”

  “Because I am.” It was out before he knew what hit him, startling in its simplicity. “I’m happy.”

  “I didn’t think you did happy. Brooding and artistic, maybe, but not happy. What gives? Are you in Denver?”

  “Wyoming. I’m working at a dude ranch.”

  “Really?” She sounded thrilled. “You’re back riding?”

  “I’m even competing this weekend.” He filled her in on the Mustang Makeover, making her laugh with his description of the bellhop skit.

  Something must have come through in his voice, though, because hers went teasing. “So . . . tell me about this boss of yours. Is she pretty?”

  She’s an angel, only better, because she’s mine to touch. Grinning at the almost-poetry that had found its way into his head—and thinking the world should be grateful he’d gone the sculpture route instead of free verse—he said, “She’s something special, that’s for sure. We knew each other back in college.”

  “Really?” Her voice went up a couple of notches. “She’s the one?”

  “Huh?” He hadn’t told her about Krista back in the day. Hadn’t told anyone.

  “The one who broke your heart and sent you bouncing around after school.”

  “You’ve got that backward. I broke her heart, and I’m the one who bounced. Remember? It’s in the DNA.”

  She made a pfft noise. “Not even close. Dad bounced because he wanted to pretend he was eternally twenty years old—which, by the way, stops looking cool after thirty-five or so, and really looks janky now that he’s over fifty. But you’ve been bouncing because you haven’t had any reason to stay in one place. Maybe now you do.”

  A cool breeze touched the back of his neck, coming through the open shop door. “You’ve been listening to Mom again. You know that can be dangerous.”

  That got a giggle. “She isn’t always wrong. She always said one of these days you’d find a woman who makes you want to stick around.”

  “I’m not really a stick-with-it sort of guy.”

  “You’ve stuck with the horses all your life.”

  “Only because that’s what I grew up knowing. That made it easy.”

  Again with the pfft. “Admit it. You love them, and part of you wishes you were born back when it was enough to have a good saddle and some skills, without all the PR and Internet crap.”

  “I . . . Hm.” It was tough to argue that one when he was staring at a campfire scene that gave a shout-out to exactly that. “When did you get so smart?”

  “When you weren’t looking,” she said tartly, but he had a feeling she was enjoying the opportunity to give him grief, rather than the other way around.

  “Well, I’m looking now, and I like what I see. Or hear. Whatever.” He paused, wondering how he could bring things back around to Kenny and stuff like Is he paying his share yet? or Is he treating you right?

  “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?”
<
br />   “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?

  24

  “We 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.”