He was pale now, the stubble turned to a dark line on his tense jaw. “But you need the words, the promises.”
“I need to know there’s some potential for a future. I want a husband, Wyatt. Children. I’d give anything for you to be that husband, for those children to be yours.” Guilt stung as she skirted the edge of honesty, but she’d be damned if she trapped him. She would give him this one chance, and if he didn’t want her for her own sake, she would cut him loose. Then, later, she would tell him about the baby and they would make the necessary arrangements.
Arrangements. Gawd, what a terrible word. And how she hated knowing that she’d be bringing her child into the world already saddled with things like visitation and custodial agreements. Don’t cry. Hold it together. You can do this.
“Krista . . .”
Her heart sank as she heard the answer in his voice, saw it in his eyes. “It’s okay. We had a deal.”
“It’s not okay.” He took her hands, gripped them hard. “I don’t want to promise you something I can’t deliver.”
“The future or the children?”
“Both.” He shook his head. “I’m not in the right place for this. Maybe in a few years. . . . If we could just keep bumping on the way we are for a while, and see how things go . . .”
She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. But that wasn’t an option anymore. Voice cracking, she said, “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t be with you, loving you like I do, and know that you’re not on the same page.”
Love. The word registered in his eyes.
She nodded. “I love you. Please don’t say it back, even if you think you might feel it. Please don’t say anything about it. Please, just . . .” She swallowed a sob, knowing tears would make it worse for both of them. “Say thank you or something.”
“Thank you.” He leaned in and kissed her, long and hard, and with a desperate edge that sparked the same greedy need inside her.
But that would only make things worse, she knew. So she put a hand on his chest and eased him away.
His eyes met hers, searching for something she didn’t think she could give him. “What happens now?”
“Now . . .” She swallowed hard, feeling her heart rip raggedly in her chest. “I think you should leave.”
*
Wyatt sat stunned—by the words you should leave, by the way they cut into him, and by the part of him that bellowed like a wounded bull, even though he usually lived his life with one foot out the door. She had told him she loved him. Now she was kicking him out.
He wished he could say he didn’t deserve it, that there wasn’t anything he could’ve done different, but they both knew the truth. “Can I stay through the ride-off?” Was that his voice? It sounded like hell.
She wanted to tell him no; he could see it in her eyes. But she said, “If you want. Don’t feel like you have to, though. I can get someone to fill in for the freestyle.”
The walls were very close, pressing in on him and making it hard to breathe. “So that’s it, then.” Anger edged his voice. “Thanks for the help, Wyatt, now buzz off?”
She paled. “I’m sticking to our original agreement, just ending it a little early. Don’t worry. You’ll get your full pay.”
He almost told her where she could stick his pay. “This isn’t about the money. It was never about the money.”
“No,” she agreed. “It was about bringing things full circle. I think we’ve done that, only this time I’m cutting you loose rather than waiting around for you to bail. Can you really blame me?” But his heart turned over at the catch in her voice.
What the hell was he doing? She had given him the choice, told him what he needed to do to stay. It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t commit, even to the one woman who made him wish he could. “No,” he said. “I don’t blame you.” He pushed his chair back with a wood-on-wood screech. “I’ll be gone by morning.”
*
Krista didn’t know how she made it out of the bunkhouse when all she wanted to do was stay, didn’t know how she took the path when her eyes were drenched with tears. Somehow, though, she found herself back at the ranch, standing in the parking lot and staring up at the stars.
Most of the time, she could tip her head back, think of the generations of Skyes that had looked up at the same stars, and remember that her problems were small in the grand scheme. Not tonight, though. Tonight, the sky just looked bleak and cold, and the stars looked very far away. Even the main house seemed big and black in the darkness, like a fortress, her bedroom cool and empty. The barn was the only place that seemed alive, with rustles and thumps echoing as the horses picked at their hay and shifted in their stalls.
She dragged her feet down the aisle, trying not to think that she wouldn’t hear Wyatt’s voice coming from the tack room tomorrow morning, wouldn’t see him at the head of the line when they rode out. Wouldn’t wake up beside him, feel him moving over her, inside her.
Ever. Again.
That stopped her in her tracks, made her fight for breath. She struggled for control, hearing a strange, wounded-animal noise and knowing on some level that she was the one making it.
Staggering, stumbling, she bypassed Lucky and Jupiter and made for the second stall from the end, where the knee-high stall guard contained the barn’s smallest occupant. Fresh tears gathered as she said, “Hey, Marshmallow. Can I hang with you for a while? I could use a friend.” One that wouldn’t ask questions or make suggestions, wouldn’t ask what had gone wrong.
Gathering a couple of flakes of hay, she spread it in the corner and lay down on the nest it made. And, curling up in a tight ball, she put her face in her hands and let go.
The sobs that tore from her throat, raw and feral, sent the pony scampering to the other side of his stall. Krista couldn’t stop them, though. They poured out of her in a ragged, hurting wave that crashed over her, held her under, and left her helpless to do anything but remember.
She wept for the moment she added up the symptoms and realized that her life would never be the same, for the flash of panic on Wyatt’s face when she said love, the sharp grief when she told him to go. She cried knowing that she would be getting huge and awkward, and doing it alone, going into labor alone, learning how to be a mom alone. Surrounded by family, yes, but still very alone.
The hay rustled nearby and a soft muzzle touched her hand, blowing warm breath on her skin. Then, spurred by the same instinct that made him move so slowly around the scared or physically challenged kids, the one that spurred him to nuzzle the ones who needed him the most, little Marshmallow gave a sigh, folded his stubby legs, and collapsed into the bedding beside her.
“Oh.” Fresh tears scalded her eyes—at the gesture, at the knowledge that this was her best option for cuddling, starting now—she wrapped her arms around the sturdy neck, buried her face in the pony’s thick mane, and wept while the man she loved packed up his bags and drove away. Again.
*
It felt wrong, how little time it took Wyatt to clear his things out of the bunkhouse and load Old Blue with his tools and scrap. Forty-five minutes from start to finish, and he had his bags in the cab and Klepto standing near the couch where his bed used to be, looking up at Wyatt with a canine expression of what gives?
“We’re hitting the road.” At least he wasn’t leaving a note this time. But the hollow ache in his chest and the burning in his eyes were the same. Worse, even. Because this time he wasn’t just leaving behind a college relationship built on a whole lot of what-ifs and future stuff. He was leaving behind a beautiful, brilliant woman who impressed the hell out of him on so many levels. She challenged him, went toe-to-toe with him, made him want to be a better man.
He wasn’t though. He was the same guy he’d always been.
“Come on.” He whistled for Klepto. “Get in the truck.”
He hated closing the door, knowing he’d never again open it and hear her voice. Never again soak in the hot tub with her, or sit on the porch and watch the sun go
down. And he’d never again carry her up the stairs to the loft and toss her on the big bed and follow her down, or wake up to her kiss and a round of lazy lovemaking before getting started with their days. He would miss the work, miss the horses—especially Jupiter—miss the ever-changing parade of personalities that came through the swinging doors of the dining hall wearing their starchy new shirts and unscuffed boots.
“Damn it.” Now the burn had turned to moisture, wetting his cheeks and making him feel like a fool. For coming. For staying. For leaving.
All of it.
Turning on his heel, he strode down the porch steps and got in Old Blue. Firing the engine, he drove off, doing his damnedest not to look back at a long, narrow log cabin that hadn’t ever been his to keep. And, as he turned onto the road and rolled past the main entrance, where big solar lights illuminated the stone pillars and threw slivers of light on the metal archway, he found himself thinking he should’ve made it two-sided, so the people on this side would see a different message. NOW LEAVING MUSTANG RIDGE. Which he’d always meant to do, after all.
Klepto, curled in a ball on the passenger side, packed in with the bags, gave a low, anxious whine.
“It’s back to just you and me, buddy. How does home sound?” Even as he said it, he knew it sounded wrong—Denver wasn’t home any more than his and Sam’s apartment during college, or any of the other spots he’d put down his shallow excuse for roots over the years. Just places, a set of GPS coordinates he could call his own until it came time to move on again. “Maybe it’s time,” he said. “How does California sound to you? Not LA, of course. Maybe the desert.”
The dog didn’t answer, just sighed and plopped his head back down.
Traffic was light and Wyatt’s foot was heavy on the gas, and he did the four-hour drive in two and a half despite the heavy load in the back of the truck. When he pulled in, the motion-activated lights did their thing, illuminating the cabin and adjoining workshop. He hit the garage door remote and the big door accordioned up, giving him plenty of room to pull the truck inside.
The door rolled back down as he got out of the truck, leaving Klepto to sleep, and when the panel sealed shut, it was like he’d just closed out the rest of the world. The insulated walls blocked the sounds of the nighttime forest and the blowers came on automatically, stirring the air and adding a neutral white noise he usually found soothing.
Now, it set his teeth on edge. So did the overhead lights, with their cool fluorescents and almost complete lack of shadows. And the way it was too damn easy to swing the block and tackle over his truck and unload the heavy pieces.
It was all smooth and calibrated, exactly as he’d built it to be. It shouldn’t have felt soulless, like it was the exact opposite of the pioneer spirit, with none of the danger and adventure that came from making something out of nothing.
Feeling the walls edge in on him—sterile and white, dang them—he pulled on his protective gear. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been in the house yet, didn’t matter that it was three in the morning. He wasn’t hungry and sleep was a long ways off. And if he stopped moving long enough for all the things he wasn’t thinking about to catch up, he might do something stupid. Like drive back to Wyoming and tell Krista he wanted to be with her, for better or worse, whatever the hell it took.
Which would be a really bad idea.
So instead, he would erase another really bad idea. Lighting his biggest torch, he got to work on the crap sculpture he’d built up on the ridge.
And, as the first cowboy’s head hit the deck with a satisfying rattle-clang and rolled off under a workbench, Wyatt felt a manic-sounding laugh tear at his throat. “You know what they say.” He pitched his voice to echo off the insulated walls. “If at first you don’t succeed . . . it’s time to start the hell over.”
26
The next morning, Krista told herself not to go down to the bunkhouse. Then she went anyway, driving under the archway and letting out a low moan when she found Old Blue missing and the workshop door closed tight.
She parked in the lot. And stalled, staring at the front door.
You can do this, she told herself. You can. Just do it. Was it only two months ago that she’d told herself the same things when it came to calling him about the wrangler job? It seemed impossible.
“Just go in, grab your stuff, and get out.” She wanted her flip-flops and the inscribed picture of Seamus, Patience, and Blessing. The errand got her out of the car and up the steps, and she even managed not to think—at least not too much—that it was less than twelve hours ago that she had knocked and he’d opened the door and kissed her. Less than twenty-four hours ago that everything had still been normal.
Well, this was her new normal.
Steeling herself, she pushed through into the main room of the bunkhouse, which looked the same as it had last night. At first, anyway. But then she saw that Klepto’s bed was missing. The coffee table was clear of books and sketches. And there was no brown Stetson sitting on the breakfast bar.
He was really gone.
Krista’s breath thinned in her lungs, and although she wanted to think she had cried herself dry last night, new tears flooded her sore eyes. “Damn it.” She swiped at her red, raw cheeks as her stomach churned, heading toward nausea.
Thunk, thunk, thunk. The sudden sound of boots on the porch wrung a gasp from her. She spun, heart leaping into her throat . . . and then sinking to her toes when Jenny stepped through the door.
“Oh,” she put a hand to her throat, holding in the disappointment. “Hey.” Not that she wanted to see him. Not that she had hoped, even for a second, that he had changed his mind.
Except she totally had.
Jenny came in, took a look around, and gave Krista’s hand a squeeze. “I guess he’s gone.”
“Thanks for not saying again.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No.” There was no note this time. She already knew why he was gone.
“Did you tell the others?”
“About the breakup? First thing this morning.” She had called Jenny at midnight, sitting alone on her bed with hay in her hair. Now, she leaned her head on her sister’s shoulder and sighed. “This sucks. Makeover Week was supposed to be the high point of the season.”
“Five years from now, when you look back, what are you going to remember most?”
Krista knew what answer she wanted. “Finding out I was pregnant.”
“There you go.” Jenny squeezed her in a one-armed hug. “Maybe try to focus on that for now. Or if that’s too big and scary, then take it one day at a time. Today, we’re going to ship Jupiter over to the fairgrounds to let her get acclimated. In fact, we’re due there in an hour.”
“Okay.” Krista took a deep breath that didn’t do much to settle her stomach. “First, let’s get my stuff out of here.” She took a long look in the direction of the hot tub. “It’ll be a while before I come back.” And longer still before she could stand in this room and not think of Wyatt.
*
Wyatt didn’t know what time it was when he finally set his torch aside and came up for air. He was pretty sure he had missed a meal or two and at least one night’s sleep—was that dusk outside, or dawn? He didn’t have a clue. But it didn’t matter, because finally—finally—he had gotten the pioneer piece right. And he knew what it had been trying to tell him all along.
He stared at it and shook his head with disbelief. “It wasn’t ever supposed to be a dog. And I’m an idiot.”
The sculpture had started with inspiration from the picture of Seamus, Patience, and Blessing, but it had taken on a life of its own, becoming a flow of metal shapes that suggested a wild, harsh landscape behind a hollowed-out Conestoga wagon. A metal man dug with a blunt-ended shovel while his woman stood with a rifle on her shoulder and a baby in her arms. A wolf watched from one of the distant ridges and a herd of horses flowed down another, making the humans look very small against the sweep of the frontier. Up close, th
ough, they were strong and sure, with gears for joints and pistons for limbs. And the infant cradled in the woman’s arms stared up at the sky, where a hawk spun on an invisible wire, watching the pioneers break ground for the homestead that would become a ten-generation legacy.
It was raw, yet, but he knew the heart was there. Which was ironic, really, because he’d left his heart behind when he left Wyoming. He’d left his family—or the beginnings of it, at any rate—behind.
He whistled. “Hey, Klepto. You want to go home?”
The dog was bedded down under the workbench, curled in a sweatshirt of Krista’s that he had smuggled from the bunkhouse. He barely even twitched.
“I don’t mean inside. I mean home home. Mustang Ridge? Krista?”
The mutt’s head whipped up. “Whuff!”
“Come on, let’s go. The competition starts in . . .” He checked his watch. “Whoa. A few hours. We’ve got to haul ass.”
He had a big, huge apology to give, and some promises to make.
That is, if he wasn’t already too late.
As he dashed for the house for a change of clothes, he dragged out his phone, punched in the main ranch line, and crossed his fingers that Krista wouldn’t answer. He didn’t want to do this on the phone.
To his relief, Gran picked up. “It’s Wyatt, but please don’t hang up,” he said quickly. When there was an ominous silence on the line, he said, “Remember when Ed said that Mustang Ridge owes me a favor? Well, I’m calling it in.”
*
Krista did her best to join in on the Makeover Week festivities, but by the time she and Jupiter were on deck to enter the arena for the trail class, a big part of her just wanted it to all be over and done with.
Forty-eight hours from now, the guests would be headed home and she would have four blessed days off to hide out, lick her wounds, see a doctor. Gack.
A round of applause indicated that the horse ahead of them had finished the obstacles. Jupiter shifted, her ears flipping back and forth as she tried to track the noise in front of her, the horses behind her, and the ping-ping-jingaling noises and cheerful tunes coming from the midway and carnival rides. The mare had settled in better than Krista had any right to expect, and kept all four feet on the ground as the wide gate swung open and a feisty chestnut gelding jogged out of the arena, with his rider collecting high fives and fist bumps on the way out, suggesting a good score.
Harvest at Mustang Ridge Page 25
