“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Krista said softly. “I always hated leaving, and loved coming home.”
“Then why leave?”
“College. Growing-up time, that sort of thing.”
“Ah. I’m familiar with the concept.” Though in her case it had been a relief to leave, and she hadn’t loved coming home.
Krista nodded. “Four years for a bachelor’s and another two working at a chain hotel, because I’d seen the writing on the wall.”
“That your family would have to turn this place into a dude ranch?”
“That we would have to do something if we wanted to survive.” Her smile faded a little. “It wasn’t a unanimous decision, by a long shot . . . but this is looking like our best summer yet, we’re that busy. Too busy, in fact, for Gran to handle the kitchen on her own, which is another reason I’m psyched that you’re here. I was just getting ready to start advertising for a fill-in cook when Gertie called me, and you know what they say!”
“Any port in a storm?”
“I was thinking of ‘it was meant to be.’”
“Sorry. New Englanders are born pessimists.”
“Bummer.”
“Exactly.” They shared a laugh.
“Well, we’ll see if we can’t turn that around in the next few months. Come on!” Krista led them past several clusters of pretty log cabins near the blue, blue lake, to another, slightly larger cabin at the far end of things.
When Shelby realized that was their destination, her footsteps faltered. “You’re kidding me.”
The cabin was like something out of a fairy tale, a little log playhouse down by the picturesque lake, with white curtains and purple flowers in the window boxes. It was the kind of scene she would’ve paid a photographer to capture and touch up so she could use it to promote something completely unrelated. Like mouthwash. It leaves you feeling fresher than a summer breeze in the high country.
Only this wasn’t a picture or an ad campaign; it was the real deal. It couldn’t be theirs. Could it?
“Of course I’m not kidding.” Krista took the steps two at a time and opened the door.
Shaking her head, Shelby followed, with Lizzie right on her heels.
The inside of the cabin matched the rustic charm of the outside, with exposed logs and rough-hewn furniture that was finished with a smooth, splinter-free gloss. The single big room held two beds at one end, a double and a trundle, both covered with white-and-blue patchwork quilts done in a wedding-ring pattern. At the other end there was a love seat, a coffee table, and a bookcase that held a few paperbacks, along with a dorm-size microwave and fridge. A doorway led to a large bathroom and on the walls, framed photographs that looked like originals taken around the ranch—maybe done by Krista’s twin?—were set opposite wide windows that looked out on a killer view of the blue lake, green fields, and whitecapped purple mountains.
Shelby stood there for a moment, trying not to gape. Stomach knotting, she said, “I was expecting . . . I don’t know. A tent or something.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Duh. But this place must rent for a fortune!”
Krista shrugged. “Only a small one.”
“I can’t possibly be working off this plus riding lessons–-slash–day care for Lizzie.”
“Close enough.”
Shelby thought fast, tallying her summer budget against what it was costing to keep their apartment back home. “I can add some cash on top.”
“Only if you want the tent, instead.” Krista paused, expression softening. “Don’t stress about it, please, Shelby. I’m happy with the arrangement if you are. To be honest, Gertie called right after I exhausted the local options for a fill-in cook. You have experience in a hotel kitchen, even if it was a while ago . . . and when I talked to you, I liked your vibe.”
“Not to mention that I blathered at you.” She had started the conversation determined to be professional, but had somehow wound up telling Krista about Lizzie, the therapists, and needing to get away. The knowledge made the churn in her belly worse.
“I didn’t hear any blathering. I heard a mom who had done everything she could with the resources at hand, and was looking for some new ones. More, I heard about a family that needed someplace soft to land for a little while.”
“So Lizzie and I are rescues?” It came out sharp, but that’s how Shelby was feeling all of a sudden.
Krista shook her head. “I’m just offering you some time away from real life . . . and getting my kitchen covered and helping out my gran in the process.”
Dial it down, Shelby told herself. None of this is her fault. It wasn’t anybody’s really. Life happened, you took the knocks, and you moved on. She closed her eyes, forced herself to exhale. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a snot. I’m grateful, really.”
“And you’re road-lagged, worn out, and embarrassed that Lizzie pulled a disappearing act and ended up under one of the horses.” Krista squeezed her arm. “You should see Jenny when she comes in off a long trip, or me after a tough group of guests leaves. You haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of snotty.”
Suddenly feeling every one of those miles—and the months leading up to the trip—Shelby exhaled. “Thanks. I . . . well, thanks. For everything. Seriously.”
“You’re welcome, and again, I’m very glad you’re here. Both of you. Now get some rest, okay? I wish I could give you a few days to settle in, but Gran could use you bright and early tomorrow.”
“I can pitch in tonight, if that’d help,” Shelby offered, hoping she’d say no.
Krista’s grin said she knew it. “No way—that’d be too cruel and unusual. Tomorrow morning, four o’clock, be there or be square. In the meantime, I’ll have Tipper bring you guys some grub, picnic-style.”
Which made Shelby feel even worse—about being tired, being snappish, losing her kid, not being sure this was such a good idea in the first place . . . “Don’t put anybody out on our account. Please. I think we’ll just grab our luggage out of the car, finish off our road food, and call it a night.”
Krista hesitated, then nodded. “If that’s what you want . . . but please remember that nobody here is keeping score. We’re happy to have you.”
But why? Shelby thought. She was trying not to be all New England, look-a-gift-horse-in-the-mouth about it, but in her experience, nothing came easy. When it did, there was usually a catch, or something just waiting to go wrong. The beds looked really soft, though, and home was a long way away. So she dredged up a smile. “Don’t speak too soon . . . you haven’t tasted my cooking yet.”
3
A-tisket, a-tasket, a biscuit in your basket!
Shelby’s alarm went off before dawn, and she lay there for a minute, disoriented by the quiet and the clean, fresh air that said she wasn’t in their condo or a highway hotel.
Where am I? She was so fuzzy-headed that she almost followed it up with Never mind that, who am I? But Lizzie’s breathing came from the other side of the room, reassuringly deep and regular, bringing things back into line. We’re at Mustang Ridge. We made it. Shelby smiled into the darkness, a little ruefully as she realized she must’ve been tireder than she thought yesterday, to have snapped at her new boss. Granted, the snipe had been pretty low on a scale of one to bitchy, but still. Oops.
A night’s sleep had done her good, though. It would take some time for her to get all the way used to the time difference and altitude, but she was up and moving, and ready to get started earning her and Lizzie’s keep. Grabbing the small flashlight she’d left on the nightstand, she picked her way over to the dresser, where she pulled on her second-favorite pair of black pants, along with one of the logo’d polo shirts Krista had sent over, and a matching fleece jacket. Even in early June, the mountaintops wore snow and the predawn air had a bite.
She found paper and a pen in the nightstand, and left a quick note: Come find me in the kitchen when you’re up, or else hang here until I get back. And don’t forget Rule Elev
en.
Between the horses and the singles, she figured it’d be best to keep a close eye on Lizzie, though it wasn’t like that was much of a chore. A glance at her phone showed that the booster was picking up the signal from the TinyGPS Tracker that Lizzie wore on her wrist, even though there wasn’t much cell signal up here. It’d be enough, though. Besides, Lizzie tended to find a safe, quiet place to hole up with her iPad or phone to play games, read, or watch movies, always with the volume off or her earphones in. And after yesterday, Shelby wasn’t too worried about her wandering again, at least not right away.
Pausing by the bed, she tugged up the quilt, tucked Mr. Pony closer to her daughter’s cheek, and then dropped a kiss on her soft brow, whispering, “I love you, Dizzy Girl.”
She inhaled the sweet scent of her kiddo, grateful that they were here, that they had survived the drive, the first day, all of it. And most of all that they were together. We can do this, she told herself, and headed off on a short hike of a commute that wasn’t anything like her usual two-trains-and-a-smelly-bus routine.
Outside, the morning was cool, crisp, and sharp, and when she breathed in, the air filled her lungs with the scents of horses, grass, and open spaces. A few nerves prickled to life as she followed the pathway that led from the cabins up to the main house, which was a huge black shadow partway illuminated by the porch lamps and the light coming through the kitchen windows. You can handle this, no sweat. So what if she’d spent most of the past decade hyping ingredients rather than using them? Once upon a time she’d been a half-decent prep cook. It’d be like riding a bicycle—or, yanno, sex—the kind of thing a girl never forgets how to do.
She hoped.
Her boots thudded hollowly on the porch and the screen door squeaked like something out of a horror movie. The whole effect was creepyish, to the point that she expected to hear a wolf howl in the background. The minute she opened the heavier storm door and warm air spilled out, though, she stopped dead and inhaled a lungful that really should’ve come with a calorie count. Hel-lo, come to Mama.
The sweetness of brown sugar was overlain by the sharper smells of apples and cinnamon, in scent tendrils that practically wrapped around and pulled her through the door. She stepped into an open main room decorated in rustics and taxidermy, with a few color pops in pillows and curtains that added a feminine touch. At one end, couches and comfy chairs were clustered around a fireplace, with a flat-screen above. At the other end, a long dining table had a dozen chairs around it and a pretty flower arrangement in its center. In the middle, near where Shelby had come in, a reception desk held a computer station, a house phone, and a PRESS “1” FOR SERVICE sign on it.
It was a strange mix of home and hotel, but she thought it worked. More, she thought she could do something with it—something more than the bland Your pleasure is our business–style promos they were currently using.
“Which, come to think, might be a good way to pay Krista back,” she mused, then filed the idea for future reference. She would need to get to know the place a little first, figure out what made it tick, what made it special compared to every other dude ranch with a pretty view and theme weeks.
And she was stalling, just a little.
Taking a deep breath of yummy air, she followed her nose by hanging a left past the reception desk and heading down a short hallway that had windows on one side and more gorgeous local photos on the other. At the end, she paused briefly and took a look at what would be, at least for the next few months, her home away from home. And she thought, Oh, yeah.
The kitchen was a long, relatively narrow room, where exposed beams and rustic finishes somehow managed not to clash with high-end commercial appliances and a long counter that was half stainless steel and half butcher block. Big mixers and processors sat in rows along the counter, and shiny chrome racks held bowls, dry goods, and smaller gadgets. Bunches of herbs and garlic hung from the rafters; a trio of doors led to a cold room, a walk-in freezer, and a pantry; and a wide arch opened into the hallway that led to the dining hall. The opposite wall held big double ovens, a commercial cooktop, and three big refrigerators. Two of the ovens had timers that were counting down, while dozens of perfectly browned muffins sat in cooling in racks near the stoves. And they smelled freaking awesome.
Krista’s grandmother stood in front of one of the stoves, wearing a frilly blue apron over her jeans and mock turtle, and watching the numbers count down.
Shelby stepped into the kitchen. “Good morning, Mrs. Skye. I’m—”
“Shelby.” She turned and smiled. “But you’ll call me Gran. Everyone does.” She glanced up the hallway, eyes twinkling. “You lose the little one again?”
Apparently, word traveled. “She’s still in bed. She might come find me when she’s up, if that’s okay?”
“Of course. Or you’re welcome to go fetch her.”
“I don’t want to take time away—”
“Poosh.” Gran waved that off. “Kids take the time they take, and everyone else works around it, right? We all pitch in for each other here, because that’s what family does.”
Shelby exhaled. “That’s not exactly how my family worked, but I get your point.” And she was grateful for it. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving, but I can nibble and work.”
That earned her an approving nod. “Then let’s introduce you to Herman Skye.”
Shelby looked around. “Is that your husband?” Yesterday she’d gotten the impression that it was just Krista and Gran running the ranch.
“Heavens, no. Arthur is off riding the fence line, probably won’t be back until sundown.” Gran went to the counter beside one of the big stoves, retrieved a big blue-and-white earthenware bowl covered with a red checkerboard kitchen towel, and carried it across to set it on the main counter. She paused for a second, as if waiting for a fanfare, and then whipped off the towel with a flourish. “Herman, I’d like you to meet Shelby. She’s going to be helping out in the kitchen while Bertie is off having her baby. Shelby, this is Herman Skye.”
The bowl contained an amorphous ball of beige dough that was about the size of Shelby’s head, and smelled faintly of beer.
Staring down at it, she thought, It is way too early for this.
She was being Punk’d, right? There was a camera somewhere, watching to see how she handled it when her new boss formally introduced her to a blob of bread-to-be. “Um . . . hi, Herman. It’s, uh, nice to meet you?”
“He’s a valued member of the family.” Gran gave the bowl a fond pat that jiggled the dough a little, then grinned. “Let me guess. You’ve never met a sourdough starter before?”
Is that what it is? “I’ve made sourdough a few times. Flour, water, a couple of those yellow yeast packets—”
The older woman covered the dough with both hands, as if blocking its nonexistent ears. “Herman, don’t listen to her. It’s not true!”
“Um.”
“No Cookie would ever be caught dead with freeze-dried yeast. A good sourdough starter is the hallmark of a great ranch. Why, back in the day, during roundups the Cookie would sleep with his starter right there in his bedroll, making sure it didn’t get too cold.”
“He slept with his dough,” Shelby repeated, resisting the urge to look for the hidden cameras.
“Not dough. Starter.” Gran scooped up the air and breathed it in. “It’s a living yeast culture. Every time I use part of Herman to bake with, I feed back the same amount of flour, water, and a few special ingredients to keep the culture alive.” She bustled into the pantry, returning a moment later with a fat biscuit in one palm and a manic gleam in her eyes. She held it out. “Here. Taste this.”
Shelby took the biscuit, which was admittedly a good-looking specimen, generously rounded on the bottom, rising through dozens of flaky layers to a slightly lopsided top. It was browned top and bottom, and the buttery smell made her mouth water. So she took a bite.
As sh
e chewed, Gran enthused, “Herman has been alive for more than two hundred years, ever since Jonah Skye won his first five hundred head in a poker game, cashed in his gold to buy Mustang Ridge, and settled here with his wife, Mary. She started Herman with some yeast, flour, water, and a few potatoes, and he’s been an important part of our kitchens ever since.”
Shelby wasn’t sure she wanted to know that any part of her breakfast predated the Civil War. As biscuits went, though, it was good—fluffy, flaky, melt-in-her-mouth good. Amazingly, delectably good. So good that she was on the verge of a jingle, or at least a good tag line. Starter Wars: a rebel alliance against little yellow packets!
Okay, maybe not. And maybe the slogans were a knee-jerk response whenever she was out of her comfort zone. But how could she take this seriously?
“Well?” Gran demanded, eyes alight with biscuit fever.
“Best I’ve ever had.” The cook might be whacked, but the biscuit was awesome.
“I told you! And that’s a day-old Herman. Wait until you taste him fresh out of the oven!” She slipped a worn index card from the breast pocket of her apron and set it on the counter. “A triple batch should give us enough for lunch sandwiches and dinner rolls.”
Okay, Shelby thought. This was something tangible she could work with. Snagging the card, she scanned the recipe, which was written in faded blue ink, with notes added in different colors and handwritings. She tried to imagine her newer-is-better sister keeping a family recipe like this, and failed. Her mother might have kept it, but she would’ve transferred the information to her computer, laminated a printout, and filed it in a color-coded plastic box.
“Here.” A blue-and-white plate appeared at Shelby’s elbow, holding a perfectly symmetrical muffin that still had a little curl of steam coming from its top. “Try this one.”
Shelby still had most of a biscuit left, but she set it on the edge of the plate and picked up the fat, perky apple-cinnamon muffin. After drinking in the scent, which would’ve been worth a fortune if they could’ve bottled it, she took a bite, savoring the sweet, buttery dough and plump raisins and doing her best to ignore her inner carb counter’s gleeful ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching! “Mmm. This is amazing. You’re a genius.”
Summer at Mustang Ridge Page 3
