Summer at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  Gran’s nod was smug. “Not me. Herman.”

  “This is sourdough? Get out.”

  “There’s a dash of Herman in just about everything we make here. All the way from the salads and coleslaw to the batter for the chicken-fried steaks.”

  That struck Shelby as vaguely unsettling, but who was she to judge? It worked for them, and she was beginning to believe Krista’s claim that Mustang Ridge served some of the best ranch fare in the territory. If this was the kind of quality the kitchen put out across the board, it would outperform many of her favorites back in Boston. Ranch-style, granted, but still.

  She lifted her muffin. “Three cheers for Herman.”

  “Yes, indeed! Anyway, welcome to the kitchen. Fruits and veggies are in the walk-in, dairy’s in the first fridge, and the rest is pretty well labeled. You should be able to find your way around. The last batch of muffins’ll be out in a minute, and then we’ll reset for bread.”

  Feeling like she had just passed a test of some sort—the Herman acceptance quota?—Shelby said, “I can see I’m going to have to get up before the roosters if I’m going to be useful.”

  “Poosh. I’m an early riser, that’s all. There’s plenty for you to do, believe me. Bertie didn’t usually get in until at least five thirty, so if you want an extra hour or so—”

  “Nope. This is good.” Shelby held up the card. “Want me to make some Hermans? It’ll probably only take me twice as long as it would for you to do it.”

  Gran grinned. “I’ll time you.”

  “But no pressure.” Shelby returned the smile, starting to think that maybe this wasn’t as weird as it had seemed at first. Eccentric, maybe, but not all the way over-the-top.

  “Exactly.” Gran bustled away, calling over her shoulder, “Give me a holler if you get stuck.”

  “Will do.”

  They worked together companionably for the next couple of hours, putting up not just a triple batch of Hermans, but also corn bread and chocolate chip cookies for later.

  Once the baking was doing its thing in the ovens and cooling racks, they started two big slabs of pork slow-cooking in a broth that would later become green chili made from an old family recipe, and then tossed thick slabs of locally cured bacon and fat homemade sausage links on the wide commercial griddle. Shelby had a strong suspicion that Gran would’ve finished sooner on her own, but by the time Tipper and Topper—a darker-haired, slighter version of his big sister—arrived to wait tables and guests started appearing in the dining hall, the sideboards were loaded with a breakfast buffet that would’ve seemed like death-by-cholesterol back home, but fit right in with the mountain air and the thumps of Western boots on the bare floorboards.

  Some of the guests dragged in solo and caffeine-starved, while others clumped together, talking animatedly. Shelby couldn’t tell if they were continuing conversations from the day before, or if some of the couples had gone for the “early and often” theory of dating. More power to them, she thought. She might lean toward the “late and never” side of things, but that didn’t mean she begrudged anyone else. If things had been different . . . but they weren’t, and she was making things work for her and Lizzie. And that was what mattered most.

  As the singles lined up and started digging into the heaps of food, Gran handed her a covered basket. “Some goodies for the little one. You’re on break while the meat simmers. Be back around ten and we’ll get the peppers roasted and skinned for the chili, and then pull together a simple cold lunch.”

  “Are you sure? I could stay and—”

  “I’m sure.” The older woman nudged her toward the door. “Trust me, you’ll do more than a full day’s work here. It’s just broken up into chunks. Which means you should take your downtime when you can get it. Like now.”

  “But—”

  Gran flipped a dish towel at her. “Shoo!”

  Shelby shooed, grinning as she jogged down the steps.

  “Morning!” Krista called from the gravel pathway. She was wearing the jeans and logo shirt that was apparently the ranch’s working uniform, with the addition of a straw hat with a perky, flipped-up brim and a turquoise band. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Don’t remember. I slept through it.”

  “Ha-ha. Lizzie settle in okay?”

  “Seems like it. I’m headed back to check on her now.”

  “Everything go okay with Gran this morning?”

  “From my perspective, at least. I’m not sure how helpful I really was today, but I’ll work on getting my speed up.” Shelby paused. “Um, I met Herman.”

  “Oh?” Krista deadpanned it for a three-count, then chuckled. “I’m kidding. Don’t worry about the Herman thing. It started as a way for her to mess with my mom—the two of them do not get along when it comes to sharing a kitchen—and it turned into a running joke that survived after my mom and dad bought an RV and took off for a grand tour a few years ago.”

  “So your gran doesn’t really think her yeast culture is a member of the family?”

  “He might as well be, after two hundred some–odd years. And did you taste him?”

  Shelby wasn’t sure she wanted to admit having tasted anything that went by “him,” but she nodded. “Wicked awesome, as we say back in Boston.”

  “There you have it.” Krista glanced at the basket. “Bringing some tidbits back to the nest?”

  “Yeah. I can already tell I’m going to have to pimp the fruits and veggies, or we’re both going to be rolling out of here like beach balls come September.”

  “Between the kitchen and the horses, I’m sure you’ll sweat it off. Speaking of which, I told Stace you’d stop by the barn this morning and talk about a plan for Lizzie.”

  Shelby hesitated. “I feel like I’m taking advantage—”

  “Don’t,” Krista said firmly. “A deal’s a deal, and our deal included guest privileges and riding lessons for your kiddo.” She paused tellingly. “That was the point, wasn’t it? To get her around the animals, let her relax, and see what happens?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Shelby shook her head with a little laugh. “Why am I arguing?”

  “Pride?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So be proud of what you’re doing for your daughter.” Just like her grandmother had done a moment earlier, Krista made flapping motions. “Shoo! Go grab Stace before breakfast lets out, the guests stampede for the barn, and things get crazy in there.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m going!”

  But when Shelby got to the barn, the only ones home were the horses.

  The main barn consisted of two rows of stalls separated by a cement aisle, with rolling double doors at either end and a peaked roof made of corrugated plastic that provided shade but let some of the light through. The sweet smell of hay and fresh shavings had an undertone of ammonia and manure, reminding Shelby of the two years of riding lessons she’d had as a kid—a guilt present from her father and a bone of contention with her mother, who had hated all the dirt and hair.

  Surprised to feel an echo of pleasure at the memory of those long-ago lessons, which had been a merry-go-round of fat ponies and instructors chanting, “Up-down-up-down,” Shelby stepped into the cool interior. “Hello? Stace? Anyone?”

  There wasn’t any answer except for a whinny coming from a horse about halfway down the aisle. Shelby peeked into the stall, which held a pretty chestnut mare with a splotchy, heart-shaped star on her forehead, and an enormous belly. The nameplate on the door had her name spelled out in glued-on rope: SASSY.

  “Hey, Sassy. Is that a baby in there, or are you just pudgy?” Shelby asked.

  The mare pricked her ears and gave a hopeful ho-ho-ho.

  “Sorry, girl, I don’t have anything for you. I don’t know if Hermuffins are safe for you to eat.” Although technically they were mostly sugar and grain . . . and for all she knew, the Skyes had been mixing sourdough into their horses’ rations for the past ten generations.

  Sassy poked her head b
etween the bars, and Shelby reached to stroke the soft nose, enjoying the tickle of whiskers, which was a new sensation. The barn she’d ridden at had kept the horses’ muzzles clipped to smooth velvet, their manes pulled to perfect four-finger neatness, and their bridle paths and legs trimmed and sleek. “Guess I’m not in New England anymore, huh?”

  The mare blew softly, as if in agreement, but then flattened her ears, backed away, and snapped around at one of her wide-load sides.

  “I know, it sucks toward the end, doesn’t it? Those last few weeks, you don’t know whether you want to be alone or not, don’t know if you’re hot or cold, hungry or pukey, happy or sad. And you don’t even have a guy around to rub your feet and tell you it’s all going to be okay.” Which Patrick had done like a champ. It wasn’t until later that things had gone south. Still, she smiled a little. “Trust me, it’s totally worth all the pain and aggravation. And once you’ve brought your little one into the world, there isn’t anything you wouldn’t do to keep her safe.”

  A boot scuffed behind Shelby, and the mare’s ears pricked. Blushing a little at having been caught deep in conversation with a horse—though as far as she was concerned, it was way better than talking to bread dough—she turned. “Stace? Oh. It’s you.”

  Yesterday’s cowboy stood a few feet away. Except unlike the day before when she’d been focused on Lizzie, now she saw only him. And, hello, how had she missed the fact that he was gorgeous?

  He was wearing upgrades from the previous day’s outfit—newer jeans, oiled boots, and a snap-studded shirt, and looked alike he could’ve stepped out of The Horse Whisperer, which was one of her own Netflix guilty pleasures. He was younger and taller than Redford, his face smoother, his hair darker, his jaw squarer, his hazel eyes more intense, but he had that same way of standing very still, very focused. A mid-thirties Ben Affleck does Horse Whisperer II, maybe. His shirt was tucked in, his jeans worn on their inner seams, no doubt where the saddle leather rubbed.

  It took effort, but she pulled her eyes from the spot, suddenly realizing that the whole singles week thing must’ve gone to her head. Because she wasn’t the kind of girl to get dry-mouthed.

  Blaming it on the pheromones, she cleared her throat. “You’re Foster.”

  “And you’re Shelby.” He patted his chest. “Name tag.”

  She glanced down, then realized he was talking about yesterday. “Um, yeah. Right.” Seeing his eyes go to the basket, she held it out. “Want a Hermuffin?”

  “Ah. I see you’ve been assimilated.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “By the Biscuit Borg?” She took out a muffin, and darned if she didn’t see a face in the raisins. “No, I think it’s more overtly menacing than that. This is the Herminator. Only instead of ‘I’ll be back,’ he says, ‘You’re toast.’”

  She thought that one was pretty good, but he just gave her a level look. “Your Arnold impression needs some work.”

  Okay, maybe he hadn’t been making a Trekkie joke, after all. At least he’d seen Terminator. “I’ll put it on the list.”

  “You do that.” He glanced at his watch. “Things are about to get busy in here, and I’m going to need Stace. I’ll tell her you came by to . . . ?”

  “Talk about Lizzie’s lessons,” she filled in.

  “Sorry. We don’t give private lessons.”

  “You do now. At least Stace does. Krista and my friend Gertie set it up.”

  That got his attention. “Gertie Roffler? The therapist?”

  Shelby winced. Of course he knew Gertie, who stayed there every summer, and was talking to Krista about putting together a weeklong program for troubled teens. Which meant that he was undoubtedly doing the one-plus-one thing and connecting that to Stace being halfway through her certification as a therapeutic riding instructor, and Lizzie’s odd behavior—at least it was odd to anyone who didn’t know her—the day before.

  Lizzie’s condition wasn’t supposed to be a secret; it was just that Shelby had gotten so used to not talking about it with her around, not wanting to reinforce the anxiety cycle. But Lizzie wasn’t here, and it was probably better to get the story spread around now rather than later. “She has what’s called ‘selective mutism’ or ‘SM’ for short. It’s an extreme form of shyness, more or less.”

  His eyebrows climbed. “She can’t talk?”

  “She can.” At least she used to. “For most kids, SM means they only talk to certain people under certain circumstances, like to their parents or siblings at home, but they freeze up with other people and in other places.”

  “But not for her?”

  “She doesn’t talk at all.” It still brought an ache to say, even after all this time. And it still made her feel like a failure, even though it really shouldn’t.

  “Selective mutism,” he repeated, frowning.

  “It’s not a very good name,” she said, trying not to get all prickly over it. “That makes it sound like she’s choosing not to speak when, really, she can’t. She wants to—wouldn’t you?—but the harder she tries, the more she locks up.” She braced herself for awkward pity or, worse, the look that said, Did something bad happen to her?

  But Foster just thought for a moment, then nodded slowly and tipped his head toward Sassy’s stall. “You have any experience with them?”

  “With . . . oh, the horses? Some. I took lessons for a couple of years as a kid.”

  “So you know enough not to feed them people food or get stepped on?”

  Okay, so that was a “no” on the muffins. “Um. Yes to the first, and I can only do my best on the second.” Where was this going?

  “Sassy’s getting close to her due date, so she’ll be in either her stall or the attached run-in twenty-four-seven. Peppermint here”—he pointed across the aisle to a stall that on first glance looked empty, but on a second look proved to have a pair of furry ears just visible over the four-foot wall—“is too small for singles week—lucky him—so he’ll be here during the day, too. Feel free to bring Lizzie in when things die down, and introduce her.”

  “Wow. Thanks. That’s really—”

  “Not a problem. Hook up the web stall guard.” He ran open Sassy’s door and demonstrated how to put the nylon strapping in place so the horse was contained but still accessible. “And you and the little one stay outside. No going in with the horses, no letting them out, and no feeding them fingers. They’re herbivores.”

  “Got it.” She would’ve saluted the list of orders, but she was too surprised by the gesture. After yesterday, she would’ve expected scowls and grumbles from him, not access. “Thank you.” Impulsively, she reached out and caught his forearm, gave it a squeeze. “I mean it. Seriously. Thank you.”

  He looked down at where her hand had landed, making her very aware of the solid feel of his muscles, the warmth of his body.

  She pulled away and said, “Sorry,” just as he said, “You’re welcome,” so the courtesies got muddled. Outside, a whole bunch of footsteps and voices were suddenly audible, and a chorus of “Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ . . .” broke out as the guests migrated out of the dining hall and headed for the barn for their first day of riding.

  Flushing, she stepped away. “I should go.”

  “Good idea,” he said, so levelly that she couldn’t tell whether he meant she should get out ahead of the singles, or she should get away from him while the getting was good. Either way, she turned tail and slipped out the back, clutching her basket of muffins and feeling like she’d made a narrow escape. Because whether he was a sweetie or a grump didn’t change the fact that she was at Mustang Ridge for a very specific purpose, and it wasn’t to hook up. Okay, let’s institute Rule Number Twelve, she thought. No summer fling, not even with a hot cowboy.

  Hopefully, she would do a better job of following Rule Twelve than Lizzie had done with Rule Eleven.

  4

  By Thursday afternoon, Shelby had more or less settled into the routine—up at four to help with the day’s baking and breakfast, a fe
w hours with Lizzie, back to the kitchen for lunch, and then a couple of hours free before the dinner rush. Gran had been right about it being a full day, but it still worked out to fewer hours than her regular job plus commuting and cooking, and gave her more time with Lizzie. Add in the scenery and the ranch atmosphere, and it felt like a vacation more than a job.

  So when Gran told her to take off midday on Thursday, she hesitated. “Are you sure? We can go on Saturday, instead.” Most of the staffers had changeover day to themselves.

  “And miss having Lizzie all prepared for tomorrow? Shame on you.”

  “But you said yourself that the riders are going to be starving when they get back.” The wranglers and dudes had carried picnic lunches with them for the daylong ride up to the high pasture. Shelby and Lizzie had waved them off just after breakfast, wearing raincoats against a chilly drizzle that had turned everything gray and misty. Krista and the wranglers had worked the crowd until thirty-six horse and rider pairs and three rangy farm dogs were strung out along the trail leading up to the ridgeline, disappearing into the mist. Shelby had “oohed” and “aahed” and taken pictures, but the little images on her phone hadn’t come close to capturing the moment, which had instantly won a place on her internal top-twenty list.

  Learning to appreciate the Wild West thing didn’t mean she was ready to give up Starbucks and manicures permanently, though, which was part of why she was feeling guilty about playing hooky to drive into town. Rumor had it there was a coffee shop that made a half-decent latte.

  “We’ll be fine,” Gran assured her. “Herman and I will hold down the fort until you get back. We can always holler for the Terrible Ts if we fall behind.”