Summer at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  “What’s wrong?”

  She held out the rope girth. “Not enough buckles.”

  “English is for sissies,” he said mildly, but took the girth and showed her how to feed the cinch straps through, around, and back through again, so they would tighten without binding. “Bridle?”

  “That, I’ve got.” She fitted the fat snaffle bit into the gap behind the gelding’s front set of teeth, slipped the one-ear headstall in place, and buckled the throatlatch with plenty of room. She ran the reins through her hands. “This is nice leather.”

  “It’s an oldie, but goodie.” He didn’t mention that he’d won it, along with his saddle, a truck, and a whole lot of other stuff. All part of a past he didn’t need to look back on.

  When she had everything in place, she looked over at him. “Good to go?” At his nod, she held out the reins. “Will you hold him for me while I go get Lizzie?”

  “I’ll get her. Meet us out in the arena.”

  She looked startled, but after an almost imperceptible pause, nodded. “Okay, thanks.”

  He was a little surprised, too. He didn’t have anything against kids—his nieces were cute little things, his nephews satisfyingly destructive, and some of the kids who came to the ranch turned out to be crack little riders—but for the most part, he kept his distance. Now, though, he headed out to the front of the barn with the sort of curiosity and low-grade anticipation that he usually felt when he was facing off opposite a new greenie—a combination of hoping that things wouldn’t get too rough and wondering how things were going to turn out.

  Granted, Lizzie’s mom had a point; she wasn’t a greenie or a house pet. Still, he thought that maybe he could help. If nothing else, he was darn good at reading body language.

  The little girl was sitting on the bench out front, kicking her legs and staring at her computer pad with what looked like total absorption. But when he came out of the barn, her shoulders hunched in a little, letting him know she’d seen him. Kind of like a mustang avoiding eye contact but flicking back an ear to say, I know you’re watching me.

  “Lizzie?”

  She hesitated, then looked up at him with the sort of semiinsulting blankness he associated with teenage greenhorns and was usually followed by “Yeah? What’s it to you?” or the ever-annoying “Whatever.” He didn’t think she meant it that way, though. Not when her shoulders hunched in even farther and her fingers tightened on the computer tablet.

  “Your mom is taking Loco out to the arena. Come with me, and I’ll show you where you can sit and get the best view.” He made it an order, not a question.

  She hesitated, then stood slowly, never taking her eyes off him. He didn’t stare back—that was predator behavior, and while she wasn’t prey, she sure acted like it.

  Which got him thinking, and not in a good direction. Was she afraid of him? Afraid of men? Afraid of new things in general? More importantly, why? Her mother made it sound like it was just one of those things, a phase that some kids went through, especially ones who were shy to begin with. And the reading he’d done backed that up . . . but it also said that very rarely, cases of SM were brought on by trauma, and when they were, the cases were severe.

  He glanced back to make sure she was following—she was, though from a distance—and led her through the barn instead of walking around. That didn’t seem to bother her, and she even glanced into Sassy’s stall on the way by.

  Good sign, he thought, and headed for the arena, where he put her in the covered judges’ stand they used for rodeoing and timed events. Then he turned his attention to her mother.

  The city fancy—Shelby, he thought, not liking the nickname now that he’d gotten to know her a little, and gotten to respect what she was dealing with—stood near the mounting block talking softly to Loco, who had his head pressed flat against her chest while she stroked his face and fondled his ears.

  For a second there, Foster seriously envied his horse.

  Aware of Lizzie’s eyes suddenly locking on him, as if she had caught some of the vibe, he cleared his throat and said to Shelby, “You ready to ride?”

  Shelby grinned. “I think I put him to sleep.”

  “Looks like. Let’s wake him up and get some work out of him.”

  He spent the next while coaching her through the process of checking her unfamiliar tack, then mounting up and guiding Loco through the series of exercises he usually used to evaluate the guests who claimed to already know how to ride. Unlike most of the guests he dealt with eight months of the year—where the beginners tended to grossly exaggerate their abilities and the experienced riders tended to underplay theirs for fear of being stuck with a bronc—Shelby was right about where he would’ve expected for someone who was getting back into the saddle after a couple of years of good lessons as a kid. And yeah, as he’d thought, she had a pretty good natural feel.

  Hopefully that wouldn’t backfire, making Lizzie jealous rather than giving her courage. They’d have to play it by ear.

  Once Shelby got a little accustomed to the idea of neck reining and stopped trying to sit like an English rider on the more chair-seated Western saddle, she did a fair job of guiding Loco through a simple pattern of walk, jog, and lope, with some halts that Foster threw in to show her how good the gelding’s emergency brakes could be. Not that she needed them, as Loco was being an angel—which was why, once upon a time, he’d made the big bucks.

  Foster didn’t let himself admire her natural posture or soft seat except as a means to an end—hello, keep it professional—and kept an equal eye on Lizzie, too, because that was the point of the whole exercise. Sitting up in the judges’ box, she seemed intent on her e-reader, lips pursed, fingers working to change pages at regular intervals. But her body was angled toward the arena, and once or twice he caught her looking over at Loco, following her mom’s ride.

  Shelby must’ve seen the same thing, because after she finished walking the gelding dry from his light sweat, she rode over to the judges’ stand and reined to a halt. “Lizzie, how about you come down here and meet Loco?”

  After a pause, the girl put down her e-reader and drifted to the front of the judges’ box. But she stalled at the edge of the platform.

  “Come on down,” Shelby urged brightly. “He’s fine. You’re fine.”

  Instead, the kid sat next to the stairs, dangling her legs over the edge and looking anywhere but at her mother.

  “How about if I bring him over to you?”

  Whatever-faced, Lizzie kicked back against the supporting beams, both feet together, hitting with dull, echoing thuds that had Loco flicking his ears.

  “Lizzie. Please stop that.” Shelby’s snap brought the gelding’s head up, but didn’t have much effect on the kid. If anything the drumming got louder. Shelby flushed a little, and Foster could see her doing a ten-count in her head. And now, like last night, he caught a flash of how hard she worked to keep herself level when it came to her child.

  Before things escalated to the point of things-we’ll-regret-later, he stepped in between them. “Hey, Lizzie, I’m going to need your help this week, if you’re up for it.”

  Shelby frowned. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I need her to babysit you.”

  The foot banging stopped.

  Talking to Lizzie now, he said, “Your mom did a great job with Loco, don’t you think? So she’s going to help me out by riding him during the week while I’m out with the guests. But as good as she did today, I don’t think it’s safe for her to ride completely alone, so I’d like you to come out here with her every day and keep an eye on her for me. Can you do that?”

  She didn’t nod, but he felt as if she was really looking at him for the first time, really seeing him, like when a newly gathered mustang finally made its first eye contact, starting to think that maybe humans weren’t that bad after all.

  “I’m not trying to scare you,” he continued. “I trust Loco and I trust your mom. But sometimes things just happen, and it’
s not anybody’s fault, but people get hurt.” She blinked, though he didn’t know if he was getting through. “That’s why I want you to keep an eye on her and Loco.” He paused. “Do you have a way to call for help if you get in trouble?”

  Shelby drew breath to answer, but when he shot her a warning look, she bit her lower lip and subsided.

  Pretending he was waiting for a greenie to approach him and take a carrot butt from his hand, Foster just stood there, staying chilled out, not staring at her or anything. Just hanging out, waiting. No agenda, nothing to see here, all the time in the world. He enjoyed the way the sun warmed his hat, smelled the char from last night’s bonfire, felt the good press of his boots in the Wyoming soil. And, when his head started getting too hot, he thought it was just about time to swap out his black felt hat for summer white. In the high country, black and white hats didn’t signify villains and good guys, but rather whether a cowboy was trying to warm his head or keep it cool.

  So he let his thoughts wander underneath that too-hot hat . . . And after a few minutes, the little girl slowly reached into her pocket and pulled out a bright pink whistle.

  Shelby made a noise in the back of her throat.

  He kept his expression neutral. “That’s a good-looking whistle.” Not wanting to push it one step further and take ten steps back, instead—which was always the risk with this sort of thing—he looked over at Shelby. “She willing to use it?”

  “Doubtful. She doesn’t like to make noise. But she’s got her phone, too. The signal is spotty in places, but I got boosters for both of us. She’s got the ranch’s main landline under emergency contacts and an SOS tone she can transmit. Krista and Gran know it means to come find her, and how to do it using her TinyGPS.” She was staring at her daughter, expression unreadable.

  “It’s a start.” To Lizzie, he said, “Okay, how about this? If you think your mom needs help and you can’t get through on the phone or with the whistle, I want you to slowly climb down out of the stands—slowly, okay? You don’t want to spook Loco by moving too fast—and then, when you’re out of his sight, I want you to book it to the barn first and then up to the house. Grab some grown-ups and drag them back here. Got it?”

  He waited. No agenda. Just watching the grass grow. He knew better than to let his mind latch on to all the stuff he needed to get done today. Animals could smell that kind of pressure, and invariably chose the worst possible moment to misbehave or hurt themselves. And kids—at least according to his sister—had the same radar. Better, even.

  After a long-feeling while, Lizzie nodded.

  “Cool.” Not making a big deal out of it, he glanced over at Shelby. “You ready to hop off and let Loco head back out to the corral with his friends?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said, and if she seemed a little toned down, he figured she was tired, or wilted from working in the sun for a solid hour on the first really warm day of the summer.

  Lizzie trailed them from a distance and plonked back down on the bench with her reader. Foster would’ve liked it if she had come in with them, but he didn’t push it. Pleased enough with the day’s progress, he was whistling as he came into the barn, where Shelby already had Loco on the cross ties. He came up beside her as she struggled with the cinch.

  Instead of helping her—she’d learn faster figuring it out on her own—he hitched his thumbs in his pockets and said, “I thought that went well.”

  She whirled on him, her expression fierce. “Next time, talk to me first before you make a decision like that about my daughter.” She wasn’t loud, but her whisper packed as much of a punch as the finger she drilled into his chest.

  Uh-oh. Angry mama bear alert. He backpedaled. “Wait a sec. I didn’t mean—”

  “I don’t have any doubt that your intentions were good, but that’s not the point. The point is that she’s my kid. I know her—and her condition—better than you ever could.”

  “But I—”

  “Should’ve asked me first whether I want to ride during the week.” She took a furious breath. “Not to mention that—”

  He did the only thing he could think of: he put a hand over her mouth and said firmly, “My turn.” His body was already jangling, and it just got worse when he touched her, but what mattered was that she was right. “I get it. I’m the boss of the barn, and I’m not real used to running my decisions past anyone. But I overstepped just now, and I’m sorry.”

  She stepped back, away from his touch, eyes suddenly wary. But she didn’t launch any more salvos. Instead, she took a deep breath and looked down, concentrating as she swiped her hands on her jeans, completely oblivious of the smudge of dirt on her cheek.

  It was an extremely cute smudge, he couldn’t help noticing.

  Finally, she sighed and looked back up at him. “Okay, then. Thanks for understanding. And . . . well, maybe I’m overreacting. Probably. Sorry about that.”

  “No problem. Comes with the territory, I expect.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Want to make it up to me?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How so?”

  “Nothing funny, so you can stop giving me that look.” It made him grin, though, and wonder whether maybe she wasn’t as immune to him as he’d been thinking. “I’m serious about wanting you to ride Loco for me during the week. He likes you, he could use the work, and it’d be something you and Lizzie could do together, especially if you ask her to watch your back. I’m not a parent, and I don’t play one on TV, but it seems to me that the sense of responsibility might do her good, help her get more involved with the horses, give her some power. You know the drill.”

  She hesitated, then slowly nodded. “Yeah. Sure. That sounds good.”

  “All righty, then. It’s a plan.”

  He turned away as she grabbed a brush and got to work on Loco’s sweat-salted coat. But although he should’ve felt good about how they’d gotten out of that one without any bloodshed—and better yet, they were back on common ground, and had a training plan in place—he couldn’t settle. Because as he headed into the tack room, he could still feel the softness of her skin against his palm, and he knew darn well he was lying to himself, or at least trying to.

  This wasn’t just about him helping Lizzie get over being afraid of the horses, not anymore. It was about the little girl’s mama, too, and the way she made him feel. And what the heck was he going to do about that?

  7

  A kiss is just a kiss, but Mint-Os fresh breath is an all-day affair.

  By late that night, after the new crop of guests—arriving for a three-generation family reunion, heavy on the Irish—had been welcomed, oriented, and fed, and had scattered to their cabins, Shelby was flat-out, bone-deep exhausted. So tired that, not long after Lizzie crashed for the night, she flopped down on her own bed.

  Where she lay staring out the window as the stars came out.

  “Go to sleep, dang it,” she muttered, and tried to follow her own orders.

  A while later, a coyote—or maybe even a wolf?—howled in the distance, shivering the back of her neck. A couple of others answered, even farther away. The room cooled. Her thoughts spun, refusing to quiet, or even settle enough so she could deal with them. Not that there was anything to deal with, really. Things were fine. One day at a time. Rome wasn’t built overnight. Have a Coke and a smile.

  “Okay. This isn’t working.” Shoving out of bed, she yanked on a pair of yoga pants and flip-flops, zipped a fleece over her sleep shirt, and headed for the kitchen. Five minutes later, as she pushed through the kitchen’s back door into air loaded with the yeasty scent of rising bread, she muttered, “Some nights, a girl just needs ice cream, damn it.”

  “Amen, sister.”

  Shelby stopped dead. “Oh!”

  Krista sat at the end of the stainless steel counter with a distinctive pint in front of her. She held up her spoon. “Phish Food?”

  “I thought Ben and Jerry were forbidden.” Gran had a near-pathological aversi
on to Deadheads and ice cream with crunchy stuff in it, which meant that the B&J boys were verboten.

  “Ergo, we must destroy the evidence,” Krista said. “I could use your help.”

  “Something tells me you’re doing fine on your own. I’ll just grab some cake and get scarce.”

  “Don’t be dumb.” Krista kicked out a stool. “Grab a spoon, instead.”

  Giving in, Shelby snagged a bowl and spoon and rummaged in one of the big commercial fridges for a half-full bowl of whipped cream left over from dessert. Behind that was a wrapped chunk of day-old devil’s food cake, which she also pulled out.

  “Ooh, gimme.” Krista beckoned. “I didn’t know that was in there. See? I’m already glad you’re here. Hey, are there any cherries and hot fudge? We can make some killer brownie sundaes.”

  “We shouldn’t.”

  “Why the heck not? It’s Saturday night.”

  Unable to argue with that logic, Shelby found the cherries and sauce, along with a Ziploc bag of chopped walnuts. They spent a few minutes assembling a day’s worth of calories—maybe more—in two big bowls, and then Krista said, “Come on. I’ve got an idea.”

  “Not more food.”

  “Nope. Follow me.”

  Krista led the way up a wide staircase and along a hallway with bedroom doors leading off on either side, to the window at the end. She ran it open, letting in the night. “I hope you’re not afraid of heights.” Not waiting for Shelby’s answer, she ducked through the window and disappeared into the darkness. A moment later, her voice floated back. “Oh, jeez. Cabin Five left their shades up. Come on, we’ll go around to the other side.”

  Forewarned, Shelby kept her eyes off the glow of the cabin windows as she edged one leg and her ice cream out, and then balanced on the sill while her vision adjusted to the moonlight. “Krista?”

  “Over here. You want a hand?”

  “No, I’m good.” She could see her now, leaning back against a dormer halfway down the peaked ridge of the dining hall roof. Grateful that she was wearing flip-flops rather than her still-slippery boots, Shelby picked her way over and sank down beside her with a sigh. “Nice. This is nice. Good idea.” Then she dug up a bite of sloppy sundae, popped the spoon in her mouth, and nearly groaned. “Even better idea.”