When he flipped on the barn lights, he got a chorus of hopeful whickers from the stalled horses, and felt, for the first time since Shelby came up on his porch and he got a look at her face, like he could breathe. Bypassing Brutus, he made straight for Loco’s stall. “Hey there, partner. You up for a ride?”
• • •
Shelby got Lizzie settled for the night, which wasn’t easy given that she was overtired, wired from the trail ride and too many cookies, and really wanted to sleep in the barn even though there weren’t any more foals due. On the plus side, though, Lizzie was worked up enough that she didn’t notice that her mother was on another planet, and not a happy, green-and-blue one. Something more like Mars—bleak, windy, and a weird color.
It was past eleven by the time Lizzie finally conked out. But even though Shelby’s body was exhausted, her head was far from ready to quit for the night. Her thoughts spun and her chest ached, and if removing her heart and setting it aside for a little while had been an option, she totally would’ve gone for it.
Unfortunately, she was stuck with her heart, and the ache that came with it. How had she let this happen? She didn’t want to be in almost-love, and if she did, she would’ve done it with someone who made more sense.
Right?
Finally giving up on the idea of sleep, she found her flip-flops and headed for the kitchen. Maybe she could eat herself into a sugar coma or, failing that, at least reorganize things for breakfast in the wake of Hurricane Rose and the Kitchen Gadgets of Doom.
Hey, that was almost a slogan. Or how about Welcome to Mustang Ridge, where strangers are family and some of the family members are strange?
She managed a tired chuckle as she came up the back stairs to the kitchen, but it was interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn. “This is stupid,” she told herself. “You should be in bed.”
“Amen, sister.” Krista lifted a fork. “Join the midnight snack club.” Seated at the butcher block counter, she had a messy plate in front of her and a glass of milk off to one side.
Shelby missed a step in surprise, but then gave a big sigh of relief as some of the terrible tightness loosened in her chest. “Bring it on. What’ve you got?”
“It’s one of Mom’s Napoleons. Don’t tell Gran.”
“Tell her what? As far as I see, you’re just getting rid of something that’ll upset her.” Snagging a fork from the drying rack, Shelby took the chair opposite her. “Make that we’re getting rid of it.” She dug in, feeling like she could finally breathe again after far too long. The first couple of forkfuls were just a chocolate binge, but eventually the taste worked its way past her misery. “Hey, this doesn’t suck.”
“Decent, huh? It’s no Herman, granted, but it’s got some texture.”
“Herman.” Shelby took a guilty look over her shoulder at the cold room. “Shoot. I need to feed him. Can’t believe I almost forgot.” Actually, she could.
“Gran didn’t do it?”
“She was pretty distracted this afternoon.” They both were.
“Yeah.” Krista grimaced. “This just in . . . they’re staying.”
It took Shelby a moment to reorient, but in a way she was grateful to focus on something other than the part of her that was labeled “Foster” and kept saying I can’t believe I fell for him, I can’t believe I told him, I can’t believe I broke up with him. “Your parents?”
“No, the cartoon chipmunks. Of course my parents.” She made a face. “Sorry for sniping. I’m in a mood, obviously. Anyway, it turns out that my mom has been wanting to come back for a while to—ahem—share her new culinary expertise with the guests, and she decided that now was the perfect time, what with Bertie going on maternity leave.” She paused. “And I’ll admit that after you and I talked about Gran, I mentioned to my dad that it’s getting to the point where she can’t do all of it on her own, even with a stellar assistant. But this wasn’t what I was thinking. No way, no how, and certainly not as a drop-in ‘Hi, we’re here, where should we put our six tons of luggage and kitchen crap?’ kind of thing!”
Shelby hesitated. “What did your dad say?”
“Not much. He’s happy to be back in his workshop and hanging out with Gramps, and isn’t going to go to war over this. Which means, yippee, I’ve got my parents back, indefinitely.”
“Um . . . congratulations?”
“Yeah. Not so much.” Krista sighed. “Don’t get me wrong. My dad is great in his own, nonconfrontational way, and I do love my mom. She was the first one on board with the dude ranch idea, and she helped me bring the others around. But when we actually sold off most of the stock and started building the cabins, she just . . . I don’t know. Decompressed or something. It doesn’t bother my dad—he’s just happy he’s got time to fiddle with his gadgets now—but even he admits that she’s changed. She used to be in charge of the books, while Gran did most of the cooking. Now she doesn’t want anything to do with the paperwork. She wants to be Emeril.”
“It can’t have been easy, being the daughter-in-law most of her life.”
“You’re right. And Gran . . . well, she has her ways. I sympathize with my mom, I really do. But that doesn’t change the fact that Gran’s an awesome ranch cook and she’s got a great system that works for the guests. Even Herman adds a little je ne sais quoi to things.”
“Yes. Yes, he does”
“Meanwhile, Mom . . .” Krista regarded a forkful of Napoleon. “She has flashes of brilliance in the kitchen, I’ll admit it. But she also has plenty of ‘what the hell is this?’ moments and routine flake-outs that weren’t a big deal when it was just us, but became a big problem when people started paying us to feed them at regular intervals.”
“I take it you can’t ban her from the kitchen?”
“Nope. She and Dad have equal shares in the ranch, along with my grandparents, Jenny, and me.” She grimaced. “And honestly? I don’t want to tell her she can’t be in the kitchen. She’s my mom, and she really loves cooking. I know, I know, this is business and I have to protect Gran. But still. I’m hoping we can come up with some sort of middle ground. Maybe Mom could do family meals and Gran can handle the guests . . . though that’s assuming they can find a way to share the same air.”
Shelby took a pointed look around at the pink plastic bins stacked haphazardly in the corner near the freezers, the as-seen-on-TV appliances that crowded out Gran’s enameled mixers and blenders, and the various jars and bottles, not all of them labeled, that had appeared on the storage shelves. “It’s not going to be easy.”
“Probably not.” Krista sighed. “I won’t ask you to run interference.”
“You don’t have to. It’s in my job description.”
“Not the way I remember it.”
“Please. You and Gran have done more than Lizzie and I can ever repay. You took us both in, gave her all the time and space she needed. Then you did the same for me when I didn’t even know I needed it, and . . . Darn it.” Shelby hung her head as her eyes filled. “Sorry. I . . . Shoot. I thought I had it under control. Sorry, ignore me, please.”
“Hey, now. What’s this?” Krista reached across and grabbed her wrist. “Oh, heck. You didn’t come for an update, did you? You needed a binge of your own. What’s wrong? Is it Lizzie? Foster?”
Shelby nodded miserably, throat locking on the words she didn’t want to say.
“Which one?”
“Both. Neither. It’s me. Darn it.” She got up, grabbed a couple of paper towels, and gave her nose a noisy blow. “Sexy.”
“I’ll use my sleeve as a napkin if it’ll make you feel better.”
“The sign of a true friend.”
“I am. So tell me what’s wrong.”
Shelby sighed, feeling the tears drain to exhaustion and a dragging pain inside her, the kind that said something awful had happened, reminding her over and over again even when she was trying hard to forget about it, at least for a few minutes. “Foster and I broke up,” she said finally.
Krist
a’s eyes widened with shock, then darkened with pain and sympathy. “Oh, sweetie.” She was on her feet in a flash and rounded the counter to catch Shelby in a hug. “That rat! What did he do?”
Shelby was surprised to find that she could still laugh. “It wasn’t his fault.”
“Of course it was. He’s the guy, and this is the girls-only midnight snack zone.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Shelby straightened, sniffling. “I thought I could keep things casual, but it didn’t work. I didn’t realize it until today. I was getting on his case for not telling me about his divorce, and realized I was upset because that meant he used to want a family but doesn’t anymore, at least not with me and Lizzie . . . And then I figured out that the only reason it was a problem was that I was starting to see the three of us that way.”
“See? I told you it was his fault.”
“It’s really not. But thanks for being on my side.”
Krista hugged her harder. “Always. What can I do to make it better?”
“You just did.” The heartbreak that remained wasn’t going to go away in a night—far from it—but between the sugar and the sympathy, Shelby could feel herself winding down, thought she might be able to sleep now. Pushing away from the counter, she said, “Thanks for the pastry therapy, and the ear. I think I’m going to pack it in.”
“I’m going to call it a night, too.” Krista shot a bleak look around the kitchen. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
“I’ll be in early to make sure breakfast goes smoothly.” And it wasn’t like she was going to be able to sleep in. Already, nerves were coiling in her belly at the knowledge that she was going to have to see Foster tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that . . .
With a final hug, Krista dumped the plate and silverware in the sink to soak and headed for the far hallway, which led up to her quarters. Turning back at the door, she said, “We’re all going to be okay, Shelby. We care about each other, and that means that we’ll do our best to work things out with the least damage possible. We might not all get what we want—probably won’t—but we’ll do our best.”
Her throat closed. “That’s not how things work where I come from.”
“Well, it’s how it works here.” Krista smiled tiredly. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new day.”
As Krista’s footsteps faded, Shelby ducked into the cold room to do her final kitchen chore for the day. Suddenly so exhausted that her head spun and her eyes felt dry and gluey, she left the door open and the lights off, and made quick work of giving Herman his dose of flour, water, flat beer, and a slug of Gran’s secret concoction out of the hidden bottle.
Inhaling the faint, chilled scent of yeast and feeling her breath hitch on leftover tears, she said, “You know what, Herman? I think you’ve got the right idea. Asexual reproduction may be the way to go.”
It wouldn’t be nearly as much fun, granted. But it would take away a whole lot of heartache.
• • •
Foster didn’t know how long he’d been riding. Long enough that his head had finally quieted down and he didn’t want to escape his own skin anymore. Granted, there was still a hurting hollow inside him. He hadn’t been looking for a woman he could care about, but he’d found one. She was fiercely loyal, sexy, sensual, and funny as heck. And, most of all, she got the geeky stuff, the junk food, and the silliness that he adored, and had a good touch with the horses. In some ways, she was perfect for him. It was too bad they were completely wrong for each other. It was too bad . . . well, it was just too bad.
Tish’s comments were eating at him, more now than ever before. He didn’t know if it was because it felt like he was finally getting close to making a deal with Old Winslow, or if it was just easier for him to fixate on that. Or maybe it was that a big part of him still wanted to tell his sister about Shelby. Problem was, he knew what she would say: that he might have to give way on some things if he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life solo save for his horse and his dog, and that just because he’d picked the wrong woman before didn’t mean he was more likely to make another mistake. Exactly the opposite, in fact.
Or was that was what he was starting to think?
But that was the thing, wasn’t it? When it came down to it, there were telling similarities between Shelby and Jill, numero uno being that they both lived a faster, flashier life than he did. And as much as he told himself that Shelby was caring, consistent, and giving, how much did he know about her, really? He had thought he knew Jill well enough, that their chemistry would see them through any rough patches, and he’d been dead wrong. And this time he wasn’t talking about a fellow horsewoman, a rodeo queen who knew what it meant to have a ranch.
Thing was, knowing that didn’t stop his heart from hurting, didn’t stop a large part of him from wanting to ride back down to Mustang Ridge, bang on Shelby’s door, and tell her that he wanted to give it a go and see if they could find some middle ground.
But what kind of middle ground was there? He didn’t want anything long distance, didn’t want to move, and she had already said she wasn’t planning on sticking around. More, he had to think about Lizzie, too. His heart gave an uncomfortable lurch at the reminder that Shelby and her daughter were a package deal. He didn’t know if he could step into the daddy role at this point in his life, or if that would do either of them any good. Sure, he got along fine with the kid when it came to the horses, and he’d been able to help some with the SM, but those were small, isolated things. Like when he was hired to work with a problem horse at another ranch, coming in a couple of hours a day, but knowing he could leave when he was done.
Day to day, though, he didn’t know if he was ready to try, especially when failing would mean hurting not just himself but two other people he cared about deeply. He needed to know he could do it, needed to know they wouldn’t ruin things if they tried. But life didn’t come with guarantees, did it? And . . . His brain logjammed, making his fingers tighten on the reins, to the point that Loco shook his head and craned back to shoot Foster a look of What gives?
He needed a reality check, that was what gave. But when he reined in at a high spot where he thought he might get reception, and pulled out his phone to call Tish and catch an earful for waking her up, he didn’t get even a ghost of a bar on his cell. Maybe the sparse cloud cover was enough to kill the signal, or maybe the satellites were out of range, who knew? Either way, his reach-out was foiled.
But as he started to put his phone away, an icon caught his attention. Apparently, he had mail. And given that he’d only given the address to a few people, he had a pretty good idea who it was from.
Winslow. And hello, irony.
Pulse kicking up a notch, like his system was getting ready to fight words on the screen, he clicked over to his e-mail program. And yep, sure enough, it was from his ex-father-in-law. The subject line said Re: ranch, as though there would’ve been any other reason for the old bastard to get in touch. Should’ve said Re: the ranch I made sure my daughter got, only to have it sit empty for the past decade because she’s got the attention span of a dummy foal.
Bracing for the worst, Foster opened the message. “What now? Time to up the price another twenty just for kicks?” He skimmed it.
Stopped. Read it again as his pulse thudded.
The words blurred, and not because the phone was dusty, but because there was no way the message really said Your last offer is acceptable. Let’s make the deal.
Except that was exactly what it said. The old goat was finally ready to move on, or else he had another deal in the works and needed the money. Or the house had burned down and Foster was about to pay way too much for land. He didn’t care, though. He stared at the message a moment longer while his pulse leveled off and his stomach roiled at the realization that this was it.
He was really going to do it. Finally, after all these years, he was going to get the old place back. And not just so the family could visit or to appease his guilt. That w
as part of it, sure, but he also flat-out wanted the Double-Bar H to be his again, and for the rest of his life. He wanted to run a few cattle, but mostly turn over mustangs, taking likely prospects from the gathers and putting a good start on them, making them into solid citizens that would suit the amateur riders who made up the bulk of the horse trade these days. He wanted to wake up in the main bedroom, with its creaky third board and sticky window, and he wanted to knock back his first cup of sludge-black coffee sitting on the porch. And yeah, maybe he wasn’t alone in the hazy images—dreams, fantasies, whatever. Maybe in the far-off future he saw himself with a wife, a few kids—that was what a rancher did, after all. He had his family, made his legacy. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t plug Shelby and Lizzie into the mental pictures.
He had tried to make it fit before, and had spent the past eight years digging himself out from underneath the mistake. This, though, wasn’t a mistake. It was what he’d been working toward for so long, and he needed to remember that, and not let himself get derailed.
Moments later, he had fired off an e-mail of a single word: Agreed.
Message failed. Do you want to save and resend later?
“Sure. Whatever.” He closed the program, dropped the phone back in his pocket, and breathed the night air, waiting for it to hit him that he was getting the old place back. It was everything he’d wanted, everything he’d been working toward. Except as Loco shifted beneath him, mouthing his bit, and the cool night made its way through his jacket, Foster had to admit that he wasn’t excited, wasn’t particularly happy. He was just . . . tired. Let down. Something.
And that something had brown hair and laughing eyes, and had told him she was falling for him.
18
The next morning, Shelby dragged herself out of bed feeling like she’d been on the wrong end of a roundup. Like underneath it. Her eyes were scratchy, her head hurt, and her throat was sore, and if she’d been at home, she totally would’ve called in dead to work. She couldn’t leave Gran in the lurch, though, especially not with Rose in the picture.
Summer at Mustang Ridge Page 25
