Coming Home to Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  “Don’t look now,” Ashley said in an undertone, “but I think your horse is thinking about proving your point.”

  The geldings had started out picketed about twenty feet apart, with enough slack to graze. Brutus had worked his way over to Justice, though, and had the other horse’s tie rope in his mouth, up near the quick-release knot.

  “Hey there,” Ty said in a low growl, then followed it up with “Don’t even think about it, meathead. You make us walk home and I’ll put you in the dude string so fast that your honking big head will spin. On a lead line, mind you. And you don’t want to be on a lead line, do you? That would be embarrassing.”

  The big chestnut dropped Justice’s rope, looked at Ty for a beat, then gave a juicy snort and went back to grazing, sidling away from the other horse as if at random.

  A laugh bubbled up in Ashley’s throat. “He’s like a giant cat. You can practically hear him thinking, Nope, not listening to you. Just doing what I meant to do all along.”

  He leaned back against the slope that led down to the water, urging her down beside him. “Yep, that’s Brutus. A thousand-pound redheaded cat.”

  She snuggled against his body, which was warm and soft, yet so solid underneath it all. “There’s a terrifying thought.”

  “Speaking of cats, how is ’Tunia doing?” He had taken to shortening the cat’s name, claiming it was a million times more masculine than Petunia, and that she should give the poor guy a break.

  “As of this afternoon, the score was plates three, humans zero.” She wrinkled her nose. “I finally gave in and hid the blue pitcher and the green vase. He seems to like the tall kitty-tree thing Nick found for him.” The vet claimed a client had donated it after her kitty had spurned it for the arm of the sofa. She had a feeling he had ordered it himself.

  “What about the feather-on-a-stick toy?”

  “He dropped it in the toilet one night; then I swear he laughed when I poked myself in the butt in the dark.” She sighed. “As pets go, he kind of sucks.”

  Ty chuckled. “I’ll have to come over one of these nights, have a discussion with him about how us street kids need to be grateful when we get a soft landing.”

  “Please do. I’ll even make spaghetti.”

  “Thought French toast was your limit?”

  “Let’s just say we’re going to run through my repertoire pretty quickly.”

  “I can teach you to make a mean chuckwagon chili, if you like.”

  “Will it put hair on my chest?”

  “We can tone it down to peach-fuzz level.”

  “Sold.” She smiled against him, enjoying the banter, the night air, and having given herself permission to forget about the store, if only for a few hours. “How about you? Did you ever get a soft landing?” She hadn’t missed the us when he was talking about street kids, or forgotten that she hadn’t heard the rest of his story.

  She wasn’t surprised by the pause. After a moment, though, he said, “I guess you could say I did, though I don’t know that I would call it soft.”

  “What, then?”

  “Lucky,” he said. “I’d say that when I headed out on my own, for the first time in a long damn time I got lucky. Because when I lit on down the road and stuck out my thumb, I didn’t get picked up by someone looking to roll me for my money, or worse. Instead, the truck and trailer that stopped belonged to a stockman, Jim Hess, who contracted bulls to the rodeo circuits, and was on his way to a job. He was big enough and tough enough that he wasn’t afraid of me, and one of his guys hadn’t shown up to work. He said he’d give me fifty bucks to help move bulls around in the chutes and load everything up when the show was over. Assuming, of course, that I knew how to handle myself around livestock.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not a lick, which Jim figured out after about two minutes of talking to me. But he must’ve seen something he liked because instead of telling me to get lost, he let me in the cab and gave me a rundown on how to handle myself around bucking bulls—how to bluff them into thinking I was bigger and meaner than them, and how to tell when they weren’t buying it.”

  “You started with bulls.” It had taken Wyatt most of his teenage years to work up to handling the big, mean creatures he had dubbed “horns and hate on the hoof.” Of course Ty had started there.

  “At first I figured I’d just work the night,” he continued. “I was going to add the money to my stash and catch a ride south. I’d had enough of being cold in the winter, figured I’d head where that wouldn’t be a problem. Except by the end of the night, I was too damn tired to do anything more than climb into the truck with Jim’s other guys and crash in a spare bunk back at his place.”

  He wouldn’t have been much older than Gilly, she realized. And for him, an empty bed had counted as a good landing. “I take it you stayed on?”

  He nodded. “I learned how to ride, found I had a decent touch with horses, and got along okay with all but one of the guys. Mason.” His voice flattened. “There was this other cowpuncher, Bob—a little slow, but a good guy. Didn’t deserve the business Mason liked to give him, and the others were too afraid to stand up for themselves, never mind him. So Mason and I went around once or twice. Three times, maybe. Some bruises and bad blood at first, nothing more. The last time, though, he went too far. And then, so did I.” There was something dark and complicated in his tone.

  Her heart gave a tug. He saw himself as the bad guy—for having a temper, liking to fight—when he’d really been standing up for someone who needed him. But that was Ty, wasn’t it? He rescued people, and didn’t even realize he was doing it. “What happened?”

  “Mason wound up in the ER, getting his arm splinted and his face sewn up, and Jim yanked me into his office. I thought for sure he was going to fire me then and there, maybe worse. But he didn’t.”

  “What did he do?”

  She thought she caught a hint of bafflement, even all those years later. “He brought me to the pen where he kept this mustang named Slider—a big brute of a late-cut gelding that he’d gotten from some guy who couldn’t afford to feed him anymore. Jim handed me a rope halter and told me break him on my off hours. He said I could take however long I needed, but to get that horse going under saddle, get him useful. As long as I was doing that, I could stay, but if I gave up, I was fired. Turned out he had already given Mason a payout and cut him loose. I was on probation.”

  The ache got sweeter. “How long did it take you to gentle the horse?”

  “Six months, three cracked ribs, and a whole lot of humility.” There was a smile in his voice. “But damned if that jug-headed bastard didn’t turn into one of the best cow horses on the property. He had good instincts. You just had to figure out how to make him think it was his idea to use them. Kind of like Brutus here.” He glanced over at the gelding, who seemed to be minding his manners. Tone sobering, he continued. “About a year after that, Jim went to bed one night with a headache, and didn’t wake back up. An aneurysm, they said. No hope for him, even if one of us had known to do more than tell him to take a couple of aspirin and a snort of whiskey.” A heavy pause. “He didn’t have any family, had a bunch of debts, so everything got sold off. The bulls, the horses, the saddles. Even the property, bunks included.”

  Which would’ve made Ty nineteen or twenty, and out on his own again, having lost his home, his horse, and the closest thing to a father—or at least a mentor—that he’d ever known. Ashley shifted to brush her lips across his stubbled jaw. “I’m sorry. That must have royally sucked.”

  “Hard days, no question. But I came out with more skills than I had going in, and Jim’s outfit had enough name recognition that it wasn’t tough to get jobs for a couple of us with another stock company.”

  “You and Bob.” It wasn’t a question.

  “He was a good guy. Good worker. When things slowed down, I moved on so they could afford to
keep paying him. I bounced around, made some friends, made some enemies, broke some mustangs, learned to sit a bull for eight seconds and rope a calf in half that. Along the line, I won an old harmonica in a game of five-card stud.”

  Her lips curved. “And discovered that you had music in your soul.”

  He tightened his arm around her, brushed his lips across the top of her head. “I don’t know about that. I do know that when I didn’t have a rank mustang reminding me to keep my moves slow and my words even slower, playing a tune helped take the edge off my temper. I taught myself to play that harmonica, bought myself a guitar and a DIY book, and used them to keep myself in check while I worked for a string of rodeo bosses who’d cheat you as quick as they’d look at you. I was making enough money to live on, but not enough to live any different than I was. So I rodeoed and played the local bars, and told myself that if this was as good as it was going to get, it wasn’t all that bad.”

  It wasn’t the first time he had downplayed his musical talent. It was, however, the first time she thought she understood why. For him, it wasn’t about pleasing the crowd so much as quieting his brain. That, she understood. “How did you wind up here?”

  “Luck,” he said promptly. “Doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it matters.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was at a rodeo and I had some words with a bulldogger who was yanking his horse around, all pissed off. Nice horse, okay rider, snotty bull, not the horse’s fault they lost. And even if it was, that’s no excuse for treating an animal wrong.”

  Ty to the rescue. “You had words, huh?”

  “Something like that. Anyway, afterward, I took myself off with my guitar, figuring I’d let things settle before I went back to the pens. I was senior enough by then that I could get away with taking a break. But then this guy comes over to me—not somebody I recognize, but he’s got a bow to his legs and the look of upper management, so I figure he’s coming to tell me to shift my rear, or maybe fire me for taking a couple of shots at the bulldogger. I set the guitar aside, and give him a I was just headed back to my post routine that we both knew was bunk. But he said he wasn’t there to bust my hide for taking a minute to make damn good music—he wanted to talk to me about a job. He was the head wrangler at this new dude ranch, and he needed a second-in-command to wrangle some group trail rides, bonus points if he could carry a tune across a campfire.”

  “Let me guess. Foster.” Bless him. She made a mental note to give Shelby’s husband a big hug the next time she saw him. Which would no doubt horrify him, but in a good way.

  Ty nodded. “Sure enough, Foster. I listened to him, listened some more, asked a couple of questions, and agreed to take a drive out there the next day. He’s a smart man—first thing he did was bring me through the kitchen and introduce me to Gran.” He chuckled. “I was sold before we got to the barn. Moved my stuff into the bunkhouse a couple of days later, and led my first crop of dudes the day after that.”

  And, she thought, he had found his home. “You love it here.”

  “It’s Wyoming. What’s not to love?”

  “Not just the location. The Skyes, the horses. Even the guests. This place works for you.”

  “I’m sure glad to be back. Turns out that life on the road isn’t for me anymore. A place like this is far more my speed.”

  “Then why not stay?” It was out there before she thought it through, not really realizing how it would sound—needy, and like she was hinting around for something they had already agreed wasn’t on the table. “Never mind. Can I rewind that question and request a do-over?”

  A chuckle vibrated in his chest, and he cruised his lips across hers. “No need. We’re just talking. Besides, we should probably be heading back before we lose the moonlight and our horses turn into a couple of pumpkins.”

  “Yours is already the right color.”

  “Brutus?” Shifting away from her, he started packing up the remnants of their picnic. “He’s more of a jack-o’-lantern. One of the ones with the crazy eyes and a fiendish smile.”

  “Here. Let me.” She reached for the stack of empty Tupperware containers, one with a few carrot sticks left over.

  “Save those.”

  “Bribing the jack-o’-lantern for good behavior?”

  He grinned. “Something like that.”

  “This from the man who gives me grief for feeding my cat rather than letting him bust up the joint.”

  They kept the conversation light as they loaded their packs onto the horses, mounted up, and set out through the trees for the return trip. There was zero reason for the niggle of disquiet that had taken root in the back of her mind. He had let her in, shared more than she would have expected. She should be more than satisfied. She was satisfied, darn it. This was what they had agreed to, what she needed right now.

  Still, as they headed back toward the ranch, she couldn’t help wondering. Was he afraid to think about settling down in Three Ridges after what had happened the last time, or was there something more to the story?

  • • •

  For Ashley, the next ten days passed in a blur of workdays, work nights, and the occasional few hours of hooky with Ty. Or, better yet, more than a few.

  It didn’t matter what they did—anything from rearranging the racks to walking a colicky horse while they waited for the meds to summon the so-called “poop fairy”—she and Ty found something to talk about, something to laugh about.

  Better yet, they decided to go out for sandwiches one night, and they didn’t have to drive out of town to do it. Despite his earlier reluctance to embrace downtown Three Ridges, Main Street welcomed him with open arms. Bakery Betty all but leaped over the counter to give him a big hug when he came through the door, then called her daughters out to see him, acting like the prodigal son had returned.

  Ty handled it with his usual charm, asking after mutual friends and avoiding the subject of his ex. Ashley, though, knew him well enough to see him loosening up as they talked, as if he had been dreading his first trip through the bakery’s doors. Better yet, he kept hold of her hand through it all, leaving no question that they were together and earning an approving beam from Betty and a surreptitious glare from the middle daughter. Which was flattering, really.

  They ordered their sandwiches and sat at a little table out front, with their knees bumping as they traded bites of turkey and spicy Italian subs and did some people-watching. Which, in a town as small as Three Ridges, involved lots of waving and Hey, how are you? exchanges.

  It was all very simple and normal, and Ashley enjoyed every minute of it.

  After dinner, as promised, he had a stern talk with Petunia, facing off opposite the black cat over the remains of a cartoon coffee mug she had unwisely left on the counter that morning. Instead of WORLD’S BEST MOM—it had been Della’s—what was left of it read WO EST OM. They had decided that was Cat for Damn it, human, my dinner is late. Which was no excuse, really.

  “Listen, Tunes, here’s the thing,” Ty began.

  “His name is Petunia,” Ashley put in.

  Man and cat looked at her with near identical narrow-eyed expressions. “Please,” Ty said. “This is guy talk.”

  “Ohh-kay.” She held both hands up and backed off a step. “Sor-ree.”

  She sat on the sofa and pretended to do paperwork while she watched him put his head very near the cat’s and explain, in a low and serious tone, that Ashley was good people, she meant well, and even if she got caught up in work stuff now and then, Petunia should really cut her some slack and leave the breakables alone.

  “There,” Ty said as the cat marched out of the room with his tail mockingly aloft. “I think we’ve got an agreement.”

  “You sure about that?”

  An eyebrow quirked up. “What are you grinning at?”

  “You.” You’re adorable. With kids, cats, ho
rses . . . She didn’t let herself go mushy, but the temptation was definitely there. He was the real deal—that was for sure. “You’re a regular cat-whispering, singing cowboy, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t forget incredible lover.”

  “Are you?” She tapped her lower lip. “I can’t quite re—”

  “Oh, really?” He crossed to her in three long strides and leaned down to scoop her up off the couch.

  She squeaked as the papers went flying, but lost her weak protest to the ardent pressure of his mouth on hers, the grip of arms that wouldn’t let her fall, and a body that was strong enough to lean on. And as he carried her to the bedroom and made straight for the window so she could deal with the blinds, she thrilled to his touch, his kiss, and the way he made her feel when he touched her, like she was his entire focus.

  Life, she thought, could be far worse.

  In fact, as Down Payment Day drew ever closer, there were only two real clouds on the horizon. The first was the hard reality that even with stellar sales and a second round of the trash-to-treasure clinic, she would either need to win the window display contest or cash Wyatt’s check. The second wasn’t even a cloud, really—more like a wisp, a faint haze that she wasn’t even sure was real. There were times, though, that she caught a shadow on Ty’s face as he checked his phone, a faraway look that said he wasn’t there with her anymore. He was somewhere else.

  Let it go, she told herself each time it happened. They were together because they wanted to be, because it was fun. And if it felt like she was teetering at the edge of the cliff, that was her problem, not his, and she could handle herself just fine.

  Until, that is, he called her that Friday night, with two weeks to go to D-Day and eight days until the Midsummer Parade, and asked her to ride out with him. He brought her to a waterfall beside a fast-moving river, where hoofprints said the wild mustangs came down to drink and a hollowed-out spot in the nearby cliff held a fire pit.