“And from there, to Belize.”
“Actually, it was an internship in Kenya first, followed by a couple of bottom-barrel jobs in L.A. and New York, where I clawed my way up to the camera crew. Then I worked on documentaries in the UK, Ireland, and central Texas before signing on with Jungle Love because I was ready for some rain forests and parrots. So far, I’ve done two seasons in Belize and one each in Honduras, Guatemala, and central Mexico.”
“Impressive. I bet your passport is even prettier than mine.”
“We can have a stamp-off if you like.”
“You’d win. And I think mine’s expired.”
“Not mine,” she declared, and dug into her pie. “I can’t wait to get back on a plane headed wherever.”
Again he felt that twinge.
“What does your family think about you living abroad?” he asked. When she hesitated—maybe?—he added, “You mentioned wanting to escape some weirdness earlier. I thought they might be leaning on you to stay on at the ranch.”
She shuddered. “Yeesh. Don’t even say it. No, they’re used to me being gone. As for the weirdness, that would be courtesy of my mother. These days, she and I make oil and water look like best buddies.”
“Really? I’m surprised.” He had only met Rose Skye a couple of times, and had the impression of a cheerful—if somewhat formidable—woman who didn’t have much to do with the ranch operations. “She seemed pretty mellow to me.”
“You must’ve caught her on a down day.” She closed her take-out box and set it aside.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I owe you a couple of personal questions, remember? Besides, it’s something I’ve been thinking about lots since I’ve been home. It’s the first time the two of us have been under the same roof in . . . I don’t know. Five years? Six? I don’t know if it’s gotten worse recently, or if I’m just noticing it more.”
On any of the other first dates he’d been on in the last couple of years—not that there had been many—he would’ve steered things in some other direction, keeping things light and fun. And, yeah, he and Jenny were just having fun . . . but they were also friends of a sort, and he wanted to help. “What is she doing that has you worried?”
“When I was growing up, she was totally normal, you know? She wasn’t perfect—who is? But she worked in the ranch office, drove me and Krista around, nagged us to do our homework and chores, rode out with the roundups, and she was, well, Mom. And when it became obvious that Mustang Ridge was going to have to make a change if it wanted to stay afloat, she got right behind Krista’s idea of a dude ranch. She helped design the cabins, the theme weeks, even the dining hall and the original Web site.”
“I take it something changed?”
“When it was all up and running, and Krista was finding her balance being in charge of things, our mom and dad announced that they were retiring, buying an RV, and taking off. Which I totally get—my dad should’ve been an engineer or an inventor or something, but there was no way he was going to let the ranch leave the family, so he became a cattleman instead. He never loved it, though. Not like he’s loved traveling.” An utterly fond smile softened her face in the moonlight. “You should see some of the things he’s engineered in the RV—little machines that let him brew coffee in the galley while he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, spring-loaded gizmos in the sleeping compartment that make it easier for my mom to lift the mattress and get to the storage area underneath, that sort of thing. And he’s made friends all over, not just because he’s the kind of guy people want to be around, but because he can fix almost anything. Your taillight is wired wrong? Let Ed Skye take a look at it. Got a problem with your plumbing? Eddie can help. He’ll take a beer in payment, but never anything more.” Her eyes went soft in the moonlight. “He still gets emails from all over the country asking him how to fix this or that.”
“He sounds like a neat guy,” Nick said. “I should’ve made more of an effort to get to know him when I was out to Mustang Ridge for farm calls.”
“Not your fault. These days he spends most of his time in the workshop, hiding from Mom.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t say that. It’s just . . . she’s gone crazy with this retirement thing. Where he gets a kick out of helping other people, she’s gone the other way. She latches on to hobbies, becomes obsessed by them and loses track of the people around her.” She pried a frozen pebble off the ground and tossed it in the fire pit, where it clinked and slid to the bottom. “Like when she’s on a cooking kick and invades Gran’s kitchen. Or when she goes on a decorating binge and moves her and Dad into a tiny guest room with just a double bed in it. And when you try to talk to her about it, she just steamrolls right over the top of you, acting like nothing’s wrong. Because to her, nothing is wrong. It’s everyone else who’s got the problem. Not to mention . . .” She stopped suddenly, expression rueful. “Not to mention, I’m babbling.”
“Seems like you had some pressure built up there.” He took her hand, linked their fingers. “I don’t mind listening, if you want to talk.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but I think we should even things up, here. Can I ask about your family?”
“How about next time?” He stood and held out a hand to help her up. “I think my core temperature is about bottomed out.”
She hesitated, then smiled. “What do you know? Looks like I’m getting some Wyoming back in my blood, after all.”
They walked back to the truck hand in hand. When he fired up the engine and the clock came to life, she squeaked. “It’s not really that late, is it?”
He looked at the three-digit number. “Technically, it’s early.”
“Yeah, if you’re talking about tomorrow.”
“It’s all a matter of perspective.” And from his perspective the hours had flown. More, he was strongly tempted to head back to the diner, grab a couple of coffees, and keep on talking until it was time to order breakfast. But they weren’t nineteen anymore and he had clinic appointments starting in just over seven hours, so he navigated back out to the main road and headed for Mustang Ridge.
The drive passed in warm, comfortable silence, with them holding hands on the center console. As they turned into the driveway and rolled under the WELCOME TO MUSTANG RIDGE sign, she stirred and said, “I’m going to hold you to that ‘next time’ on telling me about your family. Count on it.”
“I’ll take that as fair warning,” he said. “How about Sunday?”
Her lips curved. “You’re not a slouch-in-front-of-the-TV-and-watch-football guy?”
“I can adjust my slouching schedule. Besides, I owe you a real meal.”
“You don’t owe me anything. I had fun tonight.” She slid him a sidelong glance. “If you want to try again for the Steak Lodge, though, Sunday sounds good.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.”
“Trying to avoid the six o’clock–special crowd?”
“Something like that,” he said as they rolled into the parking lot and he killed the engine. The image of Ruth and her cronies watching from a nearby booth was enough to make a man shudder.
“It’s a date.” She reached for her door.
“Wait. Let me get that for you.” He ushered her out, then trailed her up the shoveled path to the main house. The porch stairs amplified their bootfalls, making him grin. “Hard to be subtle around here.”
She leaned back against the door, eyes alight. “There’s that gentlemanly streak again, walking me home like we’re seventeen and coming home from prom.”
“Sometimes tradition can be its own sort of adventure,” he said. And, going with tradition, he leaned in and kissed her good night.
10
Jenny had been kissed many times before. She had even been kissed before in this very spot, and on chilly nights like this one. Except where those long-ago kisses had come from boys, this one came from a man.
And what a man.
If she had thought he was big before, now he seeme
d huge as he enfolded her in his arms, pressing through the layers of their jackets to mold their bodies together. There was no hesitation, no pause to see if she was on board with a good night kiss. Or if there was, it was lost beneath the rush of desire that flared through her at the touch of his tongue against hers.
Her hands found their way up to his shoulders, where she dug in and clung, because without him to anchor her and the door at her back, she was sure she would’ve melted into the wide-board floor of the porch. Even at that, she was barely conscious of anything beyond his lips and tongue, and his body against hers. Desire pulled her in and whirled her around like whitewater, except if she had been in a river she would’ve tried to fight free and reach the shore. Here, she dove in for more, not caring that she couldn’t breathe.
He broke the kiss with a groan, then eased back and looked down at her with eyes that had gone dark and intense.
Suddenly, she could breathe again, ribs heaving like she had come through the other side of the whirlpool. Reeling, she fought to keep the porch floorboards steady under her feet. “Wow,” she said, too shaken to go for subtle. “That was . . . Wow.”
He shook his head, though she didn’t know if he was trying to deny what had just happened between them, or attempting to stop his ears from ringing. “I should . . . I’m going to go now.”
She shouldn’t even entertain the thought of sneaking him inside or, worse, upstairs, where if the floorboards didn’t give them away, Rex certainly would. Besides, too much, too soon, and hey, what about that whole I’m not rushing into anything vow? Still, it was a long moment before she said, “Yeah. You probably should.”
He leaned in and brushed his lips across her cheek. “I’ll see you Sunday.”
“See you then.”
Reaching past her, he pushed open the door. “I can’t leave until you’re inside. It’s part of the Guy Code.”
“Not the guys I’ve known.”
“The Gentleman’s Code, then.” And, like a complete gentleman, he shoved her over the threshold and pulled the door shut between them.
Laughing, she yanked it open. “Hey, Nick?”
He turned back on the shoveled pathway, and cocked his head. “Yeah?”
“Thanks for tonight. You give excellent first date.”
His dimples popped. “Would it be gentlemanly to say the same about you?”
“It would be ungentlemanly not to say it.”
“Then consider it said. Now get inside before you let out all the heat, or your father comes down to see what’s taking me so long to drive off.”
• • •
The next morning, Jenny slept in deliciously late, spared some sympathy for a certain vet who had to work today, and—after a brief internal debate—sent him a text of the “thanks for last night, looking forward to Sunday” variety. She hadn’t ever seen the point of playing hard to get. She liked him, he liked her, the chemistry was whizz-bang off the charts, and he knew full well she’d be gone in five more weeks.
Four weeks and six days, actually. Not that she was counting.
The sunshine streaming in through the window showed a gorgeous day outside, all blue skies and puffy little clouds. There was still way too much white and not enough green, never mind the distinct lack of parrots and butterflies, but she was getting used to it. Besides, with the office line going to voicemail and a Saturday free to do what she wanted, her fingers were itching for a camera.
“Come on, Rex,” she said, swinging her legs to the side of the bed. “Breakfast calls.”
He lurched up with a happy “whuff.” Oh, boy! Breakfast!
In the kitchen, Gran was shaking toasted coconut shavings over the tops of a dozen perfectly plump muffins. When Jenny came in with Rex at her heels, she turned, face lighting. “There you are! We were starting to wonder if you made it home last night, or if you’d be doing the walk of shame come lunchtime.”
“You did not just say walk of shame.” Jenny reached for one of the muffins, then hesitated on the theory that it would be bad karma if they were destined for a church bake sale or a get-well basket. “Are these for us?”
“They’re for the Paw Pals silent auction, but I made extra.” Gran set a steaming mug of coffee on the counter at Jenny’s elbow, then bustled off to let Rex out the back door, where they had shoveled a spot for him to do his business. When she returned, she said briskly, “Well? Are you going to make me drag it out of you?”
“Drag what?”
That got her a narrow-eyed look. “Don’t mess with me, missy, or I’ll cut you off.”
Laughing, Jenny grabbed a second muffin just in case. “It was fun. Better than fun.” She waved the muffin in emphasis. “Dates like the one I had last night are the reason why us females don’t give up after the sixth bad first date, or the twentieth. We keep hoping that lightning will strike.”
Gran’s eyes widened. “Lightning? Really?”
“Not like that,” Jenny warned, knowing her gran wouldn’t object to being a great-gran sooner than later. “It was one of those nights that just worked, you know?” And then there was that kiss . . . “How were things here?” she asked before the date recap turned into twenty questions.
“Quiet. Not like today.” Gran’s lips pursed. “Your mother has been thumping and banging around upstairs all morning. I’m surprised the noise didn’t wake you.”
“I’m used to commotion.” In fact, the noises were probably why she had slept so soundly. Her subconscious hadn’t been straining to find some background noise in the winter quiet. “How is Big Skye feeling?”
“Like he’s traded the flu for cabin fever. I had to threaten to withhold cookies to keep him from riding out with Foster today, but the doctor said he needs to take it easy until his recheck on Tuesday.”
“Think he’d be up to telling some old-timey stories on camera? Like an interview?”
“Oh, goodness, yes.” Gran’s expression smoothed to one of entreaty. “Please. I’m begging you. It’ll make his day.”
Jenny laughed. “Okay, I’ll call down and give him a ten-minute warning so he can get camera-ready.”
It was more like fifteen before she finished her coffee, suited up for the cold, and headed out of the house with a pair of padded bags—one for Old Faithful, the other for Doris—looped across her body like bandoliers. Rex elected to stay behind and doze next to the fire, smart dog.
Whistling, she headed down the shoveled path toward her grandparents’ cottage. She wasn’t in a rush, though, and let her eyes roam.
Caught by the way the snow draped down off the pitched roof of the barn and furred the Dutch doors like impatient eyebrows, she pulled Old Faithful out of the worn bag, tweaked the settings, and then framed and focused, the actions as natural as breathing. As she took the first shot, a male cardinal zoomed past her and lit on the edge of the gutter, putting a splash of crimson center stage.
“Right on cue,” she murmured, and snapped several frames at increasing zoom. Then she shifted over a few paces, until she thought she was at the same angle and distance as she had been during her visit last summer, and took a few more photos as the cardinal obliged by cocking his head and watching her with bright eyes.
Nice. The matching winter and summer shots would have an impact. Maybe not for the planned advertising, but she was starting to see a calendar taking shape, or maybe a coffee table book they could personalize by slotting in a few shots of the guests during their stay at the ranch.
Look at her, brainstorming merchandise.
She was tucking Old Faithful back in his battered bag when a sharp whistle cut through the air. A joyous bark answered, and as Jenny followed the path around the side of the barn, she saw a black-and-white border collie dolphining through the snow toward a mounted man who could’ve been Wikipedia’s poster boy for the entry labeled cowboy.
Utterly in his element astride a compact dark bay gelding, wearing batwing chaps, a battered shearling coat, and a black felt Stetson that would soak u
p the sun and keep his head warm, Foster could’ve been one of his own great-great-great ancestors, riding out to check on the stock after a storm.
“Gotcha!” Jenny said as she raised the camera and hit the trigger, taking frame after frame as the dog whisked from side to side, the horse churned through the knee-deep snow and snorted plumes of white vapor, and Foster’s body shifted to absorb the movement.
A year ago she might’ve thought twice about paparazzi-ing the ranch’s taciturn, ultra-private head wrangler, but he had lightened up considerably since meeting his lady love. He smiled more, laughed occasionally, and had even started a couple of conversations with Jenny that hadn’t been strictly about ranch biz. Which had her looking forward to meeting Shelby in person later in the week.
The woman was clearly a miracle worker.
Man, horse, and dog forged up the incline, leaving a chopped-up trail in the snow. When they reached the top, Foster turned his mount and raised a hand in a wave that was part “Hey, there” and part “Yeah, I totally know you’re there” like he had eyes in the back of his Stetson.
Jenny got the last laugh on that one, though, because it made a hell of a shot—the horse and rider in perfect profile with the snow at their feet and the blue sky at their backs, and his hand raised in a wave that, no matter its real intent, would read like he was welcoming the viewer to his world.
“Congratulations. You just made the calendar’s cover.” Which would no doubt horrify him.
Cheered by the thought and the knowledge that she had already nailed a couple of pictures, she stowed Old Faithful and continued on to the cottage. After a quick rat-tat-tat knock, she swung open the kitchen door. “Yoo-hoo. Anyone home?”
“Come on back,” came Big Skye’s reply, sounding hale and hearty, like he had finally kicked the lung crud.
She stowed her outer clothes and boots near the door and headed for the living room, swiping a couple of peanut butter cookies off the cooling rack and devouring the first before she was through the door and past the piano. Around half of the second cookie—excessive, granted, after the muffins, but she had zero willpower after being baking-deprived for so long—she said, “You ready to be a YouTube star, big guy? We work this right, and you could go viral.”
Winter at Mustang Ridge Page 9
