Summer at Mustang Ridge (13 page)

He didn’t argue or try to talk her out of it, just climbed to his feet, drew her up, and then pulled her into his arms for a long, thorough kiss that chased away all vestiges of chills and loneliness, and brought back the excitement. It reminded her not just that she wanted to stay right where she was, but also why it was a really good idea for her to leave.

Too much, too soon. And very tempting.

When they parted, he leaned his forehead against hers, breathing deeply. There was a rasp in his voice when he said, “Seems to me I still owe you a trail ride.”

Pleasure bubbled up inside her. “Is that the cowboy equivalent of a coffee date?”

“Something like that. I’m leaving tomorrow for the summer mustang gather, though. I’ll be gone a week, maybe ten days.”

She wouldn’t let herself be disappointed. “Then I guess I’ll see you when you get back.”

“That’s a promise. And, Shelby?”

She smiled up at him, relieved that it could be this easy when two people were on the same page—no fuss, no drama, just a man and a woman sneaking up on the idea of enjoying each other’s company. “Mm?”

“It wouldn’t hurt if you thought of me a time or two. Because you can bet your shiny new boots that I’ll be thinking about you.”

Beans, beans, they’re good for your heart . . .

T
o
ward the middle of the following week, on day four of Foster’s being off at the gather—not that Shelby was counting or anything—there was a stir at the side door leading to the kitchen, and Junior clumped in, carrying a salt-cured something or other that very much resembled half a pig.

“I’ve never seen so much bacon before in my life,” Shelby announced, staring in horrified fascination as he carried it into the cold room. “I think my arteries just hardened. Atherosclerosis by osmosis, with a side of a sodium spike in my blood pressure.”

“Stuff like that doesn’t count on a roundup,” Gran said complacently. “It’s a clinically proven fact.”

“Baloney.”

“Nope, bacon.”

The rest of the statement caught up with Shelby and she let the cold-room door thump shut. “Wait, did you say roundup?”

“I sure did!” Gran scooped Herman’s bowl off the counter and did a little twirl that made her ruffled blue apron flare out. “We’re taking this show on the road next week, baby!”

“But I thought the roundup was . . .” Oh, wow. The Fourth of July. Where the heck had the rest of June gone?

Gran dimpled at her. “Days and weeks aren’t that big a deal out here, at least not the way they are for some people. We’re more worried about seasons.”

“But Lizzie and I aren’t even close to being ready for the roundup.” When she’d first talked to Krista about the summer schedule, it had seemed that the timing would be perfect for roundup week—they would’ve been there for almost a month, plenty of time to get Lizzie ready to ride out with the group, while Shelby would ride in the chuck truck with Gran, driving ahead to each overnight camp so they could have a hot meal waiting.

A month, check. Ready to ride, not so much.

“There’s room for three in the chuck truck,” Gran assured her.

Not that it was open for discussion, really. If Gran was going, then so was Shelby, and by extension, Lizzie. “Okay. Right. Roundup week. Thus, the half a pig.”

“There’s also a fifty-pounder of beans and two big bags of flour in the pantry, and most of a cow in the freezer.”

“What, no butchering on the trail?”

“Health codes,” Gran said, looking mildly disgusted. “That, and we’ve found that the guests prefer not to know where their meals come from.”

Trying not to let on that she fell in that category, Shelby said, “Okay. Flour, bacon, beans, beef. What can I do to help get things ready to roll?”

“Nothing right yet. It’ll be business as usual until midday Saturday, when we pack up the wagon and ride out.”

“No orientation?”

“The roundup is for returning riders, by special invitation only.” Pride shone in her face. “Krista and Foster have turned this into such an event that there’s a waiting list.”

“Nice.” Shelby didn’t try to ignore the warm shimmies that came at hearing Foster’s name; she enjoyed them, instead. After all, wasn’t that the point of them having agreed to a summer fling—or at least a summer flirtation? “He’ll be back from the gather in time?”

“Last I heard. If not, he’ll catch up with us. Krista and the wranglers can handle the ride out to the high pastures, and the first couple of gathers. It’s the way home that can get tricky, once all the cattle are lumped together and not convinced they want to be going where we want to put them.”

“I’m not sure I blame them.”

“We’re not bringing them all in. Mostly the wranglers will just be microchipping the latest arrivals and snipping the new crop of bulls. That can happen up in the high country.”

“Like I said.” Shelby grinned. “Anyway. There’s got to be something I can do to help between now and then.”

Gran waved her off. “Go ride your horse.”

“Loco?”

“Yes, Loco. He’ll sulk if he gets left behind, and it’s never pleasant to see a handsome man sulk.”

“Hello, anthropomorphism.”

“Fine, don’t practice. Then see how you feel when you fall off in front of the guests.”

Forget the guests, she didn’t want to fall off in front of Foster. The idea of riding with him, though, out on a roundup, no less . . . Okay, that was seriously cool. “But I’m not going to be riding with the group. There’s no way I’m abandoning you to cook while I play greenhorn.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Gran slid a pan of brownies onto the cooling rack. “Right now it’s our turn to get Lucky.”

Shelby didn’t bother trying to work out if that was meant as a joke; she just went with it. Krista had christened Sassy’s foal “Lucky Bugg,” combining his sire’s name, Ima Bugg, with her own optimism. Thus, the little guy had become “Lucky” by default, and also as something for him to live up to. That hope was starting to wear thin, though, as days passed and the little guy still couldn’t get up or figure out how to nurse on his own. Every time, they used their fingers to push his tongue into the curved shape needed for suckling . . . and every time, he just stood there, letting the milk run down the back of his throat.

Still, he had gained some weight. Enough that Shelby was starting to feel the strain of lifting him onto his feet and supporting him while he nursed. And if she was feeling it . . . “I could go find Tipper—”

“And rob me of my chance to get my hands on all that squishable baby cuteness? You wouldn’t dare.”

Having learned not to argue when Gran got that look in her eye, Shelby held up her hands in surrender. “Just a thought. Come on, then. Let’s go get Lucky.”

“Now you’re talking.”

The barnyard was quiet, but as they approached the main doors, Shelby slowed and cocked her head. “Do you hear that?”

Gran cocked her head at the pinging noise. “Someone’s phone, maybe? Or it could be birds. They like to nest in the eaves, and the hatchlings peep like crazy.”

But when Shelby got inside, she saw instantly that it wasn’t either of those things.
It’s not a bird, it’s not a phone, it’s . . . Lizzie!

Wearing pink play clothes, with her flyaway brown hair tamed back in a matching scrunchie, she sat on an overturned bucket. The stall door was open, the web guard at half-mast because Lucky wasn’t about to escape and Sassy wasn’t going anywhere without him. Bent over her iPad, gaming away, Lizzie didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the horses . . . except she’d turned on the volume. More, she had turned it up all the way, so the chirpy
pings
,
pongs
, and
sproinngggs
of whatever she was playing reverberated through the barn.

“Look at them,” Gran said softly.

“I see.” Lucky lay on his chest in the soft shavings that had replaced the birthing straw. He was curled up with his long legs folded under him, as he so often was these days—which was an improvement over lying flat out, but still not normal for a five-day-old foal. But where Shelby was used to seeing him with his nose buried in the shavings, propping him while he snoozed with his eyes mostly closed, now his head was up and his little radar-dish ears gave little twitches with each digital noise. Sassy seemed intrigued, too, and stood over Lizzie as if watching the game.

Progress,
Shelby thought, feeling a wide smile split her face. “Hey, Tizzy Lizzie!” Her voice nearly broke on the words, but she forced herself to hold it together, keep it casual. “Is Mr. Lucky ready for his threesies?”

She didn’t get a yes or no, but Lizzie got up, moved her bucket aside, and unclipped the stall guard the rest of the way, then held it open with a Vanna flourish.

“Thank you, young lady.” Gran sailed through, smiling widely when little Lucky gave a soft whicker. “And you, too, young man. Isn’t that a nice, hungry sound? What do you say we do something about that empty tummy of yours?”

She and Shelby got on opposite sides of the foal, linked hands, and gave him a “One, two, three,
hup!
” And even though Shelby tried to take most of the weight as they stood, she saw the strain in Gran’s face and felt a few protesting twinges in her own back.

“Come on,” she urged, juggling the foal a little in the hopes that he’d get a clue and lock his legs for stability. “You can do it.” But it was like trying to prop up a sawhorse on pool noodles.

“Over we go,” Gran said, shuffling in the shavings so Lucky was pointed toward his mama.

“Tipper could—”

“March!”

Shelby marched, and together they got the little guy lined up with the taps. He still wouldn’t take the teat himself, so Shelby kept him propped up while Gran held his head and squirted milk in his mouth, more or less. Unlike the first few days, though, when he’d hung limp, now he tried to crane around and take a nip at his mother, or look back at Shelby with adorable eyes that made her say, “Awwww,” even when she wanted to noogie him for having the attention span of a flea.

“Stop wearing it and start drinking it,” Gran said with some asperity. “Better yet, stop lying around like a man, waiting for someone to bring you your yummies. I thought you said you were hungry.”

“Sing it, sister.” Shelby was a little out of breath. “Ouch. Get off my toe. Seriously, if you can be this squirmy, you should be able to do this yourself.”

Lizzie hovered in the doorway, looking more like an overprotective mama than Sassy, who stood quietly, having gotten used to the fuss.

“That’s it!” Gran said suddenly as he made a grab for her fingers and found Sassy’s udder, instead. “That’s where it’s coming from. Just latch on and—good boy!” Her crow was soft, so as not to startle the little foal, but her eyes shone. “What a fine fellow!”

Shelby grinned over at Lizzie. “He’s nursing!”

Okay, maybe that was a bit of an overstatement, as he only made it a few gulps before he lost his grip—or his train of thought—and they had to get him organized all over again. And he didn’t make any real effort to hold himself up while he nursed. But baby steps counted, and the mood was high by the time they lowered him back down to a soft nest of clean shavings.

“I’m going back to the kitchen to play with my potatoes,” Gran announced, but then pointed at Shelby. “And I don’t want to see you in there any earlier than five tonight, got it? Everything’s under control and you’ve been doing more of your share this week.”

“Hello, pot? This is the kettle speaking.”

“Well, the pot is the boss, and she says five.” With that, Gran swept out, head high, but moving slower than before.

Shelby looked back at the little foal. “How about you cut her some slack and start finding your eats on your own?” Either way, she was going to have to talk to Krista about getting Gran even more relief in the kitchen, not just assistance but actual shifts off, days off. She had been delaying, not wanting to tattle, but enough was enough.

With that decided, she had a couple of hours free, and a roundup on the horizon. Glancing at Lizzie, she said casually, “I’m going to take Loco out for a loop around the ranch. You okay keeping an eye on these two?”

Not only did she get a nod, but Lizzie stayed put on her bucket while Shelby put Loco on the cross ties not ten feet away.
Progress, indeed
.

•   •   •

Shelby was just finishing up her ride—it was so nice out that one loop around the ranch had turned into three—when Loco’s head came up and his ears whipped forward, his attention fixing on the main trail coming down off the ridgeline.

“Not today,” she said, taking in a little rein, just in case. “We’re sticking close to home. No getting crazy until next week’s roundup, okay? And preferably not then, either.” She still couldn’t quite believe this was her life, and that she would be riding out in the backcountry—maybe even herding some cows—and cooking bacon-flavored beans over an open fire. It seemed like it should’ve been something she heard about secondhand over extra-foam-please lattes, the kind of story that made her promise herself a vacation that would soon be forgotten in the face of three frantic clients and a call from one of Lizzie’s teachers.

Loco’s head stayed up and he took a dancing step to one side. “Easy, buddy,” she crooned, tightening the reins further but making sure the rest of her stayed relaxed. “Easy, there.” But then dust stirred at the top of the ridge and a horse and rider came into view, walking flat-footed. The blaze-faced horse whinnied, and Shelby relaxed the reins. Loco had just been trying to tell her there was company coming. “Okay, you win. Let’s go see what’s up.”

When they got close enough, the woman waved and called, “Hey there! Hi! You’re Shelby, right?”

“That’s right.” She was a little surprised at being recognized, but then again, this week’s guests—a large group of women who knew each other through an online equestrian message board and had met up annually at Mustang Ridge for the past five years—knew their way around the ranch, its people, and the horses.

“I’m Dana. Cabin Six.”

“You’re back early. Everything okay?”

“Justice here threw a shoe, and without Foster to do his fix-a-flat routine up in the high country, I decided to come back down rather than risking a bruise.”

“Bummer,” Shelby sympathized. “It’s a beautiful day for a ride. Come on, we’ll walk you in. I was headed that way myself.”