Summer at Mustang Ridge (17 page)

When he paused, she wasn’t sure what to say. She’d asked about the horse and got the story of the man, in a way she probably wouldn’t have if she’d asked about his family or childhood.

Maybe she was starting to figure out this cowboy thing. Sort of.

Nestling in closer, she said, “I guess you take after him.”

“I’d like to think so, and that’s where Loco comes in. Growing up on the Double-Bar H, Tish and I were riding pretty much as soon as we could walk, and we helped bring on the young stock all along, doing different parts of the training as we grew up. It was family tradition, though, that on our sixteenth birthdays, we got to pick a foal or yearling for our own, and do all the training from the ground up. Tish—she’s a year older than me—picked a spitfire of a mare that she named Beauty, because she was. And the next year, I picked out Loco.”

“Why the name? Was he crazy?”

“Actually, I named him Luke. The Loco part came later, when it came time to start him under saddle.”

She felt him shrug.

“We worked it out over the years, and nowadays there isn’t anyone else, man or beast, that I trust more.”

Shelby laughed softly. “Gran was saying to me earlier how it’s harder being a parent than a horse trainer, because a parent has to get it right the first time.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

“But you got it right.”

“I got lucky. He’s a hell of a horse.”

And you’re a hell of a man,
she thought, but didn’t say. So instead, she said, “So, he’s what, twenty now?”

“Twenty-two and still going strong, though he’ll show his age now and then in the winter.”

“Don’t we all?”

He laughed and hugged her close. “Don’t you believe it, Mama Bear. You and Stace could be sisters.”

“Hardly. I’m thirty-three.” Which made him five years older, yet it sort of felt like those numbers should be reversed. She was the one with the nine-year-old and the mortgage, while he had a horse, a saddle, and a beat-up old truck. That was the nice thing about what they were doing, though. All that mattered was today, tomorrow, maybe the next day. So she would take it one day at a time and enjoy the ride.

“I’m liking thirty-something,” he said. “It’s old enough to have learned a few things about impulse control and patience, but still young enough that I can tell myself I’ve got time yet to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.”

“Ah, yes, that one. I’m familiar with the concept.”

“Not sure you want to stay in advertising?”

“Not sure I want to work for someone else for the rest of my life doing it.”

“And here I first thought we didn’t have much in common.” He paused. “Don’t get me wrong, Krista is the best. But it’s not my own place, you know?”

She held up her Twizzler. “To being your own boss.”

He clinked. “Amen.”

He chuckled and held her close, and they stayed like that in comfortable silence for a bit, watching the water fall and the mist rise, and the patterns they made in the moonlight. Before long, though, he squeezed her tight and said into her hair, “We should be heading back. If we stay out much longer, they’re liable to send the dogs out after us.”

“I know.” And the last thing she wanted to do was worry Lizzie or any of the others. “Speaking of dogs, where’s Vader?”

“He was tired from the long run earlier, so I asked Lizzie to watch him for me.”

Her heart took a slow roll in her chest. “Oh. I didn’t see him when I talked to her.”

“He’s learned his lesson about getting too close to fire pits. But he’s there, keeping an eye on her, and vice versa.”

“Thank you.”

“No biggie.”

She caught his hand and squeezed it. “It’s a biggie to me, and to Lizzie. She hasn’t had much in the way of positive male attention in the last few years, and I think . . .” She hesitated, hating to put it into words, but unable to call it a coincidence. “Please don’t think I’m trying to put you in the daddy role, because I’m really not. But at the same time, I’m not sure she would have gotten as far as she has without you. Not just because you’re a man, but because of everything you’ve done for her. For us.”

“She would’ve gotten there.” When she started to shake her head, he caught her face in his hands. “Hey. She would have. Maybe not this fast, or this same way, but she would’ve gotten there, thanks to you.”

Shelby closed her eyes. “You’re good for me, Foster. I wish I could give you back some of what you’ve given me.”

“No keeping score, remember?” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “When can I see you again?”

She laughed, because they’d be camping within yards of each other, she with Lizzie, while he doubled up with Ty. Who, Gran had warned, snored like a jackhammer. But she knew what he meant, and the question gave her a glow. “I’d give you my number, but rumor has it you don’t have your phone glued to you twenty-four-seven.”

“Not so much.” He kissed her nose. “So let’s make our date right now. Tomorrow night, after things die down. Meet me by the horses, like you did tonight. I’ll bring the junk food and show you something special.”

“Skinny-dipping?”

His grin went lopsided. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

T
h
e next few days were a blur to Shelby, but in a very good way. The roundup was an unqualified success, with a ten percent increase in the number of calves that were microchipped, immunized, and—in the case of the young males—snipped, and a fat two hundred being brought down to the ranch to be sold, ensuring that the herd didn’t get too big. The days hadn’t been blazing hot, there weren’t any real accidents or injuries, and the horses and riders were holding up great under the work. The chuck truck was chugging along, rolling along easier now that it was lighter by five days’ worth of provisions, and Shelby and Gran had been roundly praised each night for the camp meals. But if the days blurred, the nights stood still.

Shelby and Foster didn’t go skinny-dipping after all, as the water was even colder up closer to the mountains. Instead, on the second night—it was Sunday, though not like any Sunday she’d ever had before—they rode out to a cliff where, sheltered in a shallow cave high up above ground level, some long-ago artist had chiseled a pattern of spirals and stars, and barrel-chested stick figures hunting with arrows and spears.

With the hobbled horses picking at grass down below, snorting now and then, Shelby leaned into Foster and dangled her legs over the edge, enjoying the flutter that came with the height . . . and the man. She let out a sigh. “It’s a fabulous night.”

“We get lots of great nights out here.” He stretched an arm around her and drew her closer. “But the company makes this one perfect.”

She grinned up at his strong profile, silhouetted against the blush of sunset. “Your sweet talk is getting better. You been practicing?”

“Brutus gets a kick out of it.” He reached into the saddlebag he’d brought up with him, and held out a bottle. “Drink?”

“Orange soda?”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Gran always says my palate stopped developing at age twelve. Besides, I wasn’t sure what went with Nutter Butters.”

“What doesn’t go with Nutter Butters? Gimme.”

He proffered the packaged cookies with a flourish. “Asparagus?”

“Excuse me?

“Asparagus doesn’t go with Nutter Butters.”

She bit in, considered. “I could make it work. Maybe tie them together with a white sauce, or some Brie.” Though that might be stretching it.

He faked a shudder. “Real cowboys don’t eat funky cheese.”

“Is that part of the code?”

“If it’s not, it should be.”

“Okay, then, no asparagus with our Nutter Butters.”

“Or brussels sprouts, broccoli, or lima beans.”

“You got something against vegetables?”

“Not if it’s lettuce or carrots. Peas are okay in limited doses.”

“Ah.” She nodded knowingly. “You’re a bag-o’-salad guy.”

“A what?”

“Tell me there hasn’t been a bag o’ salad in your fridge recently.” At his expression, she grinned. “Typical bachelor fare.”

“Oh? And you’ve never succumbed to the temptation of American blend or spring mix?”

“I didn’t say that. Hey, it’s an accepted single mom shortcut. I figure I get points because Lizzie eats her veggies . . . as long as I don’t try to feed her asparagus, broccoli, brussels sprouts, or lima beans.”

“Just one more reason for me to like your kid.”

The offhand comment tightened her throat, made her want to reach out to him.
He doesn’t mean it that way,
she reminded herself.
We’re just having fun here.
And they did, eating their cookies under the stars and sharing peanut-flavored kisses that teetered on the edge of more.

More heat, more touches, more desire.

On Monday night, after a long day of collecting cattle on his part and cooking on hers, they snuck away again and rode out to a bubbling spring that held the sweetest water she’d ever tasted, and a mossy carpet where they cuddled and looked up at the stars. They were both bone tired and didn’t talk much, but where silence so often made her feel like she should jump in and fill it with something, now she relaxed and enjoyed the quiet, the night. The man.

They breathed. They touched. They kissed. And when the air cooled, the horses grew restless, and they headed back to the campsite, she was utterly, bonelessly relaxed. They would have tomorrow, the day after that, and the day after that.

I’m on vacation,
she thought, and tried not to grin like a fool.

On Tuesday he got Stace to cover the dinner service, and brought Shelby to another waterfall while the sun still hung in the sky. This waterfall was taller and narrower than the first, a long, thin cascade that bounced off rock after rock, turning almost entirely to mist by the time it hit bottom. There, a pebbled shore stretched up past where the mist turned everything wet, offering a perfect spot for the picnic he drew from an oversize saddlebag. After spreading a wool blanket and guiding her down, he dug into the provisions and produced a bottle of wine, pale and slender, and gleaming yellow in the sun. “I filched a nice Chardonnay from the truck, if you’re in the mood.”

She almost hid the split-second hesitation. “Ah . . . sure.”

“Or not,” he said easily. “I brought lemonade, too, in case alcohol’s not your thing.”

“No,” she said softly. “I’d like the wine.”

He paid too much attention to pouring. “I take it that you’re not exactly a party animal? City girl like you?”

“City girls aren’t all the same,” she said with some asperity. “That’s like saying everyone who lives in Wyoming is a cowboy.”

“Bite your tongue.”

“Like I said. But you’re right, I don’t party much. I like a little wine now and then, though, with . . . friends.”

This time the look was longer, and didn’t slide away. “With someone you trust, you mean. Someone you know won’t go overboard?”

She wasn’t sure she liked how easily he read her. She enjoyed being the focus of his attention, but some things didn’t have any place in a romantic picnic under the wide-open sky, with a handsome cowboy who made her feel special. She wasn’t ashamed of this part of her life, though, at least not anymore. So she nodded and said, “Something like that. Which means that yes, I’d like some wine, thanks.” Leaning back, hoping that would be the end of it, she looked up at the waterfall. “Is that a cave up there?”

He handed her a plastic cup. “Yep. About fifteen feet deep, though it gets pretty low in the back. A big mama cat used it a few years back, though there hasn’t been any sign of her in a while.”

Her heart shimmied. “You actually climbed up there to see?”

“Once or twice a year.” He grinned. “It’s part of my job to keep track of the local predators, make sure they don’t get too many cows. Or dudes, for that matter.”

“I’m going to file that under ‘things I don’t want to think about,’ thank you very much.” Just like she didn’t want to think about him playing Spider-Man up on the wet rocks and sticking his head in a mountain lion’s den.

“So . . . I take it your ex was a drinker?”

Apparently, that wasn’t the end of it after all. She made a face, but said as easily as she could, “My ex, my father. I’m a flipping generational cliché, though I tried hard not to be.” Patrick had seemed like all the things her father wasn’t—ambitious, upwardly mobile, family-focused. It wasn’t until later that she’d seen the familiar patterns, the frustrations and missed opportunities, and how every setback was always somebody else’s fault. The boss, the supervisor, her. She shrugged. “Wounds healed, lessons learned, blah, blah. And it’s way too pretty a night to dredge that stuff up. Let’s just drink our wine, have our picnic.”

“Of course.” Foster took a swallow and looked out over the falls. In the fading sunlight, the mist made shimmering rainbows that seemed suddenly magical, as if the evening had taken on another dimension. “I just wondered . . .”

Darn it.
“Go on.”

He hesitated, choosing his words. “Sometimes people send me retraining projects, horses that have gotten labeled rogues or broncs, or just bad actors for one reason or another. With some of them, they’ve got holes in their educations, steps that got skipped along the way, and I just have to backtrack and fill in the gaps. Other times, though, there’s something in their history, some bad experience that’s made them stop trusting humans. Not always, mind you, but enough so I have to ask.”

“Oh.” Her fingers tightened, denting the flimsy cup. “Right. No, it’s nothing like that.” She had done her best to shield Lizzie from how bad things were getting toward the end of the marriage. And in his own way, so had Patrick.

“Still. I’d like to hear the story if you wouldn’t mind telling it.”

She didn’t want to bring the past into this pretty place, didn’t want it to intrude on their time together. But he was asking for Lizzie’s sake. “There’s not much of a story, really. There wasn’t any violence, no drunken rages or big, spectacular fights. I didn’t even realize how bad the drinking had gotten until after Patrick left, when I was clearing out the old house and found all these stashed bottles and crossed-out receipts, like hiding it from me had been some sort of game.”

“Maybe he was hiding it from himself, too.”

She turned up her palms. “It’s a disease, and it’s nothing I could’ve fixed even if I had known how far it had gone. Trust me, I get that. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling stupid that I didn’t catch the signs.” More, she hated that she hadn’t been the one to walk away, which was just dumb.

“It’s usually easier to see the trail you’ve already ridden than the one in front of you.”

Reminding herself that she had needed to get through it to be where she was today, and that for all the heartbreak at the end, Patrick had given her Lizzie, she found a grin. “Seriously, I could do a year’s worth of advertising just using the Cowboy Code.”

“Your average minivan doesn’t need to be walked the first and last mile of every trip.”

“I could work with it.” She dropped her voice to announcer level. “Buy Velveeta for your little buckaroo . . . because real cowboys don’t eat funky cheese.”

“You might have something there.”

“Or not.” She shrugged, relaxing some, because Foster was easy to talk to, even about this. “Anyway, there wasn’t a big triggering incident for Lizzie’s SM, although I have no doubt the divorce factors into her confidence problems. There’s nothing I can see that we haven’t dealt with as best we could. And trust me, I’ve been over it a million times.” In her head, with Lizzie, with the therapists.

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” he said firmly. “And if it came across as an accusation, or like I thought you’d missed something, I’m sorry. That wasn’t how I meant it.”

“No, not really. I guess I’m still touchy about it, even after all this time.” Then again, it hadn’t been that long, really. Only a couple of years since Patrick walked out, a year or so since she had found her way back to being her real self, someone she was proud of. But at the same time it seemed like forever ago, as if parts of her marriage had happened to someone else.

“You’ve got the right to be touchy there,” he said with a faint nod. “And like I said, I didn’t mean anything bad by asking. I’m just feeling my way.” He paused, then asked, “Does Lizzie see much of her grandparents?”

It took her a second to catch up to the subject change, another to squelch the frustration. It was a beautiful sunset, with wine and a picnic, and she didn’t want to talk about this anymore. Which made her feel selfish, and as if she was in danger of losing some serious mom points. But hadn’t Krista—and even Foster himself—told her she needed to take some time for herself? Although in all honesty, Lizzie had her worried today. She’d seemed happy enough the first couple of days, helping set up the corrals, toting tack and water for the riders, and pitching in with the cooking. But yesterday the glow had notched down and today she’d been moody and withdrawn, mostly sitting by herself and thumbing through a worn book.

She’s just tired,
she told herself, as that had been Gran’s diagnosis, too, as the folding cots and thin tents made for some uneasy nights even in the safety of camp. Not to mention that Lizzie’s electronics were out of juice, which was guaranteed to get a scowl from just about any modern-day kid.

But at the same time, it was hard not to wonder whether some—or all—of the issue was that her mom was kind of dating. Lizzie had waved it off when she asked—
no big deal, whatever
—but still.

“Shelby? You okay?”

She focused on Foster and wondered if she was making a mistake. “Yes, I’m sorry.” What had he asked again? Oh, yes. “We don’t have any contact with my parents. Like I said, my father was a drinker.”

“Was. He quit?”

“He died,” she said flatly. “Eight years ago. Heart problems, liver failure, you name it, he had it by the end.” Six decades of abuse, and his body had finally given out.

“Any other family?”

“My mother and sister. We’re not close.” Hello, understatement. “Or, rather, they’re close to each other, but not to me or Lizzie. She only met them a couple of times when she was very little, and I haven’t seen either of them since the funeral. Honestly it’s better that way.”

That got her a long look, but he said only, “What about her grandparents on the other side?”