Winter at Mustang Ridge (10 page)

“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.

J
enny 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 seemed 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 up 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.”

“I’m on antibiotics.”

She grinned, adoring him. “Which kill bacteria, not viruses. And, besides, in this case
viral
is a good thing. It means getting the sort of attention that snowballs, with two people each sending the link to a couple of their friends, who each send it to a couple of their friends, and so on, until a quadzillion people are talking about your video.”

“Those are probably news reports. Not an old man talking about his family farm.”

“Actually, it’s more like piano-playing cats and drunk- en bridesmaids falling into pools,” she said cheerfully as she unfolded Doris’s tripod. “Want to get started?”

“Harumph.” He shot her a glare over a pair of reading glasses, and set his cattleman’s mag aside. “If more people turned off their computers and got their butts outside, we’d all be a durned sight better off.”

Yet he was wearing creased jeans, a snap-studded shirt, and the fawn brown Stetson he saved for date night, and his thin white hair was slicked down on the sides, with wet comb marks showing where he had worked to get it tamed.

“You’re absolutely right.” Jenny looked through the viewfinder, then made a face at the way the snow glare from outside was muddying things. “Do a one-eighty.” She twirled her finger. “I want the wall behind you as my background, not the window.”

He scowled. “The window’s the best part. Have you ever seen anything prettier than those mountains?”

“Sure, they’re pretty. They’re also really white. Someone sees that in the middle of summer, and they’re going to think it snows year-round up here.”

“Anyone who thinks that is an idiot.”

She did a finger twirl.

Grumbling, he about-faced it, so he was looking out at his beloved mountains.

She got the camera reoriented, took another look, and nodded. “Now we’re talking.” The pale wall color helped the eye focus on his face; the exposed beams that flanked him on either side made her think of log cabins; and the age-faded photos behind him—pictures of the ranch’s old chuck wagon in action during a roundup—spoke for themselves. “Okay. How about you introduce yourself to your fans-to-be?”

His eyes took on a gleam. “Are you taping?”

“It’s not really tape anymore, but, yeah, we’re rolling. So let’s start with who you are and how you came to be part of Mustang Ridge.”

“I was born here,” he said simply, squaring his shoulders beneath his stiff-looking shirt. “Under a full moon in the hot of summer, when my daddy and the others were out in the fields, dodging storms to get the hay put up for winter. The way my mama told it, I was out there with them, not three days old, sleeping in a sling hung around her shoulders while she drove the big tractor, freeing up another pair of hands for the harvest.”