Summer at Mustang Ridge (26 page)

“Hey, now. What’s this?” Krista reached across and grabbed her wrist. “Oh, heck. You didn’t come for an update, did you? You needed a binge of your own. What’s wrong? Is it Lizzie? Foster?”

Shelby nodded miserably, throat locking on the words she didn’t want to say.

“Which one?”

“Both. Neither. It’s me. Darn it.” She got up, grabbed a couple of paper towels, and gave her nose a noisy blow. “Sexy.”

“I’ll use my sleeve as a napkin if it’ll make you feel better.”

“The sign of a true friend.”

“I am. So tell me what’s wrong.”

Shelby sighed, feeling the tears drain to exhaustion and a dragging pain inside her, the kind that said something awful had happened, reminding her over and over again even when she was trying hard to forget about it, at least for a few minutes. “Foster and I broke up,” she said finally.

Krista’s eyes widened with shock, then darkened with pain and sympathy. “Oh, sweetie.” She was on her feet in a flash and rounded the counter to catch Shelby in a hug. “That rat! What did he do?”

Shelby was surprised to find that she could still laugh. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Of course it was. He’s the guy, and this is the girls-only midnight snack zone.”

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Shelby straightened, sniffling. “I thought I could keep things casual, but it didn’t work. I didn’t realize it until today. I was getting on his case for not telling me about his divorce, and realized I was upset because that meant he used to want a family but doesn’t anymore, at least not with me and Lizzie . . . And then I figured out that the only reason it was a problem was that I was starting to see the three of us that way.”

“See? I told you it was his fault.”

“It’s really not. But thanks for being on my side.”

Krista hugged her harder. “Always. What can I do to make it better?”

“You just did.” The heartbreak that remained wasn’t going to go away in a night—far from it—but between the sugar and the sympathy, Shelby could feel herself winding down, thought she might be able to sleep now. Pushing away from the counter, she said, “Thanks for the pastry therapy, and the ear. I think I’m going to pack it in.”

“I’m going to call it a night, too.” Krista shot a bleak look around the kitchen. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

“I’ll be in early to make sure breakfast goes smoothly.” And it wasn’t like she was going to be able to sleep in. Already, nerves were coiling in her belly at the knowledge that she was going to have to see Foster tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that . . .

With a final hug, Krista dumped the plate and silverware in the sink to soak and headed for the far hallway, which led up to her quarters. Turning back at the door, she said, “We’re all going to be okay, Shelby. We care about each other, and that means that we’ll do our best to work things out with the least damage possible. We might not all get what we want—probably won’t—but we’ll do our best.”

Her throat closed. “That’s not how things work where I come from.”

“Well, it’s how it works here.” Krista smiled tiredly. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new day.”

As Krista’s footsteps faded, Shelby ducked into the cold room to do her final kitchen chore for the day. Suddenly so exhausted that her head spun and her eyes felt dry and gluey, she left the door open and the lights off, and made quick work of giving Herman his dose of flour, water, flat beer, and a slug of Gran’s secret concoction out of the hidden bottle.

Inhaling the faint, chilled scent of yeast and feeling her breath hitch on leftover tears, she said, “You know what, Herman? I think you’ve got the right idea. Asexual reproduction may be the way to go.”

It wouldn’t be nearly as much fun, granted. But it would take away a whole lot of heartache.

•   •   •

Foster didn’t know how long he’d been riding. Long enough that his head had finally quieted down and he didn’t want to escape his own skin anymore. Granted, there was still a hurting hollow inside him. He hadn’t been looking for a woman he could care about, but he’d found one. She was fiercely loyal, sexy, sensual, and funny as heck. And, most of all, she got the geeky stuff, the junk food, and the silliness that he adored, and had a good touch with the horses. In some ways, she was perfect for him. It was too bad they were completely wrong for each other. It was too bad . . . well, it was just too bad.

Tish’s comments were eating at him, more now than ever before. He didn’t know if it was because it felt like he was finally getting close to making a deal with Old Winslow, or if it was just easier for him to fixate on that. Or maybe it was that a big part of him still wanted to tell his sister about Shelby. Problem was, he knew what she would say: that he might have to give way on some things if he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life solo save for his horse and his dog, and that just because he’d picked the wrong woman before didn’t mean he was more likely to make another mistake. Exactly the opposite, in fact.

Or was that was what he was starting to think?

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? When it came down to it, there were telling similarities between Shelby and Jill, numero uno being that they both lived a faster, flashier life than he did. And as much as he told himself that Shelby was caring, consistent, and giving, how much did he know about her, really? He had thought he knew Jill well enough, that their chemistry would see them through any rough patches, and he’d been dead wrong. And this time he wasn’t talking about a fellow horsewoman, a rodeo queen who knew what it meant to have a ranch.

Thing was, knowing that didn’t stop his heart from hurting, didn’t stop a large part of him from wanting to ride back down to Mustang Ridge, bang on Shelby’s door, and tell her that he wanted to give it a go and see if they could find some middle ground.

But what kind of middle ground was there? He didn’t want anything long distance, didn’t want to move, and she had already said she wasn’t planning on sticking around. More, he had to think about Lizzie, too. His heart gave an uncomfortable lurch at the reminder that Shelby and her daughter were a package deal. He didn’t know if he could step into the daddy role at this point in his life, or if that would do either of them any good. Sure, he got along fine with the kid when it came to the horses, and he’d been able to help some with the SM, but those were small, isolated things. Like when he was hired to work with a problem horse at another ranch, coming in a couple of hours a day, but knowing he could leave when he was done.

Day to day, though, he didn’t know if he was ready to try, especially when failing would mean hurting not just himself but two other people he cared about deeply. He needed to know he could do it, needed to know they wouldn’t ruin things if they tried. But life didn’t come with guarantees, did it? And . . . His brain logjammed, making his fingers tighten on the reins, to the point that Loco shook his head and craned back to shoot Foster a look of
What gives?

He needed a reality check, that was what gave. But when he reined in at a high spot where he thought he might get reception, and pulled out his phone to call Tish and catch an earful for waking her up, he didn’t get even a ghost of a bar on his cell. Maybe the sparse cloud cover was enough to kill the signal, or maybe the satellites were out of range, who knew? Either way, his reach-out was foiled.

But as he started to put his phone away, an icon caught his attention. Apparently, he had mail. And given that he’d only given the address to a few people, he had a pretty good idea who it was from.

Winslow
. And hello, irony.

Pulse kicking up a notch, like his system was getting ready to fight words on the screen, he clicked over to his e-mail program. And yep, sure enough, it was from his ex-father-in-law. The subject line said
Re: ranch
, as though there would’ve been any other reason for the old bastard to get in touch. Should’ve said
Re: the ranch I made sure my daughter got, only to have it sit empty for the past decade because she’s got the attention span of a dummy foal
.

Bracing for the worst, Foster opened the message. “What now? Time to up the price another twenty just for kicks?” He skimmed it.

Stopped. Read it again as his pulse thudded.

The words blurred, and not because the phone was dusty, but because there was no way the message really said
Your last offer is acceptable. Let’s make the deal
.

Except that was exactly what it said. The old goat was finally ready to move on, or else he had another deal in the works and needed the money. Or the house had burned down and Foster was about to pay way too much for land. He didn’t care, though. He stared at the message a moment longer while his pulse leveled off and his stomach roiled at the realization that this was it.

He was really going to do it. Finally, after all these years, he was going to get the old place back. And not just so the family could visit or to appease his guilt. That was part of it, sure, but he also flat-out wanted the Double-Bar H to be his again, and for the rest of his life. He wanted to run a few cattle, but mostly turn over mustangs, taking likely prospects from the gathers and putting a good start on them, making them into solid citizens that would suit the amateur riders who made up the bulk of the horse trade these days. He wanted to wake up in the main bedroom, with its creaky third board and sticky window, and he wanted to knock back his first cup of sludge-black coffee sitting on the porch. And yeah, maybe he wasn’t alone in the hazy images—dreams, fantasies, whatever. Maybe in the far-off future he saw himself with a wife, a few kids—that was what a rancher did, after all. He had his family, made his legacy. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t plug Shelby and Lizzie into the mental pictures.

He had tried to make it fit before, and had spent the past eight years digging himself out from underneath the mistake. This, though, wasn’t a mistake. It was what he’d been working toward for so long, and he needed to remember that, and not let himself get derailed.

Moments later, he had fired off an e-mail of a single word:
Agreed
.

Message failed. Do you want to save and resend later?

“Sure. Whatever.” He closed the program, dropped the phone back in his pocket, and breathed the night air, waiting for it to hit him that he was getting the old place back. It was everything he’d wanted, everything he’d been working toward. Except as Loco shifted beneath him, mouthing his bit, and the cool night made its way through his jacket, Foster had to admit that he wasn’t excited, wasn’t particularly happy. He was just . . . tired. Let down. Something.

And that something had brown hair and laughing eyes, and had told him she was falling for him.

T
h
e next morning, Shelby dragged herself out of bed feeling like she’d been on the wrong end of a roundup. Like underneath it. Her eyes were scratchy, her head hurt, and her throat was sore, and if she’d been at home, she totally would’ve called in dead to work. She couldn’t leave Gran in the lurch, though, especially not with Rose in the picture.

Needing the comfort, she pulled on black pants and her old chunky boots and headed for the kitchen. She went in through the front door, then paused, sniffing, as a cold weight settled in her stomach, an unease separate from heartache.

There was nothing warm and yummy in the air. No yeast, no sugar, no cinnamon . . . no nothing.

Her pulse kicked as she headed down the hall, calling, “Gran?”

“I’m . . . I’m in here,” came the wobbly answer from the kitchen, almost inaudible.

Had she fallen? Had a heart attack? The scenarios whipped through Shelby as she hurried into the kitchen. “What’s wrong? What—” She broke off at the sight of the older woman standing at the main counter, hunched over Herman’s bowl. His towel was off and the room smelled stale.

Gran’s face was ravaged and gray, her eyes stark. “He’s dead.”

Shelby’s stomach plummeted and she hurried to Gran’s side. “What . . . How . . .”

“She killed him.”

“Rose? No.” Shelby couldn’t believe it. There was a difference between being oblivious and being outright cruel.

“We’ve always argued, but I never thought . . .” Gran pulled the bowl closer, wrapped it in her arms. “How could she?”

A split second later, every fiber of Shelby went
Oh, no!
and her stomach plunged toward her toes as she realized something awful. Really, truly horrible. And having to do with an unmarked bottle that hadn’t looked exactly right. She had been too caught up in her own misery, too exhausted to see it last night . . . but now she did.

What had she done?

“Um . . . ,” she began, then faltered.

“I knew Rose wanted the kitchen, but I never thought she would sink to this. He’s our Herman.” Snapping upright, Gran shoved away from the counter and, fists balled, headed for the back hallway and the stairs leading up. “I’m going to go up there right now and—”

“Wait—”

“No, don’t try and stop me. I gave her my son and put up with her garbage, but this is too much. I’m going to—”

“
It was me!
” Shelby’s shout echoed in the kitchen, and then she covered her mouth with both hands, stifling a sob as the other woman—her boss and friend—froze and then, slowly, turned back.

“Shelby?” It wasn’t accusatory so much as baffled.

“It was an accident. Last night . . . the bottles . . . I thought you’d just put the secret sauce in a new container, and I dumped it in. I’m sorry.” It came out as a whisper. “It must’ve been something Rose brought in. The bottles must’ve gotten mixed up on the shelf.”

Gran’s eyes flooded anew. “I . . . I thought she did it on purpose. We’ve played tricks on each other off and on through the years, but this . . .”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Shelby peered into the bowl and cringed at the sight of a slick, liquid gray mass. “Are you sure he’s . . .”

“Gone.” Gran came back over, retrieved the towel, and draped it over the bowl, smoothing down the edges so they hung neatly. “He’s gone.” She looked small and tired, making Shelby’s heart hurt. She wanted to apologize, but she couldn’t undo what she had done.

How had she been so careless? She was supposed to be protecting Gran’s back, not stabbing it.

“Gran,” she said softly. “I think you should take the morning off. I’ll manage breakfast.”

“But the baking . . .” She trailed off, stricken, because there wouldn’t be any baking. At least not the way there normally was.

“I’ll have Tipper clean out the bakery in town. We’ll make do.”

“No, don’t use store-bought. There are . . .” Gran’s voice broke. “There are some of those nasty yellow yeast packets in the back of the pantry, behind the extra bottles of vanilla. You can use those for today.”

“I will.” Shelby wanted to hug her but didn’t know how. Not after what she had done. “Go home. Take a few hours.” Hopefully her Arthur hadn’t yet left for the day. Either way, Shelby would go tell Krista. If anyone could help, it’d be her.

“Okay.” Gran hefted the bowl, held it wrapped in her arms. “But I want you to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t tell anyone about Herman. Not a soul, got it? I don’t . . . I need some time.”

“But Krista—”

“No,” Gran said, her wobbly voice gaining some volume. “Nobody can know. Not Krista, not Lizzie, not even Foster.”

That brought a pang. But Shelby nodded. “Whatever you want. And, Gran . . . I’m sorry. So sorry.”

There was no “poosh” or casual wave. Just a tired nod. “It was an accident. You didn’t mean it.”

No, but she had done it all the same. She’d gotten so wrapped up in things with Foster that she hadn’t paid enough attention. Herman’s demise was bad enough. What if it had been even worse? What if she’d hurt an actual person, or one of the animals, or burned the place down? Her thoughts raced as Gran shut the door gently behind her, making her feel ill.

This was a disaster.
She
was a disaster, and she had taken down Herman and Gran with her, right when the kitchen needed to be at its strongest to withstand a semihostile takeover. Which was probably why Gran didn’t want anyone to know what had happened. Shelby didn’t know how delaying things would make a difference, but if that was what Gran wanted, she would get it. Which meant she needed to turn out a fabulous breakfast and pull together a day’s worth of bread without a starter.

She took a deep breath. “Focus,” she told herself. “You can do this.” She warmed up the ovens, found the venerable
Joy of Cooking
that Gran sometimes used to prop open the side door, and dug out the yeast packets from the back of beyond. All the while, her stomach churned and tears leaked from her eyes while she fought to hold it together like never before.

This time yesterday, she’d been teasing Gran about her apron, which had
Kiss the Cook
embroidered on it in six different languages, and had been a gift from Jenny. And she’d been looking forward to riding out with Foster and Lizzie, having a picnic, having fun.
Family
fun, darn it. And now . . .

Now nothing. Just bake
.

By the time Tipper and Topper arrived to start setting up, Shelby had bread under way. It wouldn’t be up to the ranch’s usual standards, but the new guests wouldn’t know and the regulars wouldn’t say anything once they found out Gran had gone back to bed. Well, Rose would probably say something, but that would’ve happened anyway. The idea of facing her—of facing any of them, really—made Shelby want to set off across the backcountry barefoot, but she cowboyed up and got breakfast on the table, assuring Krista and the others in the family dining room that Gran was fine, nothing to see here, move along. She pulled it off, too, even earning a stiff nod of approval from Rose for the quick berry sauce she’d whipped up to top the buckwheat pancakes that had been a Hail Mary when a whole batch of muffins failed to rise.

Shelby was just about to escape when Krista scooted back her chair and snagged her arm, tugging her down. “Hang on. I need to give you the heads-up on something.”

“Uh-oh. What?”
Please, don’t let there be biscuit complaints
.

“My dad was waxing the RV last night around midnight—don’t ask—and met up with Foster and Loco coming back in from a ride.”

Aw, darn it. Loco
. It hurt more than she would’ve thought, even after everything that had already happened in the past twelve or so hours. “It’s his horse.”

“That’s not the part I wanted to tell you.” She paused. “He told my dad that his ex’s father finally accepted his offer. It looks like Foster will be getting his old place back sooner rather than later.”

“He . . .” Shelby swallowed hard. “Oh. Well, congratulations. To him, I mean. I know it’s something he’s been working toward for a long time.” Sort of, and only because she’d dragged it out of him. And, darn it, she wasn’t going to cry again, not in front of everybody.

“I just . . . I wanted you to know.” Krista’s eyes were full of sympathy. The old Shelby might’ve done the “don’t pity me” thing, but now she wanted to lean on her friend like there was no tomorrow.

There was always a tomorrow, though.

“Thanks. I . . . thanks.” Shelby gave her a one-armed hug and stood. “I’ll see you all later,” she said, louder. “Fried chicken for lunch. Be there or be square.” She left on the heels of an appreciative rumble from the small crowd, but the hallway blurred around her.
Don’t cry,
she warned herself.
Don’t you dare cry. You’re tougher than that.
She had made it through a divorce and handled life with an SM child. She could deal with this, too.

A last few straggling guests were headed along the gravel path to the dining hall as she came down the main stairs. Determined to be professional, she found a smile for the harried-looking parents and trio of hopped-up little boys, and called, “Enjoy your breakfast!”

The woman blinked at her, blurry-eyed. “Please tell me there’s coffee.”

“Absolutely,” Shelby reassured her. “I recommend the local blend—it’s called ‘Mud in a Cup,’ but don’t let the name fool you. As far as I’m concerned, it’s better than the best that Starbucks ever poured.” Thanks in part to a couple of adjustments she had made to the brew, thankyouverymuch.

One of the boys—eleven or so, wearing braces, a buzz cut, and an
American Idol Live
T-shirt—piped up, “What about the horses?”

“They get their own breakfasts,” she told him. “The dining hall is just for people.”

He gave her a “duh” eye roll. “I know that. But when do we get to ride?”

“After breakfast,” the dad said. “Just like the last ten times you asked.”

Shelby’s smile got closer to being real. “You’ll have a blast. The horses are very well trained, and the wranglers are top-notch.” To the parents she said, “Stace is great with the kids, and Foster . . . he’s, um, the trail boss, and knows the backcountry like nobody else. He’ll make sure you have some fabulous rides.”

The dad grinned. “Friends of ours came last year and couldn’t stop talking about it. We can’t wait to get started.”

The mom just said, plaintively, “Coffee?”

“Go.” Shelby waved them on their way. “The caffeine is on the right as you walk in. Do not pass go, do not collect.”

As they moved off, she realized it actually made her feel worse that she’d enjoyed the exchange, as if she was finally hitting her stride just as things were falling down around her.

What was she supposed to do now?

She had to go talk to Gran, she knew, and see if there was any way she could make amends. But on the way, needing a moment to herself, she diverted into the barn, coming to a halt outside Loco’s stall.

The glossy bay didn’t give her his usual “what have you got for me?” whicker. Instead, he stayed at the back of his stall with one hind foot cocked and his eyes at half-mast.

“You’re tired, huh, buddy?” Yesterday’s trail ride had been slow and easy, but there was no telling how hard and far Foster had ridden by moonlight.

Pressing her forehead to the bars of the stall door, she sighed. “Oh, Loco. What am I going to do now? I don’t know if I can handle another whole month here, not like this.” She didn’t want to see Foster every day, knowing she wouldn’t be with him every night, and she didn’t want to make things worse in the kitchen. She’d been hired on to help Gran, but it was starting to feel like too many cooks, especially if Rose would be taking some of the load off. “I don’t know. Maybe we should just leave.”

“Leave?” The word was a plaintive little sound, stopping her heart. Seconds later, a nearby stall door rolled open and Lizzie stepped out, eyes wide and unhappy. “Why?”

For the first time, instead of
ohmigod, she’s talking!
Shelby’s only thought was
oh, crap
. She opened her mouth to say that she didn’t mean it, she was just blowing off some steam . . . but that would have been a lie. Because suddenly, the idea of hitting the road sounded awfully good. She could go back to work, back to her life, and Lizzie would get the therapy she needed now that she was talking again. Gertie would be delighted to see her, and thrilled with the progress she’d made. There wouldn’t be any awkwardness with Foster, and Rose and Gran would be forced to work something out, taking the pressure off of Krista and—whether or not she wanted to admit it—Gran herself.

Swallowing the grief that lumped in her throat at the thought of leaving Mustang Ridge, she said, “Krista’s mother is here now, baby. They don’t need another cook.”

“So? Y-you can help F-Foster with the b-barn.”

“It’s not that easy, Dizzy Girl.”

Her little brows furrowed. “Krista’s making you l-leave?”

“No, it’s—”

“Is it because of m-me?”

“Of course not.” But she’d hesitated a split second too long.

Lizzie’s already chalky face headed toward crumpling and her eyes brightened with tears. “It is. It’s because I’m t-t-t—”