Sunset at Keyhole Canyon: A Mustang Ridge Novella (7 page)

After the singles herd in the dining hall settled down to more or less pay attention, the blonde with the microphone announced: “My name is Krista Skye, and I’m one of the owners of Mustang Ridge.”

Shelby stifled the urge to give her a resounding, “Hi, Krista!” and opened the booklet in front of her.

The cover was emblazoned with the Mustang Ridge Dude Ranch logo, and the inner flap bore a glossy photo that she would’ve thought was Photoshopped if she hadn’t seen the view on the drive in. The blue, cloud-studded Wyoming sky was straight out of the
Simpsons
opening credits, the horizon was the poster child for
America the Beautiful’s
purple mountain’s majesty, sweeping fields ran along the ridgeline, and the ranch itself was nestled in a gentle valley beside a deep blue lake.

It was ridiculously gorgeous, assuming you liked the middle of nowhere.

“We’re not going to go over everything in the book,” Krista said, earning a few cheers from the hopped-up crowd. “Inside it you’ll find daily schedules of our main events, along with alternatives if you need a day out of the saddle. Daily schedules and updates will also be posted on boards in front of the main house and the barn, and are pretty self explanatory. The main thing I’d like to go over right now is the rules of the ranch. We try not to go overboard, but you’re in the Wild West, folks, and you’re going to be dealing with livestock.”

A big guy in the front row lifted a longneck in toast. “To fillies and studs!”

That got a sprinkle of laughter and a couple of eyerolls.

Krista grinned, but stayed on task. “You’ve already read and signed the waivers, so you’ve got some idea of what I mean, and we’ll go over more safety precautions when we get to the actual riding part of things. For now, I’d appreciate it if you’d all look at page two and read along with me.” Point by point, she went down the list of ten dos and don’ts that were mostly common sense, translated into dude-speak.

Don’t kick dirt on the cookfire (pick up after yourself).

Don’t take seconds until everyone’s dished up their firsts (be courteous).

Leave every gate the way you found it (don’t mess with the livestock).

Walk the first mile out and the last mile in (treat your horse well and he’ll return the favor).

See to your horse before yourself (ditto).

When passing a cowboy, never turn and watch him ride away (trust your wranglers).

There’s only one trail boss (follow orders).

When in doubt, tighten your cinch (always triple check your equipment).

There’s no such thing as a stupid question (never be afraid to ask a staff member).

And finally . . . cowboy up and have fun!

Giving Krista points for the presentation, Shelby tapped the page in front of Lizzie, and said in an undertone, “Read this. Know it. Love it. And I’m going to add number eleven: Don’t go near the horses without a grown-up.”

Ever since they had firmed up their plans to come West, Lizzie had been poring over her
Bridle Club
books until they were puffed up and practically disintegrating, and their Netflix account had given
My Friend Flicka
a good workout. But that didn’t mean she knew what she was doing. Exactly the opposite, in fact, as she hadn’t wanted to take lessons at a local riding school before coming out.

“Basically,” Krista continued, “we’re asking you to follow the Cowboy Code by respecting your stock, your spread, your tack, and your fellow hands. In return, we’ll feed you the best ranch grub you’ll ever eat, bar none, and we’ll teach you how to ride, rope, cut cattle, and square dance. And because this is singles week, we’ll also have a whole bunch of special getting-to-know-you events.”

There was a shuffling in the crowd, and a stage whisper of, “I’d like to get to know
you
better” from a women in the front as she snuggled up next to Brad.

Shelby didn’t get it, but hey, to each her own.

Krista continued. “Here in Wyoming, we’re proud supporters of female empowerment. Women got the right to vote back in the mid eighteen hundreds, and we were one of the first states to elect ladies to the local and state governments. Since the eighteen-fifties, Mustang Ridge Ranch has been bossed by Skye women four different times, seeing some of its most profitable decades and running thousands of cattle. These days the herds are smaller and our focus has shifted to giving you the best vacation of your lives, but the Skye ladies remain committed to the land, the livestock, and their riders.”

She gestured to a nearby hallway, and an older version of her emerged from the shadows and came up to stand on the podium, wearing a Mona Lisa smile. With fine white hair curled under at her shoulders, wearing jeans and a blue mock turtleneck, she looked to be in her sixties, maybe a bit older. At the sight of her, Shelby sat up a little straighter.

“This is Gran,” Krista announced. “She and my grandfather, Big Skye, have been the heart of Mustang Ridge for more than half a century. She’ll be cooking us some amazing, stick-to-our-ribs ranch food this week, served family style, the way it has been for generations. My parents are also integral to the ranch operations, but they’re off property right now. As a proud member of the third generation of current Skyes, I’m in charge of guest services, and help with the riding. I’ll be hanging out with you guys and making sure you have a fabulous week. Tipper here,” Krista indicated the girl with the “Howdy” stickers, “and her brother, Topper, will be your servers. Mary is our head of housekeeping and Joseph is our head groundskeeper. But if you have any problems with your cabins or whatnot, please don’t hesitate to come find me, or leave me a message on the house phone.” She paused, then grinned, “Okay, now for the good stuff.  The riding is managed by our trail boss, Foster, along with his wranglers, Stace, Ty, and Junior. They’re some of the best cowboys in the territory, and they’re going to put you through paces you didn’t even know you had.”

“Mmm,” said one of the women in the front, “cowboys! Love me some cowboys.”

The crowd buzz edged up a notch, and Krista held up a hand. “We’ll get to the horses tomorrow, bright and early after breakfast. For now, remember how I said we’re going to have some extra time to get to know each other and see if we can make some love connections? Well, in the spirit of Wyoming, we’re going to have a few rounds of speed dating, ladies’ choice. So, ladies, I’d like you to stand on this side of the room. Gentlemen, I’d like you to spread out, two or three to a table.”

As the would-be speed daters started shuffling around under Krista’s direction and with some nudges from Tipper and Gran, who were making sure nobody got left high and dry, Shelby whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “Lucky for us, we’re not—” She broke off. “Lizzie?”

The bench beside her was empty.

Her heart went
thudda-thudda
and adrenaline kicked through her system in a mom’s instinctive fight-not-flight response.
But while she would’ve gone into berserker mode if she’d lost Lizzie back home, here she knew right where to look, and it was the most kidlike stunt her daughter had pulled in ages.

Grinning, she slipped out the back and headed for the barn.

•   •   •

Foster grinned as he led Brutus in from the geldings’ pen, where a dozen or so mustangs were munching hay and snoozing in the sun. The chestnut snaked his head around, feinting for a nip.

“Quit that.” He nudged the horse out of his space, reminding him how the pecking order went—without Brutus at the top of it, despite his delusions of grandeur. The mustang had been at the ranch since last fall’s gather, and had been under saddle for nearly six months. He’d only been in the working string for a few weeks, though, and was still reserved for the wranglers’ use because his better-than-average smarts were paired with an unpredictable streak wider than the stripe running down his nose. He wasn’t dangerous, but Foster wouldn’t exactly call him reliable, either. And given his quick mind, big feet, and smooth gaits, he was worth putting some time into, and maybe a few bruises.

Annoyed that his nap had been interrupted, the gelding rolled an eye back at Foster.

“Yeah, yeah, life’s tough. You think this is hard work, try being a real cowhorse. Compared to them, you’re just a glorified trail pony.”

Then again, what did that make him? Head trail-pony wrangler? Executive greenhorn herder? Overlord of make-sure-the-dudes-don’t-kill-themselves?

It made him employed, that was what. And saving for better days.

As his shaggy black dog, Vader, whuffed and darted into the barn, Foster clucked to Brutus. “Come on there, trail-pony-with-attitude. Let’s fix that flat tire of yours and get you back in action.”

As they came into early June, they were leaving a wet-dry-wet weather pattern that had turned the horses’ hooves brittle, leading to a bonanza of quarter cracks and loose nails. Which meant that Foster—who was the ranch’s farrier in addition to lead merry-go-round attendant—was busier on the horses’ day off than he was any other day of the week.

He’d left Brutus till last because the gelding had pulled his shoe clean off yesterday up on the ridgeline and did some serious damage on the ride home, largely because Junior hadn’t noticed and at least slapped some duct tape around the edges of the gelding’s hoof. The young wrangler had gotten an earful, but it’d be up to Foster to bang a new blank into shape, clean up the hoof, and find some good horn to nail into. After that, they would hope Brutus hadn’t bruised the foot too badly, or if he had, that it wouldn’t turn into an abscess. If it did, Junior’d be doing the soaking and wrapping, that was for sure. Because guaranteed Brutus would be a beast about it, waiting until his human turned away before he knocked over the bucket, sending the epsom salt and iodine soak flying across the aisle, and making a heck of a mess. Or worse.

“I’m onto you,” Foster said, giving the gelding another nudge as they reached the barn, where the bright sun turned to murky shadows at the doorway and a nervous horse—or one with a questionable sense of humor—could spook. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned conversationally. “This is supposed to be my day off, and I’m not in the mood to deal with your—”

Movement flashed in his peripheral vision as they stepped from light into dark, and Brutus gave a sudden elephant snort and exploded in a spook that was part pent-up energy, part “aieeeee, mountain lion!” The big gelding’s shoes struck sparks on the cement as he tried to wheel and bolt, dragging Foster around with a thousand pounds of momentum and a cement-strong neck. Vader got in front of him and splayed all four feet, barking, trying to head off the runaway.

Foster hauled back on the lead. “Whoa, dang it! And, Vader, git!”

As the dog scurried out the back, Foster caught a flash of brown hair and wide, scared hazel eyes in a triangular face. He had only a split second to
oh-crap
it at the realization that the little girl was about to get flattened. Then Brutus swung his haunches around and bumped her hard, and she went flying across the aisle.

She hit the wall and went down in a pink-and-denim heap.

“Oh crap” turned into an inner nine-one-one, but Foster’s body kept reacting, using thirty-some years of experience to juggle the gelding away from the kid and down to the other end of the aisle.

“Knock it off!” he growled, getting right up near one of Brutus’s white-rimmed eyes. Where normally he would’ve soothed, now he muscled the blockheaded chestnut under some semblance of control, then kicked open a nearby stall and sent him into it, still wearing his halter. “Don’t you dare get tangled in that lead,” he ordered, then ran the door shut and latched it tight.

He spun back, expecting to find the little girl still down. She wasn’t, though. She was on her feet, plastered in the corner where the tack stall jutted out a few feet into the aisle. Her pink T-shirt and jeans were streaked with dust, her face sheet-white. All arms and legs, with a long torso and those big hazel eyes, she reminded him of a long yearling in the middle of a growth spurt, when all the pieces didn’t go together quite right.

She hadn’t made a sound, wasn’t crying now, just stood there, staring at him.

“You okay?” When she didn’t say anything, he took a step toward her and reached out a hand. “Are you hurt?”

“Lizzie!”

Foster’s head whipped around as a dark-haired woman in a ridiculous black pantsuit raced into the barn wearing the same sort of look he’d seen before in a half-wild heifer’s eyes when he made the mistake of getting between her and her newborn calf. The kind of look that said she didn’t care what happened to her or anything around her as long as she got up close and personal with the little one, pronto.

He did what he should’ve done back then, saving himself a whole bunch of black-and-blues. He got the heck out of the way.

•   •   •

“Are you okay?” Shelby dropped to her knees, hitting so hard that the cement grated through her pants. Not seeing any blood, she whipped a look over her shoulder at the stranger. “What happened?”

“She spooked one of the horses, zigged when she should’ve zagged, and took a tumble. By the time I got Brutus in a stall, she was up and moving.” He was straight out of central casting, filed under “cowboy, circa twenty-first century” in worn jeans, scarred brown boots, and a black felt hat that was flecked with hay and dirt and sat low on his forehead. Compared to the guys in the dining hall, he looked faded and authentic. And concerned. Points there.

Focusing on Lizzie, she brushed at the dirt smudges on her daughter’s clothes and tried to remember how to breathe.
She’s okay. It’s okay
. But it wasn’t, not when Lizzie could’ve gotten seriously hurt because her idiot mother had stopped paying attention for a few minutes. “Why did you leave the dining hall? I
told
you not to go near the horses without a grownup!”