Read Online Harvest at Mustang Ridge by Jesse Hayworth - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jesse Hayworth
Tags: Romance, Contemporary
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day?”
“Like he was afraid I was going to turn into a human hand grenade and blow up all over him?”
“Not from where I was standing. To me, it looked more like he wanted to lean in and take a bite.”
Hot and cold washed over Krista like a breeze had just blown past. “You’re imagining things.”
“What if I’m not? What if he’s interested in starting back up with you? Or starting something new?”
“Then he’s going to be disappointed.”
No way, no how, not going there
.
“It could make things awkward.”
“It’s just a couple of months,” Krista said staunchly. “I can handle anything for a couple of months. Even Wyatt.”
7
F rom the moment Wyatt drove Old Blue through a battered wrought-iron archway, where welded horseshoes spelled out ELCOME TO M USTAN R IDGE with gaps where the missing letters should have been, he felt like he and Klepto were traveling back in time. Not just because the high country was ageless or because the rough-hewn log structures nestled in the valley looked like they could have been a pioneer homestead on steroids, though both of those things were true. It was more that once upon a time, he had pictured himself making this drive under very different circumstances—the kind that involved promises, permanence, and people depending on him.
Ignoring the sudden ache in his molars, he rolled down the winding driveway between two lines of tensile fence, taking in the main ranch building with its two big barns, the horse-and cattle-filled holding pens, and the scatter of log cabins down by a pretty lake. With the grassy valley sweeping up to the ridgeline,and beyond that the gray-blue mountains and dawn-pinked sky, it was a hell of a view.
For a second, he almost wanted a pencil.
He parked beside the dually Krista and her sister had been driving the other day, its gleaming white paint and professionally done ranch logo making Old Blue look shabby and faded in comparison. “Come on, Klepto. And remember what I said: Behave yourself, or I’ll have to shut you in a stall during the day. The way I hear it, I’m going to need to keep both of my eyes on the greenhorns.”
His phone conversation with Foster had been short and to the point—either the guy wasn’t the chatty sort, or he knew there was some history between him and Krista and didn’t want to get in the middle of it. Still, Wyatt had come away with a good idea of the setup, along with forewarning that some of the dudettes could get pretty aggressive in their efforts to bag a cowboy. Which wouldn’t be a problem for him—he had zero interest in being bagged; he was there just as a sop to his anemic excuse for a conscience.
He followed the signs pointing him to the dining hall, figuring Krista would be setting up for breakfast. When he pushed through the swinging, saloon-style doors, though, he found himself alone in the big, sweet-smelling space, which had lots of exposed wood and a double row of picnic tables set with cheerful red-and-white checkerboard linens.
“We’ll take ours to go,” Wyatt told Klepto, andheaded for an arched doorway, where the scents of homemade bread and bacon-in-progress got stronger, and voices carried along a wood-paneled hallway. His attention was snagged, though, by an old-timey picture that was set into a shadow box beside the doorway and lit from above, bringing the washed-out sepia tones back to life. In it, a man and a woman stood together in a dusty-looking bit of backcountry. He wore a vest and leaned on a long rifle, while she cradled a swaddled baby and had chickens pecking around the hem of her long skirt. There were log buildings in the background, along with an uncovered wagon, its metal hoops exposed to the wind and weather.
Which was cool and all . . . but what was even cooler was that he could see the same mountains through a nearby window, from what looked like the same angle. The cabins and wagon were gone, but the scooping bowl of the valley was there, as
“Like he was afraid I was going to turn into a human hand grenade and blow up all over him?”
“Not from where I was standing. To me, it looked more like he wanted to lean in and take a bite.”
Hot and cold washed over Krista like a breeze had just blown past. “You’re imagining things.”
“What if I’m not? What if he’s interested in starting back up with you? Or starting something new?”
“Then he’s going to be disappointed.”
No way, no how, not going there
.
“It could make things awkward.”
“It’s just a couple of months,” Krista said staunchly. “I can handle anything for a couple of months. Even Wyatt.”
7
F rom the moment Wyatt drove Old Blue through a battered wrought-iron archway, where welded horseshoes spelled out ELCOME TO M USTAN R IDGE with gaps where the missing letters should have been, he felt like he and Klepto were traveling back in time. Not just because the high country was ageless or because the rough-hewn log structures nestled in the valley looked like they could have been a pioneer homestead on steroids, though both of those things were true. It was more that once upon a time, he had pictured himself making this drive under very different circumstances—the kind that involved promises, permanence, and people depending on him.
Ignoring the sudden ache in his molars, he rolled down the winding driveway between two lines of tensile fence, taking in the main ranch building with its two big barns, the horse-and cattle-filled holding pens, and the scatter of log cabins down by a pretty lake. With the grassy valley sweeping up to the ridgeline,and beyond that the gray-blue mountains and dawn-pinked sky, it was a hell of a view.
For a second, he almost wanted a pencil.
He parked beside the dually Krista and her sister had been driving the other day, its gleaming white paint and professionally done ranch logo making Old Blue look shabby and faded in comparison. “Come on, Klepto. And remember what I said: Behave yourself, or I’ll have to shut you in a stall during the day. The way I hear it, I’m going to need to keep both of my eyes on the greenhorns.”
His phone conversation with Foster had been short and to the point—either the guy wasn’t the chatty sort, or he knew there was some history between him and Krista and didn’t want to get in the middle of it. Still, Wyatt had come away with a good idea of the setup, along with forewarning that some of the dudettes could get pretty aggressive in their efforts to bag a cowboy. Which wouldn’t be a problem for him—he had zero interest in being bagged; he was there just as a sop to his anemic excuse for a conscience.
He followed the signs pointing him to the dining hall, figuring Krista would be setting up for breakfast. When he pushed through the swinging, saloon-style doors, though, he found himself alone in the big, sweet-smelling space, which had lots of exposed wood and a double row of picnic tables set with cheerful red-and-white checkerboard linens.
“We’ll take ours to go,” Wyatt told Klepto, andheaded for an arched doorway, where the scents of homemade bread and bacon-in-progress got stronger, and voices carried along a wood-paneled hallway. His attention was snagged, though, by an old-timey picture that was set into a shadow box beside the doorway and lit from above, bringing the washed-out sepia tones back to life. In it, a man and a woman stood together in a dusty-looking bit of backcountry. He wore a vest and leaned on a long rifle, while she cradled a swaddled baby and had chickens pecking around the hem of her long skirt. There were log buildings in the background, along with an uncovered wagon, its metal hoops exposed to the wind and weather.
Which was cool and all . . . but what was even cooler was that he could see the same mountains through a nearby window, from what looked like the same angle. The cabins and wagon were gone, but the scooping bowl of the valley was there, as
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