Winter at Mustang Ridge (6 page)

“Late.”

“Perfect.”

“Says who?”

“Me.” Smiling now, Gran sipped her tea. “Tell her to make it a surprise for her husband. She’ll need to have him take that week off from work, but she can turn the rest of it into a big mystery. And then, for the day of their anniversary, we’ll ship a special picnic basket—cheese, cookies, champagne, that sort of thing—and she can make a big announcement about their upcoming Wild West adventure.”

Jenny nodded, wheels starting to turn. “Good. That’s good. And exactly the sort of thing I think she would go for.” Over the top, with no extra effort on Missy’s part. “We can include information on the ranch and a big card inviting them for their special anniversary celebration the following week. So they’re actually celebrating twice, and Missy looks like a star for planning everything out. She can even have a party back home on the day of their actual anniversary, so there’s a public unveiling of her big gift, with lots of
ooh
s and
aah
s.”

“And some free advertising for us,” Gran put in, eyes twinkling. “We can also do a private catered dinner on the last night they’re here. Table for two under the gazebo, candles, even a fiddler or guitarist if they’d like.”

“Let’s not go overboard.”

“Poosh. It’s not the first or last time we’ll do a little extra for a guest. And charge them for it, of course. Just because the customer is always right, doesn’t mean they get it for free. Especially when they start off by giving us grief.”

Jenny laughed. “Amen to that.” She lifted her mug and was surprised to find it empty. Setting it back in the saucer with a click, she stood, crossed to Gran, and kissed her cheek. “It’s perfect. You’re the best.” Enthused by the solution, she twirled away. “I’m going to deal with this right now.”

“Do you want to wait and bring some cookies up with you?”

“Tempting, but I need to call Missy while things are still fresh and I don’t feel like strangling her. Rain check?”

“I’ll bring a few up when I start dinner.”

“You’re the best. Seriously.” Riding high, Jenny blew her grandfather a kiss he pretended to ignore, snagged her layers, and dragged them on as she headed back through the kitchen with a “Love you, Gran. See you at dinner, and thanks again!”

Not even the subzero temps outside flattened out the bounce in her step as she headed for the main house. See? She could totally handle this. She just had to ask the right people the right questions, and remember that no matter how cranky a guest she was dealing with, or how weird the request, it probably wasn’t a first at Mustang Ridge.

Now she just had to make sure she didn’t blow it with Missy.

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying out the tone as she boot-thumped her way up the porch steps and pushed through the door into the warm entryway. “We’re unable to move your reservation to the week you’ve requested. However, I think you’ll find that’s a good thing. Just listen to what we’ve cooked up especially for you and your husband—”

“Jenny, darling!” The lilting call came from upstairs, in a familiar voice that stopped her dead in her tracks with her coat half off.

Pivoting toward the staircase, she looked up. “Mom?”

Rose Skye stood on the second step with her hand on the rubbed-smooth banister. Wearing tailored navy pants and a soft ivory sweater, with her steel gray hair swept up in a twist that had relaxed to let a few wisps fall free, she looked professionally elegant, and nothing like the jeans-and-flannel mom of Jenny’s childhood.

Eyes alight with pleasure, she stretched out a hand and drifted down the last two steps. “Come here! Oh, it’s so good to see you!”

Crossing to her, Jenny leaned into a cloud of unfamiliar perfume and returned her mother’s hug. “You, too, Mom. You’re back early.”

“I couldn’t wait to see my baby.” Rose let go and stepped back, face lighting. “Besides, I found some amazing pieces for the bedroom, and I wanted to get back here with them.”

Sigh
. “Dad said you were on the hunt for a dressing table. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“It’s beautiful. Come and see!”

“I need to make a phone call first. Guest issue, you know. Can you give me ten minutes, maybe fifteen?”

“This won’t take long.” Rose pulled a bright plum-colored parka off the rack near the door.

“We’re going outside?”

“Of course, silly. Do you think the pieces are going to carry themselves in?”

“Carry . . . Right.” Jenny shot a look out the back window, but there was no sign of life in the workshop. “Where’s Dad?”

“He had to run to the hardware store.”

“How about Foster? Junior?”

Her mother’s eyebrows climbed. “Jennifer Lynn Skye. Since when do you need a man to carry your bags for you? I taught you girls better than that.”

Jenny wanted to point out that it wasn’t about testosterone and she had work to do. But it wasn’t like Missy was sitting by the phone, waiting for her to call back—or if she was, that was Missy’s problem, not hers. And the guests weren’t the only ones she was supposed to be making nice with. “Okay, okay, you got me. Let’s go unload your booty.”

She stifled another sigh, though, as she dragged her parka back on. Darn it. She really should’ve waited for those cookies to come out of the oven.

N
ick’s morning flew and he was back at the clinic by lunchtime. With an hour free before his first small-animal appointment, he headed for the back room, where he found the golden retriever on the grooming stand with a dog-size pile of hacked-off fur off to one side and Ruth going to town with a pair of scissors.

“Whoa there Three River Scissorhands,” he said. “He’s a dog, not a topiary!”

She spared him an eye roll. “You want to get in here with the detangler and a brush, be my guest. You want me to do it, then keep the comments to yourself.”

“In that case, he looks great.”

“Good call.”

Nick patted the dog’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy. You behaving yourself?”

“He wasn’t too sure about getting up on the stand at first, but he’s a sucker for a biscuit or two. He started by sitting and offering me a paw to shake, so I’d say he got decent training at some point, maybe with a prior owner.”

“The scanner didn’t pick up any microchip, and the local animal controls don’t have an APB on a missing goldie.”

“Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that.”

Given the condition he’d been in, neither of them was in a hurry to return the dog to wherever he’d come from. Besides, the most likely scenario was an all too common story these days—pet owner one loses a job or house and has to move on, and gives Fido to owner two, thinking they’re doing the right thing. In some cases—most cases, Nick liked to think—it worked out just fine.

Not always, though. Sometimes it was the start of a downward slide. Which was why it felt so darn good when things worked out for the better, like they were in this guy’s case.

“I’m going to check his labs.”

“Don’t forget Binky the Pug at two.” Taking a few steps back, Ruth surveyed her handiwork. “There. That’s better, don’t you think?”

Not so much
. “He certainly looks more comfortable.” She had cut off the ropy mess that had hung under the dog’s belly and snipped out the worst of the tangles on his chest and jowls, leaving the dog looking ragged, but relieved.

She grinned over at Nick like he had said the first part out loud. “Just wait until after I’ve got him bathed and brushed. Besides, the Skyes know how to look past the rough bits and see diamonds underneath.”As Ruth started running warm water through the spray nozzle in the big stainless steel tub, she said conversationally to the dog, “I bet Jenny’s gran is going to sneak you treats from the kitchen, and Ed is going to make noises about building you a top-notch dog house, but then skip it because you wind up spending most of your time indoors, next to the fireplace. And even if you’re not fully trained—which my gut says you are—Krista and Foster will have you civilized by the time the first load of guests rolls in next summer.”

“Jenny found him,” Nick commented, “and she seemed mighty attached. Said he reminded her of the dog they had when she was a kid. Maybe she’ll work with him.” He wasn’t fishing; just making conversation.

Ruth made a
that’s neither here nor there
face. “Jenny’s different. She might’ve been born at Mustang Ridge, but there’s not much rancher in her. Sure, she knows how to go through the motions—she rode like a dream and could cut a cow with the best of them—but after she lit out for school she didn’t do much looking back.”

“She came home when her family needed her. That’s got to count for something.”

“It counts for plenty, but this guy,” Ruth gave the goldie a pat and set his wispy tail to wagging, “is going to need to bond with the others, because she won’t be here for long. Where Krista’s got roots, Jenny’s got wings.”

Yeah, he knew how that went.

“Want me to get him in there for you?” he offered, with a nod toward the tub.

“I wouldn’t say no.”

Brightening his voice to a tone of
who’s a good boy?
he said to the dog, “What do you say, buddy? Are you ready for a B-A-T-H?” Not waiting for an answer—or to see if the goldie could spell—he got the big dog in an easy chest-and-rump cradle that wouldn’t twinge his injured ribs and lifted him the short distance to the stainless-steel tub, with its grippy rubber bottom and steamy spray.

The dog didn’t struggle or try to jump out, just sighed and took it like a man. A dog. Whatever.

As Nick stepped back, Ruth shot him a look under her lashes. “Why the interest in Jenny?”

“Just curious.”

“A hot and heavy kind of curious?”

“Ah, Ruth. Always the romantic. Nope, I’m not going there. Not even thinking in that direction.” Okay, maybe he was, a little. But not in any serious kind of way.

“Because if you were, I’d have to suggest you think more in Krista’s direction. They’re twins, after all, and she’s still going to be in town come spring.”

“Like I said, not going there.” Especially when Krista wasn’t the one who’d left him grinning after only a few minutes on the phone.

•   •   •

Jenny parked the Jeep in front of the vet clinic at six on the dot, snagged the picnic basket from the passenger’s side footwell, and climbed out into a night that had gotten darker and colder during the twenty-minute drive from Mustang Ridge. Or maybe—probably—she was feeling the cold because she had swapped out her down parka for a trim ski jacket, wanting to look less like a teenager and more like . . . well, herself.

Maybe Gran’s eyes had been laughing as she handed over the basket, and maybe Jenny had taken an extra five minutes on her hair, but what was the harm? She could think of far worse ways to pass the next five weeks and five days than flirting with the local vet.

She stepped onto the porch, the door opened and there he was, just like last night. Only this time she was carrying treats rather than an injured dog, and she didn’t look like the Michelin Man and smell like bratwurst.

Hopefully.

Nick was wearing the same lab coat, thermal shirt, and jeans routine as yesterday, but unlike her, he hadn’t had any ground to make up in that department. The light loved him from every angle, putting sexy shadow-smudges along his cheekbones and jaw, and highlighting the waves of his finger-rumpled hair.

“Right on time,” he said with an easy grin, ushering her in and closing the door behind her. “You ready to bust your newest family member out of this joint?”

Her flush didn’t come from the warm air inside; it was all about the full-on eye contact he was giving her. Still, she managed to come up with a breezy, “Definitely. The others are dying to meet him.”

“If that’s your dog crate,” he said with a nod at the picnic basket, “I’ve got bad news for you.”

“Nope. It’s for you.” She held it out. “A thank-you from my gran.”

Eyes lighting, he took the basket. “Tell me she sent cookies.”

“Double chocolate chunk, along with peanut butter brownies and apple cinnamon muffins.”

“Score.” He flipped up the lid and took a deep breath, which was a pretty universal response where Gran’s cooking was concerned. Then he set the basket on the reception desk. “I’ll have to scarf the muffins before Ruth gets in. I wouldn’t want her to think I was two-timing her.”

“Good plan. They’re sworn enemies on the local bake-off circuit.”

“And Bingo?”

“No, Ruth’s got the edge there.”

They shared a grin that went on a beat longer than required and put a flutter in Jenny’s chest, one that said,
Oh, yeah
, like an oldie-but-goodie Kool-Aid commercial. He wasn’t anything like her usual type, but maybe that was part of the attraction.

He held out a hand. “Can I take your coat?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Coming from a world where she opened her own doors and schlepped her own equipment, it felt strange to hand over her ski jacket and gloves. Strange and kind of girly, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, she decided as he hung her stuff on a rack beside the door.

“Your guy is waiting in my office. He looked so sad in his cage, I took pity once Ruth left for the night.”

“Ah, you’re a sucker.”

“Guilty as charged.” He opened the office door with a flourish. “Ta-daa!”

Jenny did a double take at the sight of a big golden retriever rising slowly from a nest of blankets in the corner. Because while the dog might be moving like an old cowboy who’d hit the dirt a few too many times, he looked like a million bucks, at least in comparison. The tangles were gone, his honey-colored fur was soft and flowing, and he smelled like lemons rather than funky wet dog and neglect.

And best of all, his eyes were warm and soft, and as he took a couple of old-man steps toward them, his tail wiggled like he wanted her to know he’d be wagging furiously if he wasn’t so sore.

Her grin felt wider than her face. “Wow. You guys did a great job!”

“The clip is rough, but he was pretty tangled up.”

“Considering what he looked like before, I think it’s better than a show trim.” She crouched down. “Hey, buddy. Remember me? I kind of hope you don’t, but if you do, I’m sorry for what happened with the truck.”

He didn’t bother sniffing her fingers, just shoved his head into her hand for some scritches.

“I’d say you’re the only one beating yourself up on that one,” Nick said, leaning a hip against the desk. “How about you cut yourself some slack and lose that guilt?”

“I will. I am. It’s just . . .” Stroking the soft, smooth fur, she nodded. “Okay, you’re right. Consider it gone. And consider yourself a hero, because this guy looks great. It’s hard to believe this is the same dog I brought in here yesterday.”

“It looked worse than it turned out to be. Which is something I wish I could say about all my patients.”

“Nice of you to let him hang out in your office.”

“Like you said, I’m a sucker. Though Cheesepuff is in the back room, sulking.”

She kept patting the dog, but her attention was on the man—not just the way the light curled around his face and long, lean body, but the way the rise and fall of his deep, mellow voice sent an answering hum through her system. “That would be the chubby orange tiger cat I met the other day?”

“Big boned, please. And, yes, that’s Cheese. Normally he’d be in here with me after hours, making sure I minded my Ps and Qs.”

“Oh? Does he often need to worry about that?”

A gleam entered his eyes, but he shook his head. “Not so much these days. And what does that even mean, anyway? Pints and quarts? Pens and quills?”

“I think it was from old-timey printing presses, where the letters were backward and easy to confuse. Though, why it’s not ‘mind your lowercase Bs and Ds,’ I couldn’t tell you.”

“Glad we don’t have to deal with that anymore. I’m bad enough at reading my own chicken scratches, which is why you should be grateful I’ve got a computer and a printer. Speaking of which . . .” He tapped a couple of pages on the desk. “These are yours.”

“The grand total?”

“Nah, we’ll get you for that later. They’re discharge instructions, otherwise known as ‘the quieter he stays, the faster he’ll heal.’ Keep him on limited activity for a couple of weeks—indoors, leash walks, that sort of thing—while his ribs knit. After that, you can start letting him have more freedom.” He shifted a small white paper bag to join the instructions. “These are his meds. Painkillers for the next few days and a course of antibiotics to get that infection on his leg cleared up. Directions are on the bottles.”

“Is the infection a big deal?”

“I’d say we’ve got it on the run. He might always have a limp, though. Time will tell.”

“Considering some of Krista’s rescues, that’s pretty minor.” She ruffled the dog’s fur and took a look around the room, part curiosity, part stalling. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Where Doc Lopes had packed the built-in shelves with yellowed journals and lined the walls with file cabinets, Nick had streamlined things way down, with just a desk and a couple of chairs. A sleek laptop was hooked to a flat-screen TV and keyboard, and the shelves held personal mementos ranging from a neon green Slinky and a battered Rubik’s Cube to a couple of diplomas and a framed photo.

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s starting to feel like home base.”

She stood and crossed to the picture. “Do you mind? Occupational hazard.”

“Be my guest. Doubt it’s up to your standards, though.”

Maybe not as photos went, but the candid snapshot brought an instant grin and an inner
bingo
at the sight of him wearing sand-colored pants and a sun-bleached khaki T-shirt, with his boots planted on baked dirt and a couple of kids flanking him, one with a stranglehold on a happy-looking brown mutt, the other hanging on to a spotted goat. They grinned into the camera like someone had just said the local equivalent of “cheese,” and the background sported lots of baked earth and blue sky, and a single baobab tree.

She touched it. “Africa?”

“Far away from the land of ice and snow.”

“Amen.”

He chuckled and moved up beside her, close enough that she felt an echo of his body heat as her skin prickled to sudden awareness. “I was part of the Africa Twenty-Thirty Project. It’s an international group that’s working toward a set of pretty ambitious goals to be met by the year 2030, everything from building new roads and hospitals to educating farmers on how to improve yields from their crops and livestock. That was where I came in.”