Summer at Mustang Ridge by Jesse Hayworth Page A

bloodshed—and better yet, they were back on common ground, and had a training plan in place—he couldn’t settle. Because as he headed into the tack room, he could still feel the softness of her skin against his palm, and he knew darn well he was lying to himself, or at least trying to.
    This wasn’t just about him helping Lizzie get over being afraid of the horses, not anymore. It was about the little girl’s mama, too, and the way she made him feel. And what the heck was he going to do about that?

7
     
    A kiss is just a kiss, but Mint-Os fresh breath is an all-day affair.
     
    B y late that night, after the new crop of guests—arriving for a three-generation family reunion, heavy on the Irish—had been welcomed, oriented, and fed, and had scattered to their cabins, Shelby was flat-out, bone-deep exhausted. So tired that, not long after Lizzie crashed for the night, she flopped down on her own bed.
    Where she lay staring out the window as the stars came out.
    “Go to sleep, dang it,” she muttered, and tried to follow her own orders.
    A while later, a coyote—or maybe even a wolf?—howled in the distance, shivering the back of her neck. A couple of others answered, even farther away. The room cooled. Her thoughts spun, refusing to quiet, or even settle enough so she could deal with them. Not that there was anything to deal with, really. Things were fine. One day at a time. Rome wasn’t built overnight. Have a Coke and a smile.
    “Okay. This isn’t working.” Shoving out of bed, she yanked on a pair of yoga pants and flip-flops, zipped a fleece over her sleep shirt, and headed for the kitchen. Five minutes later, as she pushed through the kitchen’s back door into air loaded with the yeasty scent of rising bread, she muttered, “Some nights, a girl just needs ice cream, damn it.”
    “Amen, sister.”
    Shelby stopped dead. “Oh!”
    Krista sat at the end of the stainless steel counter with a distinctive pint in front of her. She held up her spoon. “Phish Food?”
    “I thought Ben and Jerry were forbidden.” Gran had a near-pathological aversion to Deadheads and ice cream with crunchy stuff in it, which meant that the B&J boys were verboten.
    “Ergo, we must destroy the evidence,” Krista said. “I could use your help.”
    “Something tells me you’re doing fine on your own. I’ll just grab some cake and get scarce.”
    “Don’t be dumb.” Krista kicked out a stool. “Grab a spoon, instead.”
    Giving in, Shelby snagged a bowl and spoon and rummaged in one of the big commercial fridges for a half-full bowl of whipped cream left over from dessert. Behind that was a wrapped chunk of day-old devil’s food cake, which she also pulled out.
    “Ooh, gimme.” Krista beckoned. “I didn’t know that was in there. See? I’m already glad you’re here. Hey, are there any cherries and hot fudge? We can make some killer brownie sundaes.”
    “We shouldn’t.”
    “Why the heck not? It’s Saturday night.”
    Unable to argue with that logic, Shelby found the cherries and sauce, along with a Ziploc bag of chopped walnuts. They spent a few minutes assembling a day’s worth of calories—maybe more—in two big bowls, and then Krista said, “Come on. I’ve got an idea.”
    “Not more food.”
    “Nope. Follow me.”
    Krista led the way up a wide staircase and along a hallway with bedroom doors leading off on either side, to the window at the end. She ran it open, letting in the night. “I hope you’re not afraid of heights.” Not waiting for Shelby’s answer, she ducked through the window and disappeared into the darkness. A moment later, her voice floated back. “Oh, jeez. Cabin Five left their shades up. Come on, we’ll go around to the other side.”
    Forewarned, Shelby kept her eyes off the glow of the cabin windows as she edged one leg and her ice cream out, and then balanced on the sill while her vision adjusted to the moonlight. “Krista?”
    “Over here. You want a hand?”
    “No,