The storm clobbered Main Street with a one-two of pyrotechnics and a sharp rain that blew sideways, blurring the world beyond the open loading dock doors and muffling the usual sounds beneath a freight train roar of wind and water.
Perched on a packing crate, Ashley folded her knees up to her chin and stared out, caught between the part of her that loved being out in the rain and the part that winced every time a gust rattled the building.
Having lived there through the long, cold winter storms, she had figured she knew what she was getting into. Turned out it was a whole new ball game now that the insurance policy had her name on it.
“Hang in there, baby,” she urged. “Mama can’t fix the roof right now.” The building inspector had said she would probably get a few more years out of it, but that she should start setting aside the money. And she would, along with saving to expand the sales floor and redo the Web site. Starting in thirty-five days. Almost thirty-four now.
Look at me—thinking about the long-range to-do list. Too bad she really needed to focus on the shorter-term stuff, like lining up models, crafting decorations, finalizing the outfits and giveaways, and helping Ed build the stage that Ty had designed for her.
Ty, who she really should have called days ago. Maybe she should—
Nope. No distractions. In fact, get him out of your head. She knew all too well how good she could be at talking herself into new priorities. Pulling out her phone, she toggled over to the Short List, a subset of quick little chores that—like the Big List—she had vowed to knock off in order rather than doing the fun ones first. When she saw what was up next, she groaned.
Call Mom.
“Seriously? I didn’t put that on here, did I?” But she must have, because there it was. And she had promised—one at a time, in order, no cheating.
Should’ve called Ty. As awkward as the conversation would’ve been, she’d bet money it would’ve been easier. But Ty wasn’t on the Short List and her mom was, so she scrolled to the number and made the call.
She stared out at the rain while it rang on the other end, hating how phoning home had turned into a checklist chore.
There was a click and her mom said suddenly, “It’s Ashley!” Her voice blurred a little as she held the phone away and called, “Jack, honey? Come and talk to Ashley! She’s on the phone!” A pause. “Jack? Jack?” To herself, she said, “Where is that man? He was here a minute ago.”
Used to the routine, Ashley wandered up the hall to the break room, where she neatened the pile of catalogs and put away a couple of rinsed-out coffee mugs. She was wiping down the table when her mom finally left off hollering for her stepfather. Muttering, “He’s probably out in the garden, back any minute,” her mom lifted the phone, sharpening her voice. “Ashley, sweetie! It’s so good to hear from you! How are you?”
“Hi, Mom. I’m good. Everything’s good. The store—”
“Did Wyatt tell you that Jack and I are going to the Grand Canyon next weekend? He’s even booked us on one of those mule tours. Do you know how long it’s been since I was in the saddle?” She gave a girlish laugh. “But you know what they say. Once a rodeo queen, always a rodeo queen!”
“I hadn’t heard. That sounds fun.” So much for inviting her mom and Jack to the fashion show.
“And did Wyatt tell you that we’re thinking about changing out the shutters on the house? I found the prettiest purply-blue. Jack?” she called suddenly. “Is that you? Ashley’s on the phone!”
I didn’t call to talk to Jack, Ashley wanted to say, or to talk about Wyatt. I called to talk to you. But why would today be any different? Her mom had always lived best through the men in her life. “I’m putting on a fashion show next week. Do you want me to send you some pictures?”
“You’re modeling again? Oh, sweetie! That’s wonderful.”
“I’m not modeling—I’m putting on the event. For the store.” Remember the store I just bought? A week ago, her mom had been all aflutter, not because it was a big step or because one wrong financial move could land Ashley in bankruptcy, but because she was tying herself to Three Ridges, and where did she expect to find a man in a place like that? A tic started up at the corner of her left eye as Ashley added, “The theme is Transformations.”
“You’re dressing like a boy? Oh, sweetie, don’t do that. You’re such a pretty girl.”
“Transformations. Like from a caterpillar to a butterfly.”
“Here’s Jack! Jack, honey, say hi to Ashley. She’s thinking about going back into modeling!”
There was a pause, a scuffle, and then her stepfather’s voice said, “Ash?” The single slow word was enough to take her shoulders down a notch. “How’s it going?”
She let out a pent-up breath, willing back the frustration. Jack wouldn’t trample on her answer, she knew. He would wait her out, just like he had waited until her mother finally came to grips with the fact that Wylie Webb wasn’t going to put a ring on it and she wasn’t going to do better than a mild-mannered, slow-talking CPA who filled her fridge, took her daughter to the mall, and every three months on the dot asked her to marry him.
Thank God.
Cradling the phone a little closer to her cheek, Ashley said, “I’m good. I’m putting on a fashion show next week to bring in some extra business.”
“Ah. The modeling.” There was a gentle smile in his voice, because he loved his wife for exactly who she was. “I’m sure it’ll be a huge success, sweetheart. How can it not be, with you behind it? Though I wish you didn’t have to put this sort of pressure on yourself. I wish you’d let us help.”
“We’ve had this conversation.” Though the offer still wrapped itself around her heart. “I’m not taking your money, or Wyatt’s.” Jack was trying to retire, and she’d be darned if she gave her brother another reason to shake his head when he saw her. “But I love you for offering.” Not that Wyatt had. Only Jack.
“I love you, too, sweetheart, and I’m rooting for you. Take lots of pictures of the show for me, okay?”
“Will do. Thanks, Jack.”
“Do you want to talk to your mom some more?”
“No, I—”
But it was already too late. A rustle carried down the line, and her mother—practically caroling now that she had her preferred audience—said, “Did Jack tell you about the nice man we hired to fix the roof?”
“No, he—”
“He’s something foreign. Polish, maybe? One of those countries that used to be Russian.”
“I don’t think Poland—” This time Ashley cut herself off. “Never mind. So, he’s fixing the roof for you guys? How’s it going?” Sometimes—most times, really—it was easier to go with the maternal flow than try to turn the tide. She opened up the silverware drawer next to the sink and did a little rearranging, putting the mismatched forks and spoons in order by size and giving an “Uh-huh” or “Oh, really?” when the pauses dictated.
“Jack said not to worry about it, though,” her mom concluded. “He’ll take care of it.”
Having lost track of the complaint—something about the gutters?—Ashley went with “Mmm-hmm.”
“Speaking of taking care of things . . . about this crazy idea of yours. You can’t possibly be serious.”
Heart sinking—Should’ve hung up when I had the chance—Ashley shut the silverware drawer. “You’re talking about the fashion show?”
“No, silly! I love that you’re getting back into modeling—a lady should always play to her strengths. I’m talking about you wanting to buy that whole big store with all the secondhand clothes and stuff.”
Since her mom had never been to Another Fyne Thing—not even the Web site, as far as Ashley knew—that description had to have come from Wyatt. Drat him. Stomach tightening, she said, “I already bought it. Signed, sealed, and delivered. This is important to me, Mom, and I’m excited about it. I hope you can be happy for me.”
“Jack thinks you should cut your losses and walk away. Better that than be dragged down by a business you can’t handle. You’re not a numbers person or a businesswoman, you know. You’re an artist.”
That one stung. Even though Jack probably hadn’t said exactly that, or even close to it, there was almost always a kernel of reality at the center of her mother’s mental constructs. “I can handle it. I’ve been handling it since last year, remember?”
“You should work for someone else. It would be safer. What happens if you lose everything?”
“I don’t want to be safe. I want to be happy.”
“Living by yourself in a little town in the middle of nowhere?”
“Yes! Why can’t—” Ashley bit it off, knowing that snapping at her mom was pointless. Taking a deep breath, she leveled her voice. “I like it here. I can do this.”
“Jack says—”
“I’ve gotta go,” she interrupted. “Krista’s dad will be here any minute with a lumber delivery, and I need to help him unload. I’ll call you in a couple of weeks, okay? You can tell me all about the Grand Canyon.”
“You’re mad at me.” The pout was loud and clear. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I know.”
“If you would just be reasonable—”
“Like I said, I gotta go. Love you.” She ended the call, dropped the phone back in her pocket, and then just stood for a moment, pressing her fingertips into the break room counter hard enough to whiten the flesh beneath her nails.
Breathe. She’s just trying to protect you in her own way. Just like Wyatt. Still, her mother’s words echoed. You’re not a numbers person or a businesswoman. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she willed them away, hating that they still resonated after all the hard work she had put in, the progress she had already made. “She’s wrong.” She said it out loud, willing herself to believe. “You can do this.”
Maybe if she told herself that another thousand times or so, one of these times it would ring all the way true.
Blowing out a breath, she pushed away from the counter and turned. And froze.
Ty stood in the doorway.
Her heart thundered, pushing hot and cold through her bloodstream. He was there. Hot. She really should have called him. Cold. He was soaked through, wearing a dark green T-shirt that was plastered to the bulging muscles of his arms and torso, and worn jeans that had gone dark from the rain and clung lovingly to his hips and thighs. Hot, hot, hot. But why was he there? He didn’t like her, didn’t want to be around her . . . did he? Hot, cold, hot.
“Ty, hey.” Keep it casual. Don’t overreact. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” Or, you know, ever again.
“Got some lumber for you.” His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable. “My truck has a cap on it, so I said I’d make the delivery.”
“Oh. I— Thank you! And in the pouring rain. I’m sure that wasn’t on your list of fun things to do on a Friday evening.”
“I’ve had worse.” He paused, studying her like he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard some of that call. Everything okay?”
“With my mom? Sure, yeah. We’re fine.” She grimaced. “That is, if by fine I really mean ‘talking past each other like we usually do.’” Even saying that much just went to show how rattled she was by her mom’s lack of faith. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Anyway. Lumber. Your truck. The rain. All I can say is thanks a million. I owe you one.”
His mouth flattened out. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Yeah, I really do. Starting with the apology that should’ve been headed your way a couple of days ago.” Stifling the temptation to fiddle with the catalogs on the break room table, she hooked her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans. Just do it. “I was bitchy to you the other night, and I apologize. I was just . . . Well, it doesn’t matter what I was thinking, or why. You were helping me out, and I handled it badly. I’m sorry for saying what I did about, well, you know.” Broken hearts.
The pause that followed went on long enough to make her wonder if it would’ve been better to keep her mouth shut after all. Then a corner of his mouth kicked up, though with zero amusement. “Somebody told you I got left at the altar.”
“My assistant, Hen. And she said it was six weeks before the wedding.” Why had she said that? Six weeks was plenty bad, and the details didn’t matter so much as clearing the air. “Sorry,” she said again.
“Don’t be.” His eyes were shadows, his voice a rasp. “Six weeks is more accurate than most of the versions I’ve heard, and what happened with me and Brandi is part of the local deal. I knew I’d be coming back to it when I took the job. But it’s been a few years, Krista needed the help, and I needed to get off the road and get my priorities straight. So here I am.”
She was pretty sure it was the most he had said to her at any one time, and it was definitely the most revealing. With any of her friends—Krista, Hen, even some of her customers—she would have pressed for more. With him, she said only, “Welcome to the getting-my-priorities-straight club. I’d like to say I’m a founding member, but I think I’m more the one who pays her fee every year and only shows up for the holiday party. I’m working on it, though. So . . . apology accepted?”
“Accepted, but not necessary. I was being a bit of a jerk.”
Figuring it wouldn’t gain her anything to agree with him, she stuck out her hand. “Truce?”
His hand came up and enfolded hers. “Truce.” She barely had time to register the warm strength of his grip and the gentle rasp of calluses before he disengaged, stepped back, and tipped his head toward the loading dock. “So, you going to help me unload this wood, or what?”
• • •
The work went far quicker with two people than loading it up had done with one, though the weather was just as nasty. Which meant they both wound up soaked within minutes when Ashley insisted on being outside with him, not just waiting inside to stack.
He appreciated that, though, just as he appreciated her apology. Meanwhile, he was doing his damnedest not to appreciate the way her wet button-down clung to her curves, or the way the rain darkened the denim where it cupped her fanny.
Yes, she was hot, and, yeah, maybe there was more to her than met the eye at first. Maybe they were even working in surprising sync, with her more than handling her end of things. But she was still off-limits.
“Coming at you.” Having clambered into the back of the truck to reach a pile of two-by-fours that had shifted on the drive, she gave a shove and sent the wood sliding along the bed in his direction.
“Got ’em.” He loaded up and headed into the loading dock, where the air was damp and the concrete floor was doing the slippery-when-wet thing. “Watch your step.”
“I’m good.” She came in behind him with the last of the two-bys. “Plywood next?”
“A few of the sheets are pretty punky,” he warned as they headed back out into the rain. “You won’t want to use them for the staging, or anything that’s going to hold weight.”
“No problem,” she said, grabbing one end of a sheet and sliding it out so he could grab a corner. “They can be butterflies.”
“Excuse me?”
She grinned adorably from beneath sopping wet bangs as they schlepped the four-by-eight panel inside and set it on the grid of two-bys they had built to keep the plywood off the floor. “Decorations. I want to paint up these big butterfly cutouts for the walls, to add more color and make it look like a real party.”
Seemed to Ty that the last thing her shop was lacking was color. This was her deal, though. “Want me to tell Ed, so he can add it to the project list?”
“Nope, I’ve got it under control. I borrowed a jigsaw from Billy, across the street.”
“No offense, but you know how to use it, right?”
She wiggled her fingers at him. “Don’t let the manicure fool you, cowboy. My stepfather, Jack, insisted that before he took me for my driving test, I had to be able to change a tire, jump a battery, top off the oil, and safely use a bunch of different power tools. I’m not sure what using a jigsaw had to do with getting my license, but once Jack gets something in his head, there’s no dislodging it.”
“Sounds like he was doing his best to look after you.”
“He was. He still is.” She squared up a two-by-four on the pile as they passed it on their way out, expression going from fond to rueful. “That’s what they’re all trying to do, in their own ways. Wyatt wants to protect me from myself, which means doing things his way, while Mom wants me to find a man to protect me, which—at least as far as she’s concerned—means doing things her way. Meanwhile, I’m doing my best to figure out what my way of doing things is going to look like.”
“Is that why you were living in LA?”
Look at the two of us, actually having a civil conversation.
She wrinkled her nose. “I’d like to say so, but the reality is that I followed a guy out there. Kenny. He was a decent drummer in a decent band that was always one lucky break away from the big time.”
The rain blew sideways, sharp and cool, but the work was keeping him warm. “Let me guess. You got tired of footing the bills while he chased the dream.”
“Ha! I see you’ve met him.”
“I know the type.”
Finished with the punky plywood, they started building a second platform for the drier wood without discussing the need. “I hate to admit it,” she said, “but I was on board for that part, stuck it out for far too long. I didn’t bail until the day he tried to sell my car on Craigslist.”
“Your Bug?”
“Yep. He was trying to avoid eviction. Turned out, the rent money I had been giving him had gone up in smoke.” She pantomimed inhaling. “So I left. You can mess with me, but you’d better not mess with Bugsy.”
As they headed back outside, into the weather, he said, “Note to self. Trying to Craigslist your car is a dealbreaker.”
“I’ve generalized that to grand theft auto. Since leaving LA, I’ve been adding to the list. For future reference, of course.”
“Of course.” Another piece of plywood went on the pile. “What’s on the list? More felonies?”
“I’ll look at that on a case-by-case basis. Who knows? Maybe Mr. Right has a really good excuse for that armed robbery pop. As far as I’m concerned, though, there’s no excuse for walking out on your kid.”
Ty fumbled his grip on the plywood as they lowered it to the pile. “Or hitting one. Hitting anyone smaller and weaker than you, in fact, with some exceptions. Case by case, like you said.” Their shoulders bumped as they returned to the truck and grabbed the next slab.
“Stringing along a woman who loves you, promising you’ll marry her, buy her a house—the whole nine yards—only to spend your life chasing from one rodeo to the next.”
He got the feeling she wasn’t talking about herself anymore. “Not Wyatt.” He knew there had been some history between him and Krista, long before he came to Mustang Ridge. He didn’t seem the type to string a woman along, though.
“Nope. Our father, Wylie. The day I came along, he pulled Wyatt aside, gave him some cash, and told him he was the man of the house now, and I was his responsibility. We didn’t see much of him after that, though Mom waited for him a long time. Too long.” She made a face. “Which brings us to the next on the list—breaking promises. That’s a definite don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-on-the-way-out for me.”
“Agreed.” As they schlepped in a good-size chunk of beam that would make an ideal support piece for the emcee’s stand, he looked across at her—soaking wet and holding her own, and nothing like he had thought she was.
She lowered her end, then fisted her hands on her hips. “You’re staring.”
“I’m thinking.” That he had misjudged her. That he could talk to her. That they had more in common than he would have guessed.
“Of?”
“Your list is missing a big one.”
“Oh?”
“Infidelity.” He heard his own voice go flat.
Her expression shifted. “Ah.”
“Yeah.” Needing to move, he headed back out into the storm for the last piece of lumber, another big beam that he yanked out of the pickup.
She followed, grabbed the other end. “I’m sorry.”
“She wasn’t.”
“Then you’re better off.”
“I figure.” He waited until she put down her end, then let the beam go with more force than necessary. “Still sucks, though.”
“It’s on the list.”
They headed back outside into the storm together. The wind had died down and the rain had softened to fatter, warmer drops. “Storm’s easing,” he said, reaching out to close off his tailgate. “Good timing, too. We’re all done.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Well, jeez. Now we’re all soaked down with no place to go.” Then her smile flashed. “Seriously, though, I can’t thank you enough.”
Sleek and wet, her body was all curves, and his fingers itched to touch. The half-light had darkened her violet eyes, turning them smoky and mysterious, and the bow of her mouth had his eyes zeroing in. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to drink the rain from her lips and feel the water on their bodies turn to steam.
“You should go inside,” he said instead. “Get dried off.” Because anything else would be a really bad idea.
“Yeah.” She looked up at him, blinking the raindrops from her lashes. Then she held out her hand.
“I thought we already called a truce.” He didn’t want to shake again. He wanted more.
Apparently, she was smarter than that. “This isn’t a truce,” she said. “This time, we’re making a pact.”
“Oh?”
Her eyes fired with resolve. “To learning from our mistakes, sticking to our lists, and choosing better the next time, whenever that might be.”
Yeah, that resonated. He closed his fingers around hers. “To choosing better.” Which, right now, meant getting in his truck and going back to Mustang Ridge before he did something stupid.