Ty stilled, staring at the woman sitting not thirty feet away at a high-top with his boss and three of her besties. And, just like that first moment he’d laid eyes on her eighteen or so months ago, the others might as well not have been there.
Close to his height in heels, with a model’s bone structure and a great laugh, the violet-eyed knockout had captured him, captivated him. Now the honey-blond hair that had been swept up at the wedding was down around her shoulders, and the pale green dress had been replaced by a pair of long, trim jeans and a soft blue shirt, but she was no less a knockout . . . even with her mouth hanging open and her eyes channeling a whole lot of What the hell?
Well, that made two of them, as his fingers stumbled on the strings and the air heated up a few degrees. Because, damn.
Ashley. Her name was right there, even though he had tried to forget it once he was back out on the road. Hadn’t worked, though, and when he decided to come back to Mustang Ridge and take the promotion Krista had offered, maybe he had figured his boss’s pretty bridesmaid friend from LA might visit one day. Had even thought it’d be nice to see her again.
He hadn’t figured on that happening on week one of his being back in town, though. And he damn sure hadn’t figured on it feeling like he’d just come out of the gate on a world-class bull that had taken two jumps out into the arena, then dropped a shoulder and started to spin.
“What do you say, folks?” Chase hollered, and got a roar from the crowd in return. Flicking a quick glance back at Ty and the baby-faced drummer, he led them in with “And a one, two, a one-two-three-four!”
Ty was half a second late jumping in on the first song and might’ve missed a few notes in the intro if his fingers hadn’t done him a solid and taken over for his brain. Knowing that wouldn’t work for long, he tore his eyes off hers—shocked violet framed by milky white skin and golden hair—and focused on making the old guitar sing, weaving point and counterpoint, and shoring up Chase’s lower register when it wanted to flatten out.
Wasn’t easy, though. Not when he was fighting for balance on a barstool that felt like it was thinking about reversing the spin and throwing in a couple of back-cracking bucks for good measure. Not when she was sitting halfway across the room.
• • •
As the music kicked into high gear—a country song that Ashley didn’t recognize, with breakup lyrics that sounded like the singer was going down the bar’s menu—she reminded herself to breathe. Keep breathing.
And not stare. Much.
She didn’t want the others to notice, didn’t want them to ask things she couldn’t answer when she was having a hard time believing her eyes. She had thought he was just a hired guitar, maybe a friend of a friend who had been flown in for the wedding. How could he be Krista’s new head wrangler?
The others were talking about a midseason special Danny wanted to advertise, two-for-one on a hike up into the mountains, living off the land. Ashley, though, couldn’t focus on anything except the man up on the stage.
Should she say something to her friends? If so, what? It wouldn’t be easy to rock the whole I’m turning over a new leaf thing if she let on that she had sneaked out of her brother’s reception to hook up with the guy who’d played the wedding march. A hot flush flooded her cheeks at the memory. At the time, it had felt exactly right, like she was striking a blow for her own independence—See, Kenny? I’m totally over you. Now, though, she found herself wishing she had kept her hands—and lips—to herself.
Okay, that was a lie. Because whoever he was, he was a hell of a kisser.
When the conversation behind her lulled, she said, “I hadn’t realized you guys hired a new head wrangler.”
Shelby’s husband, Foster, had held the position at Mustang Ridge for going on a decade, but he’d been building up his own training business at his family’s ranch, and had given Krista and Wyatt the heads-up last year that they needed to find a replacement.
“Ty isn’t really new,” Krista said. “He was Foster’s second-in-command for years until Jenny posted a video of him leading a campfire sing-along, and it got some attention online. The next thing we knew, he got an offer to play with a country band. Have you heard of Higgs & Hicks?”
Ashley nodded, though she had only looked them up because her wedding hookup had mentioned the name. Country wasn’t really her thing. “They’re good. Popular.” Though with a shaky reputation offstage. “Why did he leave?”
“He hasn’t said, and I haven’t pushed it. I’m just grateful that’s he’s back. So is Gran. He was always a particular favorite of hers.”
“So that’s how he ended up playing at the wedding. Friend of the family, and all that.” She played it cool. Nothing to see here. Not even remotely freaking out.
“That’s right. Did you meet him?”
“I recognized the guitar.” The long line of his body. The width of his shoulders. The way his hair fell forward as he played. The air of concentration, like nothing else existed except the song—until those dark, dark eyes met hers and that focus shifted, locked on.
Heated agitation pooled in her belly, making her feel like she had swallowed the whole blinky glass, not just its contents.
Onstage, the band finished the first set—had it been that long already?—and the singer leaned in to say, “We’re going to take a quick break. Be back in ten.” He gave the front row a slow smile and toyed with the bottom button of his shirt. “Stick around, ladies. The show’s just getting started.”
The whoops and hollers coming from the dance floor mostly drowned out Shelby’s shout of “Keep it on. Keep it all on!”
“Shh!” Danny swatted at her, laughing.
Ashley watched out of the corner of her eye as Ty put down his guitar and headed for a door that led off behind the stage.
Heart drumming, she set her half-finished drink—her second, she thought, or possibly her third—on the table and slipped off her chair. “I’m going to hit the ladies’ room, maybe talk to Jolly about renting his sound system for one of these store events we’ve been talking about.”
As the stage crowd split like the Red Sea, one half heading for the bar, the other for the restrooms, she ducked through the door Ty had taken, hoping to catch him alone.
The rear hallway was empty save for two sun-starved potted pines and a trio of framed rodeo posters, but a back exit was cracked like a smoker had just gone through. Or a guy who had a feeling someone might follow him. Ashley hesitated for a beat, wishing that she was wearing something snazzier than the basic jeans, boots, and shirt routine that she had hoped would make Wyatt think she was taking things seriously, but now just made her feel bland and colorless.
Oh, well. There was no hope for it now, and she needed to talk to him before he said anything to the others. To Wyatt. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped out.
The sun had set, darkening the mountains and purpling the sky, but she saw Ty instantly. He stood silhouetted at the edge of the parking lot, next to the post of a light that hadn’t yet come on—tall, broad-shouldered, and staring out across the craggy Wyoming horizon.
He turned as the door creaked closed behind her, and a shiver of awareness said he was looking at her from the dark shadows beneath the tipped-down brim of his hat.
She had intended to walk across to him and do a “Hey, cowboy.” Instead, her boots planted themselves on the last step leading down and her mouth went dry as the scene burned itself on her retinas, made her wish for a palate and brush, or grease pencils in vivid purples and dark, brooding black. She could capture him there, a lone cowboy at the edge of civilization.
If she did, though, nobody would believe the scene was real. She barely believed it herself. Because, damn, he was something to look at.
Then he moved.
Boots crunching on gravel, he came toward her slow and steady, like he was afraid she might bolt. Or maybe because, like her, he felt the sudden electric tension in the air. She couldn’t tell, couldn’t see his face or read his expression—not even when he got up close and personal, the two of them eye-to-eye even though she was a step above him on the short flight of wooden stairs.
His height was one of the things she had liked most about him that night. That, and the guitar. And the fact that he was just passing through.
Or so she had thought.
“Ashley,” he said in a raspy baritone that sent tingles along the backs of her hands, making her want to reach out and touch. Except that he might have remembered her name, but he didn’t know who she really was.
Forcing her voice level, she said, “Hey there.” Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool. “Fancy seeing you here.” Ugh, really? Who even said stuff like “fancy that” anymore? So much for the cool factor.
“It’s a surprise—that’s for sure.” His voice warmed a notch, though his face remained in the shadows. “You visiting Krista?”
“Actually, that’s sort of a thing. At least it could be. You see, I wasn’t entirely honest when I told you that I was a friend of hers.” She had wanted to be anonymous, unimportant. Free to do whatever she wanted, if only for the day. Except she wasn’t, really. “I’m Wyatt’s sister. I live here in Three Ridges . . . and now, apparently, so do you.” She tried for a smile, felt it wobble around the edges. “So, um, howdy, neighbor! Welcome back to town.”
• • •
Oh, hell, no. Ty’s body might have held his ground, but the rest of him took a big step back. Because, damn. There was a big difference between hooking up with a random bridesmaid and locking lips with the groom’s sister. And when you added in the whole part about Wyatt being damn near his boss now, there was a whole extra layer of awkward. As she said, a thing.
Unlocking his molars, he leveled his voice. “I take it Krista told you who I am.”
“Seems we both held a few things back.”
“I didn’t lie.” He wouldn’t have, and didn’t have much time for people who did.
“I’m very sorry,” she said, and to her credit, her high cheekbones wore a flush of shame. “I didn’t think that it would . . . Well, that’s not your problem. In fact, this doesn’t need to be a problem. I was thinking . . .”—her apologetic expression went hopeful—“that maybe we could just keep what happened to ourselves? It was just a few kisses.”
He stiffened. “I’m no liar.” Just kisses? Well, if that was how she saw it, so be it.
“I’m not asking you to lie,” she said. Was that a flare of temper in her eyes? Please. “But if nobody asks—and they won’t—what’s the point in bringing it up? It’s not like it’s going to happen again.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Fine,” he said, biting off the word. “But if anyone asks, I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen.” Though he almost wanted to now, as a near perfect memory went sour. Damn it. There had been days out on tour—gritty, grimy, angry days—that he had let himself replay the hour or so they had spent down by the lake together, needing something fresh and pure to keep him anchored. Maybe it had even been part of what had drawn him back to Wyoming. Not her, but the memory of how something could be simple, effortless.
And, apparently, just another game.
Relief smoothed her face—heart-shaped, bow-lipped, and flawless in the half-light. “Thank you. I mean it, Ty. Thanks. I don’t want my brother thinking . . . Well, that’s not your problem, either. So I’ll just say thank you and leave it at that. And, um, I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Sure thing,” he said, pretty sure his tone conveyed a whole lot of Not if I see you first. Which might not be all the way fair—he hadn’t told her that he knew his way around the ranch or that he’d helped build the dock they had been walking along when he’d kissed her for the first time. But that was different from pretending to be someone else.
She beat a retreat, boots knocking on the stairs. A moment later, the door swung shut behind her, giving a final-sounding thunk that reverbed for a two count before fading beneath the quiet noisiness of a summer night on the edge of the high country—the B-flat buzz-whine of bugs; the ker-scree of a nighthawk looking for some action; the rustle of the scrub moving in a low-lying breeze.
A minute ago, Ty had been content to let those noises seep into his bones, pushing out the bar noise. Now, though, he was more aware of sounds coming from inside the Rope Burn—the badda-thud bass line of whatever was playing on the old-timey jukebox and the rumble of patrons’ voices as they no doubt returned to the dance floor or their tables with fresh beers, waiting for the stage to fill back up and get loud.
And among them, Ashley.
Knowing she’d still be there shouldn’t have made him want to head for his truck rather than back inside for the second set. This didn’t change anything. She didn’t change anything—he had come back to Three Ridges for a job and a base of operations. Not because of the girl he had kissed down by the lake, and who had turned out to be more than she had said, and so much less than he had let himself imagine.
Maybe—probably—she was right about walking away, about it not mattering in the grand scheme of things. Hell, by dawn tomorrow, she would be a mental footnote. Wasn’t like he didn’t have better things to worry about.
Like the voice mail he’d gotten earlier in the day, terse and to the point. Call me after ten. I might have something for you.
Maybe Mac had something; maybe he didn’t. Ty had heard it before. Still, when a check of his phone said it was five past, he scrolled down to the number and made the call.
One ring. Don’t get your hopes up. Two rings. It’s probably another dead end. Three—
“This is Macaulay.” The private investigator’s hoarse voice went with his pack-a-day habit, even though he smoked ecigs now.
“Mac, it’s Tyler Reed. I got your message.” Ty took a deep breath. “Did you find her?”
“No. But I might have a lead.”