Winter at Mustang Ridge (3 page)

“She’s not that bad,” Krista protested, not quite hiding her grin. “Look at it this way—at least she’s out of Gran’s hair.”

“There is that.” A
beep-beep
from the front of the house brought Jenny’s attention around. “Are we expecting someone?”

“I . . .” Krista checked the time. “Wow, is it that late already? That’ll be Doc, here to look at Lucky’s man parts . . . or what used to be man parts, anyway. He got gelded last week. Lucky, I mean, not Doc. You want to come on out and say hi?”

Doc Lopes was pushing seventy and moving slower by the year, but he still had a cowboy’s reflexes when it came to dodging a flying hoof. With a dry wit and little patience for foolishness, he was a fixture around Mustang Ridge.

Jenny shook her head. “No, thanks. I think I’m going to bond with the woodstove for a while, maybe poke around the databases and see if I have any questions before you’re wheels up.”

“Of course.” Krista pulled her in for a one-armed hug. “Thanks for coming, Jen. I need this break.”

“You more than earned it.” Jenny nudged her toward the door. “Go on, deal with not-gonna-get-Lucky’s vet visit, and then get yourself packed. I’ll take care of everything here, I promise.” She crossed her heart like she would’ve when they were twelve, promising never to like the same boy.

And she meant it, too. She had hung suspended over a gorge to film a ziplining date, swum into an ancient cave with her camera on her head to catch the contestants stripping down, and white-knuckled her way through a flash flood that had nearly decimated the crew’s main camp. She could handle six weeks at home.

T
he following afternoon, Krista slung her last bag over her shoulder, hugged everyone for the umpteenth time, and headed out the door. She was borderline late to leave, having taken too much time fussing over last-minute details.

Despite the freezing cold and a darkening sky that threatened more snow, Jenny trailed her across the parking lot, shivering inside an old down parka. “Wow. Is this what it feels like to be the one staying home?”

“Ha. Welcome to my world.” But despite Krista’s teasing tone, her eyes held question marks. “Jen, are you sure—”

“Positive.” She poked her twin toward the idling truck, where Junior, one of the ranch’s assistant wranglers, was waiting to take her to the airport. “Get your butt in that truck before you miss your plane or I turn into a Popsicle.”

Krista laughed and hugged her tight. “We need to put some Wyoming back in your blood.”

No, thanks
. “I’ll work on it. Safe trip. Call when you get to the hotel, okay?”

“Will do.” Krista headed to the truck and tossed her bag in the front, then shot Jenny a final wave before she bounced up into the vehicle. The door slammed, the engine revved, and Junior headed out with a cheerful horn blast.

Jenny watched the truck churn up the long driveway, its taillights glowing cherry red as it crested the hill.

A moment later, it was gone.

“Okay. Here goes nothing.” Resolved not to let Krista down, she turned and headed for the main house. She should probably check for messages and make sure she really, truly knew how to update the reservation database without deleting the whole shebang. Granted, Krista would be only a phone call away, but she wanted to let her sister have her so-called vacation in peace.

She had one boot on the porch stairs when her phone gave a muffled bleat from the bottom of her down-poufed pocket. She checked the ID, saw it was Krista, and laughed as she answered. “You couldn’t even make it out the driveway? Everything’s fine. I haven’t had time to mess up yet.”

“Get in the Jeep and come up to the main road, quick!”

Krista’s tone put an
uh-oh
in the pit of Jenny’s stomach. “Did you crash?”

“No, there’s a dog up at the end of the driveway, probably a drop-off. I need you to grab him before he gets hit!”

“A . . . Seriously?” Jenny didn’t know why she was surprised—dumped pets had always been a fact of life at Mustang Ridge, and it had only gotten worse with the shaky economy. The ranch was home to untold barn cats, ancient saddle horses, and past-their-prime cows, but softhearted Krista always found room—and vet money—for one more.

“Would I kid about this?” Her sister’s voice climbed. “He looked like he was in pretty rough shape, and with the snowbanks from the plows, he’s going to get hit for sure. But if Junior and I turn back for him, I’ll miss my plane, and—”

“I’m on my way.”

•   •   •

A few minutes later, armed with a flashlight, a lead rope from the barn, and a package of mini bratwursts she’d found stashed in the back of one of the refrigerators, Jenny parked Krista’s Jeep at the end of the wide driveway and climbed out.

Big solar-powered lanterns topped the stone columns on either side of the entrance, lighting a generous semicircle of the main road. There was no sign of the dog, but Krista was right about the danger. The plowed snowbanks narrowed the shoulders of the two-laner, leaving little room for evasive maneuvers.

“And some creep dumps a dog up here, not even bothering to get it down the driveway,” Jenny said, disgusted.
Probably told the kids it went to live at a nice farm, too
. Crossing her fingers, she gave a sharp whistle and called, “Here, puppy, puppy, puppy. Who’s a good puppy?”

The only answer was a low, eerie moan of wind through the welded horseshoe sign that arched over the drive, welcoming people to Mustang Ridge.

Should’ve asked what it looked like
, she thought as she clicked on the flashlight and started up the road, scanning both sides. Jack Russell? Great Dane? Something in between? Was it big enough to jump up on one of the banks, or was it stuck in the roadway canyon? Sure, she could call Krista back and get more deets, but she didn’t want to waste the time . . . or get her sister’s “Jenny can’t handle it” radar going in the first ten minutes. Especially when she could handle it.

A deer trail cut through the snow and across the road, but that was the only sign of life. Mostly, things were too iced over to hold tracks. Was she even going the right way? She had turned in the direction Junior would’ve driven, but there was no telling if her quarry had doubled back.

She opened the package of finger-size sausage links, crinkling the wrapper extra loud. “Are you hungry, buddy? Want some dinner?” She wasn’t sure if the odor would carry on the leaden air, but she didn’t want to start tossing pieces at random. It wasn’t like she was chumming for great whites. Instead, she stood in one spot and swung the flashlight in a wide arc, calling, “Come on, puppy. Help me out here. Don’t you want a nice spot by the fire?” It sure sounded good to her.

Suddenly, not twenty feet from the mouth of the driveway, a canine head popped up from behind the snowbank on the opposite side of the road. Caught in her flashlight beam, the large, floppy-eared dog blinked and shifted, looking poised to bolt. But its eyes were locked on her hands, like it wanted those brats, bad.

Jenny’s pulse kicked up a notch.
There you are!

She didn’t let herself react, though—she might’ve been out of the ranch loop for a while, but she knew enough not to rush a spooky critter or make too much eye contact. Instead, aiming the flashlight off to the side, she broke off a piece of sausage and tossed it to land a few feet away from the dog, up on the snowbank.

The animal flinched when the brat landed, but it didn’t run off. Instead, it hesitated and then crept onto the plowed-up berm to gulp the food, watching her with worried eyes.

“You’re okay,” she said softly. “Everything’s okay.” But the dog’s matted fur hung in ropes and it was favoring one front leg. Drop-off or stray, it’d been a while since this guy had been loved on.

Heart twisting, she tossed the rest of the brat so it landed at the base of the embankment.

The dog hesitated, but hunger overrode caution and he scrambled down and snapped up the tidbit. Then he crouched, shaking all over and whining low at the back of his throat. And, with the flashlight full on the dog and the gleam of snow behind it, Jenny could see why Krista had sounded so emotional on the phone.

He looked like their old golden retriever, Rusty.

Not just a little. A lot.

Dark, honey-colored hair shone through the dirty, ice-crusted mats, and if the dog wasn’t pure golden, it was darn close, with the heavy bone structure and wide-browed head of the breed. And more than just the basics of color and shape, there was something about the dog’s expression that tugged at Jenny’s childhood memories, taking her back to thousands of games of fetch, hundreds of rides with Rusty tagging at her horse’s heels, and countless hours spent sitting down by the lake, with him curled up next to her as she looked out over the water and tried to work out a future that didn’t look anything like Mustang Ridge.

It was his eyes, she thought, and the shape of his muzzle. The way he tilted his head like he was really listening.

“Handsome boy,” she said automatically, like she used to do with Rusty. “Good man.”

The end of his tail twitched, but when she took a step forward, the dog emitted a low growl.

This isn’t Rusty
, she reminded herself.
Don’t assume anything
. The last thing she wanted was to start her stint at the ranch with a course of rabies shots.

Crouching, she broke off another piece of sausage—keeping it small so the dog wouldn’t fill up if this took a while—and tossed it very near his nose. It disappeared with a
slurp-gulp
and the growl diminished.

“That’s a fine fellow. Want another?” This one fell shorter than she intended, landing well onto the road. Grateful that there was almost zero through traffic, especially this time of year, she crooned, “Come on, buddy. You know you want it. Brave boy.”

It took her a solid ten minutes to get the dog over the center line, and another five to get him to the point that he would dart within a few feet of her to snatch up the thrown food before retreating out of reach. By that time, however, she was running low on bribes and he was backing off farther each time, no doubt because he had nearly a pound of sausage in his belly. And she was freezing, her hands and face most of the way to numb.

She had options. She could leave now and come back in the morning with more food, or have Foster set a live trap. But there was no guarantee the dog would still be around by then. He could wander off, get run over, be attacked . . . She didn’t like any of the alternatives, and she didn’t want to have to answer Krista’s inevitable “Well, did you get him?” call with “Not yet.”

Mostly, though, she didn’t want to leave him behind when his growl said
I can take care of myself,
but his eyes telegraphed
Please help me
.

So, with the lead rope clipped onto itself in a crude lasso and held casually at her side, she tossed the last bratwurst a couple of feet away.

The dog’s eyes locked on it and his body vibrated with the force of his anxious whine. Jenny didn’t say anything, just stood there, looking off into the darkness like she had all the time in the world. She was aware of everything, though—the cold that had seeped into her bones, the tug of hunger in her own belly, her sick anger at the poor creature’s condition, and most of all, the dog’s slow progress as he edged closer with one eye locked on the brat, the other on her.

Come on
, she urged silently as she closed her fingers on the soft cotton rope.
You can do it. Just a few more feet . . .

And then she heard a low vibration in the distance.
No!
She kept the word to herself, but a pit opened up in her stomach as the noise became an engine rumble, that of a heavy truck downshifting to start up the incline on the other side of the ridge.

Another minute, and it would be right on top of them.

Her pulse thudded in her ears, fast and urgent.
Rock meet hard place
. If she chased the dog out of the street, she’d shatter his fragile trust. But they couldn’t stay where they were, and—

The dog lunged forward and grabbed the sausage. Jenny’s body moved before she was aware of making the decision, tossing the lead over his head with a quick, practiced flick, and then yanking back to set the loop, like she was roping a steer.
Gotcha!

Yelping, he exploded, lurching up and away from her, pulling the rope even tighter.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” She said it automatically, not that he would believe her as she hauled him back and got him by the scruff, dodging teeth as a pair of headlights crested the hill and started toward them. “Come on, we’ve got to get off the road!”

Grateful for her heavy clothing, she lifted the panicked animal partway off the ground and started for the driveway at a shambling run. She could feel his bones beneath her gloved hands, but even emaciated, the dog weighed enough that his struggles nearly knocked her off her feet.

“Hang on!” she shouted over the climbing engine noise. “We’re almost there.” Just a few more steps and—

The truck’s horn blasted, like she didn’t already know she needed to get the heck out of the way, and the air brakes kicked on with a thunderous racket that hammered at her eardrums. The dog let out a howl, lunged forward and then yanked back, throwing her further off balance. She stumbled and went partway down, banging one knee on the pavement, and the dog tore free.

“No!” she cried as the lead whipped from her gloved fingers, her cry barely audible. She flung herself up against the snowbank as the dog bolted across the road. He slipped, skidded, and—

VAROOM!
The truck and tandem trailers blasted through. Running lights flashed past in amber blurs that didn’t light the trailer logos, and all she saw was a
HOW AM I DRIVING
? sign with the phone number scratched off. Then, engine howling, the truck flew off into the night.

When it was gone, Jenny shoved away from the snowbank, moaning, “Oh, no.”

The dog lay on the other side of the road, unmoving.

•   •   •

With Ruby gone for the day and no overnight guests of the small or large animal variety, the clinic was dead quiet by six. After a quick phone call to his father—their usual “Yep it’s cold; nope the fish aren’t biting; how’s the clinic?” routine—Nick focused on banging out the last of the day’s paperwork.

“Want some?” He broke a corner off his pizza slice and held it out to Cheesepuff.

The fat orange tabby gave the offering a suspicious sniff, then turned away with a sidelong look that said
Hypocrite.

Okay, so maybe he’d given Ted Dwyer a lecture on not feeding his lard-ass hunting dogs so many table scraps not an hour ago. And, yeah, the Puffmeister wasn’t exactly svelte.

“No? Your loss.” Nick ate the last of the day-old DiGiorno’s, washed it down with some root beer, and let out a satisfied sigh. “I think that does it for today. Don’t you? Want to roll upstairs?”