Summer at Mustang Ridge by Jesse Hayworth Page A

things apart to see how they worked. Most of the time he even put them back together properly.”
    Shelby smiled. “He sounds like a neat guy. I’d like to meet him.” Not the least because Gran had confided that her son had stuttered as a child, and had gone virtually silent for a time.
    “They mentioned maybe heading this way for Christmas,” Krista said, “but I have a feeling they’ll wind up going south rather than trying to get through the weather.”
    Shelby and her slowly thawing feet wouldn’t blame them. Summer in Wyoming was gorgeous, but she didn’t want to be here come winter. Pretty was one thing. Snowed in for six months with a limited number of people and spotty FedEx was another.
    “Pastries, huh?” Gran muttered.
    Krista nodded. “Yep. And they’re having a tacky contest.”
    “A what?”
    “Tacky contest. I guess parts of Niagara are wall-to-wall souvenir shops, so they decided to see which one of them could find the worst souvenir. Last I heard, the front runner was a ceramic tea set with a pair of breasts as the cream and sugar dishes, with nips on the lids to use as handles. I’m betting you can guess what the teapot is shaped like.”
    “Krista Jane!” Gran said.
    Shelby snicker-winced. “Ew. Seriously?”
    “Seriously.”
    “That’s tacky.”
    “Yep.”
    “Well, look at it this way. It’ll make a heck of a regift for a Yankee swap somewhere down the line.”
    “There’s that.”
    They fell silent as Shelby pulled her toasting fork away from the heat and built her s’more. She tried to remember the last time she and her mom and her sister had hung out like this, chatting, and had to go way further back than she wanted to remember. And even then, there hadn’t been the same sort of amused affection, the kind that said family loved family, even when they made each other a little crazy. Maybe, as Foster had said, things were just different out here.
    Sure enough, a moment later, Gran said, “So, what else made the tacky list?”

6
     
    A t ten o’clock the next morning, Shelby and Lizzie set out for the barn. The little purple boots slowed as they neared the barn, though, and Shelby could see her daughter’s anxiety notching up.
    She hesitated, not sure what to do. Push it? Back off? Was this the battle she wanted to pick today?
Probably not
. So she stopped and knelt down in front of Lizzie so they were eye-to-eye. “Do you want to sit on the bench outside and read?”
    That got an immediate nod.
    Reminding herself that a few days ago that quick a response would’ve been cause for a major celebration, she stifled the spurt of disappointment. “Okay, but stay right there. Stace or I will come get you when it’s time to go to the arena.”
    Lizzie headed for the bench without a backward glance.
    Sighing, Shelby straightened and slapped some of the dust off her jeans, hoping she was doing the right thing this time and not just setting them both up for another fall.
    The barn was cool and empty, save for a few horses in their stalls. Peering around, she called, “Stace?”
    “She’s not here,” said a familiar deep voice, and Sassy’s door rolled open. A long, lean figure stepped out, wearing a black Stetson and making a silhouette that could’ve been labeled
cowboy
.
    Shelby stopped dead in the middle of the aisle, hoping he couldn’t see her flush. “Oh. Hey, Foster.”
    He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Hey yourself. Change of plans.”
    Her stomach shimmied. “No lesson?”
    “Different trainer.”
    “You?” The word headed for squeak territory.
    “That okay?”
    The short answer was “Heck, yeah.” The long one was . . . well, she didn’t know what it was. All she knew was that her palms were suddenly sweaty. “Sure. It’s fine. Um . . . thanks. I really appreciate it.”
    He nodded and looked past her. “Where’s Lizzie?”
    “Out front. She didn’t want to come in, and I didn’t push it.”
    He nodded. “A good trainer learns