Harvest at Mustang Ridge Read Online Free

and pointing to one of the mustangs in a cosmic moment of “Hello, Universe speaking here”?
    Nada. There was never a good foam finger around when she needed one.
    Inside the barn, four guys moved around the pens with the saddle-swagger she associated with lifelong horsemen. Closest to her, grizzled, crotchety old Mel Lemp—an older cousin of Marsh and Martin—was holding a clipboard and glowering like he’d rather be somewhere else. Behind him, two younger cowboys were muscling additional pipe-corral panels into place, building the loading chute they would use to chase the horses onto their new owners’ rigs. And beyond them, over by the gray mare’s pen—
    Krista straightened, feeling like she’d grabbed on to a strand of hot wire while standing barefoot in a puddle. “Whoa. Who is
that
?”
    “Where?” Jenny swung the camera toward the barn.
    “Don’t—” She bit off the protest, knowing she was lucky to have Jenny’s help in promoting the ranch, even if the whole being-filmed thing sometimes put her on edge. Especially when she was seeing things. “In the back corner. Jeans, dark shirt, brown felt hat.” Which stood out against all the summer straw and brought on a full-body shiver, followed by a whole lot of,
It’s not him. It
couldn’t
be.
    Except that it totally could. Sam was there, after all.
    Jenny zoomed in and hummed. “Hello, he is
built
. Get a load of those guns!”
    Which argued against it being Krista’s one-and-only ex, who had been wiry rather than jacked. “Is he . . .” She didn’t even know what she was trying to ask—couldn’t think past the sudden buzzing in her ears.
    “Maybe you should pick him when the mayor calls your name.” Jenny dialed up the zoom. “Let me see if I can get his hip number.”
    “Give me the camera.” She needed to get a look at his face, needed to know for sure.
    “In a minute. Oh, yes. Very nice.”
    Krista tugged at her arm. “Give it here.” Someone called her name, but she waved them off. “Hang on just a sec.”
    Laughter sputtered and then swelled, yanking her attention away from the barn and back to the lottery,where most everybody had twisted around to look at her. Realizing she and Jenny had missed something major, she shot out an elbow and hissed,
“Ssst!”
    Her sister swiveled around, camera and all, and did a double take. “Um. Hello?”
    “Are we interrupting something?” the mayor drawled over the loudspeaker, looking at them with the oh-for-Pete’s-sake expression worn at some point by every teacher who’d ever wound up with the two of them together in class.
    Intensely aware of the red
blink-blink-blink
that said Jenny’s camera was getting every nanosecond of this, Krista called, “I’m sorry, Mayor Teap—er, Tepitt. Please continue.”
    “I will . . . as soon as you pick your horse.”
    “I—oh!” Excitement kicked. “Is it my turn?”
    The mayor gave an exaggerated eye roll. “Okay, rewinding.” Holding up a Ping-Pong ball, she pantomimed taking it out of the bingo barrel and intoned, “And now, first choice in the inaugural Harvest Fair Mustang Makeover goes to”—she spun the sphere and read the name inked on it in Sharpie—“Krista Skye!”
    The applause was sprinkled with laughter, and somebody yelled, “Go, Krista! Woo-hoo!”
    Grinning, she shouted, “Well, then, I’ll take hip number forty-one!”
    A murmur ran through the crowd, along with some knowing nods and a couple of
Awww
noises that said she and Foster weren’t the only ones who’d had their eyes on the gray.
    “Forty-one goes to Krista Skye of Mustang Ridge Ranch,” Mayor Tepitt confirmed. “Best of luck with your new horse!” There was more applause while Martin got the bingo balls bouncing again, and then the mayor stuck in a hand and grabbed one. “Next up is going to be . . . Amos Allwood!”
    As a skinny young cowboy with spidery arms and legs shot to his feet, Krista turned to Jenny and whisper-squeaked, “We got the