Summer at Mustang Ridge Read Online Free PDF

of yummy air, she followed her nose by hanging a left past the reception desk and heading down a short hallway that had windows on one side and more gorgeous local photos on the other. At the end, she paused briefly and took a look at what would be, at least for the next few months, her home away from home. And she thought,
Oh, yeah
.
    The kitchen was a long, relatively narrow room, where exposed beams and rustic finishes somehow managed not to clash with high-end commercial appliances and a long counter that was half stainless steel and half butcher block. Big mixers and processors sat in rows along the counter, and shiny chrome racks held bowls, dry goods, and smaller gadgets. Bunches of herbs and garlic hung from the rafters; a trio of doors led to a cold room, a walk-in freezer, and a pantry; and a wide arch opened into the hallway that led to the dining hall. The opposite wall held big double ovens, a commercial cooktop, and three big refrigerators. Two of the ovens had timers that were counting down, while dozens of perfectly browned muffins sat in cooling in racks near the stoves. And they smelled freaking awesome.
    Krista’s grandmother stood in front of one of the stoves, wearing a frilly blue apron over her jeans and mock turtle, and watching the numbers count down.
    Shelby stepped into the kitchen. “Good morning, Mrs. Skye. I’m—”
    “Shelby.” She turned and smiled. “But you’ll call me Gran. Everyone does.” She glanced up the hallway, eyes twinkling. “You lose the little one again?”
    Apparently, word traveled. “She’s still in bed. She might come find me when she’s up, if that’s okay?”
    “Of course. Or you’re welcome to go fetch her.”
    “I don’t want to take time away—”
    “Poosh.” Gran waved that off. “Kids take the time they take, and everyone else works around it, right? We all pitch in for each other here, because that’s what family does.”
    Shelby exhaled. “That’s not exactly how my family worked, but I get your point.” And she was grateful for it. “Where do you want me to start?”
    “Are you hungry?”
    “Starving, but I can nibble and work.”
    That earned her an approving nod. “Then let’s introduce you to Herman Skye.”
    Shelby looked around. “Is that your husband?” Yesterday she’d gotten the impression that it was just Krista and Gran running the ranch.
    “Heavens, no. Arthur is off riding the fence line, probably won’t be back until sundown.” Gran went to the counter beside one of the big stoves, retrieved a big blue-and-white earthenware bowl covered with a red checkerboard kitchen towel, and carried it across to set it on the main counter. She paused for a second, as if waiting for a fanfare, and then whipped off the towel with a flourish. “Herman, I’d like you to meet Shelby. She’s going to be helping out in the kitchen while Bertie is off having her baby. Shelby, this is Herman Skye.”
    The bowl contained an amorphous ball of beige dough that was about the size of Shelby’s head, and smelled faintly of beer.
    Staring down at it, she thought,
It is way too early for this
.
    She was being
Punk’d
, right? There was a camera somewhere, watching to see how she handled it when her new boss formally introduced her to a blob of bread-to-be. “Um . . . hi, Herman. It’s, uh, nice to meet you?”
    “He’s a valued member of the family.” Gran gave the bowl a fond pat that jiggled the dough a little, then grinned. “Let me guess. You’ve never met a sourdough starter before?”
    Is that what it is?
“I’ve made sourdough a few times. Flour, water, a couple of those yellow yeast packets—”
    The older woman covered the dough with both hands, as if blocking its nonexistent ears. “Herman, don’t listen to her. It’s not true!”
    “Um.”
    “No Cookie would ever be caught dead with freeze-dried yeast. A good sourdough starter is the hallmark of a great ranch. Why, back in the day, during roundups the Cookie would