Trouble At Lone Spur (11 page)

“Here we are,” he announced inanely, pulling into an already full parking lot. “Boy, looks like we’ll have to tote these costumes a long way.” For some reason he was reluctant to offer to round up his friends. It seemed too much like an all-out declaration that they’d come as a twosome. Gil would rather make ten trips by himself than give that impression. Ranchers were the very worst when it came to ribbing one of their fellows.

Liz eyed the distance thoughtfully. “If you trust me to park this thing later, you could drive right up to the back door of the gym. Then you take off with the boys or whatever you were planning to do. I’ll find students or volunteers to help me unload.”

Gil’s astonishment must have shown in his eyes.

“I’m a good driver,” she said defensively over the din of the children’s yammering. “I’ve backed stock trucks as big as my house, for goodness’ sake.”

“I don’t doubt you,” Gil told her. “Sit down, kids. We’re driving to the gym.”

“Hey, Dad!” Rusty exclaimed. “There’s the Littlefields. Oh, yummy. Miss Nancy’s carrying two apple pies. I hope I get a piece at the potluck.”

Liz was mildly surprised when Gil whizzed past the couple without giving any sign he’d seen them. But perhaps he hadn’t. He seemed distracted.

“C’mon, boys,” Gil called the minute he’d shut off the engine and handed Liz his keys. “I’ll go with you to find your teachers. Just pocket the keys,” he instructed Liz. “No need to come huntin’ me. We’ll meet you later.” The Spencer trio melted into the twilight.

Liz wasted no more than a moment puzzling over Gil Spencer’s odd behavior. She was late with the costumes. The minute she was recognized, volunteers descended on her with open arms. Once everything was carted into the gym, she hurried to repark in the lot. Then, since she’d offered her services backstage, too, Liz was busier than a bee in a new hive. Too busy to give the Spencer males any thought, other than to restaple an ear on Dustin’s stick horse and adjust Rusty’s ghost costume so he could see through the eyeholes.

Nor did she look for them in the cafeteria following what was declared the most successful play yet. Liz hardly had a moment to breathe between storing the costumes and racing around, helping in the kitchen, heating and dishing out food for the potluck.

Strangely enough, Gil found himself getting worried when he wandered the length of the cafeteria several times and failed to find her—
after
he’d stopped looking over his shoulder every five seconds, thinking she’d pop up wanting to be introduced to his friends. The Littlefields were the only ones who’d seen Gil with a woman. Being his best friends, they were discreet in their curiosity. They seemed to accept his declaration that the girl
they’d seen in his Suburban was a friend of the twins; he went on to say he’d given them a ride because her mother’s truck had broken down.

Other women gathered around, giggling and sniffing at his heels. All wore too much makeup to suit Gil, and they came on way too strong. Halfway through the ordeal of fending them off, Gil realized he’d been comparing each of the women to Lizbeth, and that they’d all fallen short by far.

Long before the whole shebang wound down, Gil was plenty peeved that Lizbeth had made no effort to rescue him. It made him wonder who’d she’d slipped off to eat with, since he’d seen Melody twice in the company of classmates.

He’d gone beyond peeved by the time friends started coming up, saying goodbye and leaving. Finally, to avoid questions about why he was hanging around, Gil herded the twins to the Suburban. He was flat-assed mad when she finally sashayed up to their vehicle—one of only three left in the parking lot.

“Where in royal blue blazes have you been?” he roared, uncurling his length from the hood of his vehicle. “You have the only set of keys.”

Liz clutched Melody’s hand, her steps slowing. She dug the key ring from her pocket and slapped it into his palm. Her voice crackled with anger. “Frankly I didn’t think you were in any rush to leave,” she said as he unlocked the doors. “Every time I looked, you were surrounded by a bevy of women.”

“Wives of neighboring ranchers. We’re all close friends.”

Liz recalled the pert blonde in the lavender linen suit and the redhead who wore the clingy teal. “Um…I saw how close. Don’t their husbands mind?” She lifted Melody
into the back of the Suburban and climbed in after her.

“What’s that cryptic comment supposed to mean?” Gil asked icily, turning to pluck a sleeping Rusty from the hood.

Dustin slid off, covering a yawn. “Dad, she probably saw that dorky Suzette Porter hanging all over you.” Clambering into his seat, the boy made urping noises before adding, “Shorty Ledoux says her top deck’s full of bird’s nests, but that most men don’t care ‘cause she’s got big bazooms.” He motioned with both hands.

“Dustin Lawrence Spencer, that’s quite enough.” Gil plopped Rusty into the passenger seat Liz had occupied on the drive to school and yanked out his seat belt.

“It’s true, Dad,” the boy insisted. “And Rafe says she’s got ‘em aimed at you.”

Under the glow of the auto’s interior lights, Gil’s face turned a mottled red. “Not one more word out of you, young man. Not one!” He shook his finger in Dustin’s face.

On the drive back to the ranch, it was so quiet you could have heard an ant sneeze. Liz wanted to laugh—but she didn’t dare.

D
URING THE DAYS
between Halloween and Thanksgiving, Liz felt especially restless and housebound without her truck. The repair shop in town had ordered a water pump, but since her pickup was an import, she’d been told delivery would take longer than usual.

If only Hoot had been able to come for the holiday. But he wrote to say the rodeo was performing in Austin that weekend. The wife of a retired clown who lived nearby had offered to cook turkey and trimmings for Hoot and his buddies. The news depressed Liz. Maybe because the ranch buzzed with everyone else’s plans. Even crotchety Shorty Ledoux had a sister to visit.

“We could invite all the Spencers to eat with us,” Melody announced one evening when her mother complained grumpily about cooking all day for just two people. “Rusty said the turkey Mr. Jones cooked last year was tough as an old porcupine.”

Liz made no comment, although she actually considered Melody’s suggestion—at least until she rode into town the next day with Rafe to collect her repaired pickup. Away from the ranch he seemed friendlier.

“Say, Liz, would you keep a eye on Marshmallow Girl this Thursday? She’s due to foal by week’s end. Her last, a filly, surprised us by coming early.”

“That’s Thanksgiving.” Liz halted, half-in, half-out of the ranch vehicle. “Won’t the boss want to watch her himself?”

“He and the twins are going to Morris Littlefield’s. Their holiday spreads last half the night.” Rafe chuckled. “Gil will probably wish he’d stayed home. According to Luke, Nan also invited the divorcee who opened that new fluff-duff shop in town. Morris’s wife is always trying to find Gil a woman.”

“What’s a fluff-duff shop?” Liz asked, to cover a swift unexplainable wave of jealousy over a woman she’d never met.

“Again according to Luke—who’s p.o.’d, mind you, ’cause he’s been nosing around her trying to get a date— her shop’s full of glass doodads. Polly, that’s her name, conned Luke into helping dust all that junk. Can you picture it?”

“Rafe—” Liz looked him square in the eye “—the Spencer twins never talk about their mother. What happened to her? Is it a big secret?”

Rafe wrinkled his nose and assumed an interest in the knobs of the tape player. He hemmed and hawed, then in a rush told her how Gil’s wife had skipped out with a rodeo cowboy by the name of Amistad.

When he finished, Liz blanched. “Avery Amistad? That guy’s a jerk!”

“You’re being generous. If you know him, you probably know Gil’s ex. We heard she married Amistad before the ink on her divorce papers had dried. You may know her as Ginger Lawrence. She kept her maiden name for barrel racing.”

“Ginger Lawr—But they’re not—” Liz swallowed and lowered her gaze. She’d started to say Avery and Ginger
weren’t married, only living together when they weren’t fighting.

“They’re not what?” Rafe prodded, his interest piqued.

Liz shrugged. “They’re not friends of mine.” And that was no lie. “Listen, we’re blocking the auto shop’s driveway. I’d better run. Oh, and hey, I’ll be glad to look in on the mare. No problem.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Rafe leveled a look that said he didn’t buy her attempt to switch subjects. But before he could press, she slammed the door, waved and left.

“Ginger Lawrence. Phew,” Liz muttered. And she’d thought it wasn’t possible for Gil’s Ginger to be the one she knew. A statuesque redhead with cold sea-foam-green eyes—a perfect example of beauty’s being only skin-deep. The woman was totally devoid of scruples. How could someone as ethical as Gilman Spencer have married someone like that? Before Liz reached any conclusion, the mechanic showed up to discuss her truck, and she was forced to table the shocking news for the time being.

But her mind returned to it as she bought groceries and then drove home. So much made sense now—Gil’s wariness of women, his dislike of anyone connected to the rodeo.

Liz wished she didn’t know these things about his ex. She’d had two run-ins with the barrel racer over toe weights. Avery had convinced Ginger that weights made a horse run faster. Liz knew
any
extra weight fatigued a horse and decreased agility. Her argument with Ginger was legendary among the rodeo set.

But that wasn’t all. Ginger’s cream-colored buckskin was spoiled rotten. The mare had a nasty habit of biting and leaning on a farrier. Liz had never thought it was her job to teach a horse manners. But neither did she court
broken bones. Ginger pitched an ugly fit the one time Liz tied the mare down to shoe her.

Brother!
Of all the women in the world her boss might have married, why did he have to pick the one who’d done her level best to get Liz barred from working the rodeo? Ginger hadn’t succeeded, but she’d forced some good people to take sides. In Liz’s opinion, the woman was devious. Memories plagued her all the way home.

Liz hadn’t seen Gil for more than two weeks. So why, when she pulled into her drive—in the middle of rehashing a bad scene with his ex-wife—did he happen to be sauntering down her porch steps with that easy sexy roll of his hips? Gilman Spencer’s walk tended to stall Liz’s breath somewhere between her lungs and her diaphragm.

“Hi.” He smiled as he opened her door. “Rafe said he’d given you a lift to town to get your truck. He didn’t say you’d stopped to shop. Here, I’ll lend a hand.”

“No need.” She declined his offer. “Since I was already in town, I decided to buy groceries and save going the day before a holiday. Did you come to ask about a particular horse?” She mentally ran through all the animals she’d shoed in the past week and couldn’t think of any problems.

“Two actually.” He grabbed a grocery sack and was surprised by its weight. “Feels like brick,” he said, scrambling to keep from dropping it.

“Our Thanksgiving turkey,” Liz explained, taking the sack. “First one I’ve bought in a while. The oven in my trailer was too dinky to cook anything this big. And I’m planning to cook enough to have leftovers for a week…” Her sentence trailed off. “Are you saying we have two horses with problems?” she blurted.

Gil picked up a gallon jug of milk and a second sack. “Rafe said he mentioned our pregnant mare. I’m not expecting trouble but figured I’d give you the Littlefields’ phone number just in case. I don’t like carrying my cell phone to a social gathering. And there won’t be anyone here. All our wranglers who don’t have family to visit are going to the Drag M for a gymkhana. They chipped in, and Kyle Mason’s camp cook is serving everyone dinner after the riding and roping competitions. So I’m grateful you’re willing to look in on the mare.”

“That takes care of one horse and problem. What’s the other?” She unlocked the door that led directly into her kitchen. Funny how he purposely avoided calling the men’s competition a rodeo. A gymkhana was nothing more than a mini-rodeo.

“Westwind.” Gil went straight to her refrigerator and began making room on the top shelf for her milk. “Rafe sold him to a rancher east of town—Pete Markham. He claims the gelding has a bad foot. I’d like you to give him the once-over.”

“Sure.” Relieved to learn he hadn’t come to complain about her work, Liz passed him perishables. “Hey, you’re a master packer. Is there room for my bird on the bottom shelf? Big as he is, he’ll take the rest of the week to thaw.”

Gil shifted a few more items. “Afraid not. That sucker’ll feed a regiment. I thought Rusty said you’d only invited your friend, Hoot. Hope he’s a big eater.”

“As it turns out, he can’t come.” She gestured Gil aside and began combining leftovers. “Darn,” she muttered. “Still won’t fit.”

“You mean you aren’t having company next Thursday?”

“No. But Melody and I will be here, so I’ll keep an eye on your mama-to-be.”

“Then you aren’t sticking around just because Rafe asked you to check up on Marshmallow Girl?”

“No. Who on earth named that horse?”

“I did. Why?”

She laughed. “No offense, but it’s hardly a name I’d expect from a man. Westwind—now that’s more like it.”

“That mare has a history. She was a runt I gave Ben to bottle-feed in the dead of winter. She hated the bottle, and they fought something fierce. One day when his back was turned, she ate a whole bag of marshmallows, sack and all, that he’d bought for the boys to take to school.”

“I hope she didn’t get sick.”

“Nope. Amazing, isn’t it? The name sorta stuck, though.”

“So it seems.” Liz laughed. “Getting back to your second request, I’ll take a run to Markham’s after I store all this. Jot down the address, will you? I think there’s a pad and pencil beside the phone.” She nodded toward the corner.

“You may as well ride with me. I guarantee my stock, so I’m taking a trailer in case I have to swap him for a new horse. Say, I have a second fridge on my screened porch that’ll hold your turkey. You finish here, and I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

Liz glanced at the clock. “Will we be back by three? I may be a single parent, but Melody’s not a latchkey kid.”

“We should be back in time. I feel the same as you, which is why Ben lives with us. In case we run late, why not leave Melody a note telling her to go have a snack with the twins? I’ll mention it to Ben.”

“Will he mind? He always seems so…so stern. Probably due to his arthritis,” she said hurriedly when it appeared
Gil was about to launch into a lengthy dissertation. “I shouldn’t judge him. I hardly know the man. But Melody likes him. And a lot of people think Hoot is gruff, too. Mel and I know he’s an old softie.” She handed Gil the rock-hard turkey. “Here. And thanks. I’ll be ready.”

Gil let the icy bird roll against his chest. Suddenly, without warning, he leaned close to her ear and sniffed.

“What?” She dodged to the side. “Do I smell like garlic? I bought some at the store.”

“Flowers. I should know what they are,” he muttered. “Lilacs?”

Tongue-tied by his nearness, Liz blushed. “Violets. They’re purple, but darker and smaller than lilacs. When I was growing up, we had huge beds of them around the house. I haven’t seen any growing in Texas,” she said with a dreamy look.

“Violets.” Smiling, he bent and sniffed again. “Nice.”

Now her cheeks ignited in flames. Liz ducked her head to hide the rapid beating of her heart. It had been so long since she’d fielded a compliment from someone she might care to encourage. “You’ll suffer frostbite if you don’t get that bird home and into your fridge,” she muttered.

Gil hesitated, wondering if he’d somehow offended her. Cursing himself for being so tactless, he all but bolted out the back door. He was home before he’d completely rid his nostrils of her sweet scent. Damn, but that stuff could turn him from Jekyll to Hyde with a single whiff.

No doubt about it, Lady Lizbeth is trouble.
Any woman who shook him up with her
perfume,
for God’s sake, needed keeping at arm’s length. Part of his anatomy could use a little frostbite—unfortunately not the part holding the bird.

Liz folded the last sack. Because Melody didn’t read yet, she called the school and asked the secretary to relay a message. All the hassle the woman gave her, grumbling about how she couldn’t be expected to give personal messages to four hundred kids, left Liz feeling uneasy. What would Melody do if some accident befell Liz out on the range? Most kids had
someone
to contact in an emergency. Her daughter had no one. Not here. Not anywhere.

This fear stuck with Liz even after she joined Gil in the cab of his pickup.

He darted several glances at her between the time they left the cottage and the time he stopped at the main road. “Right turn takes us to Mars. Left to the Milky Way,” he teased.

“Um…okay.” Liz continued to make restless patterns with her fingers on her knee.

Gil signaled and turned left. “You’re a million miles away.”

Liz blinked at him. “Do you have a will?”

“As in willpower?” His eyes twinkled.

She made a face. “As in last will and testament.”

He tromped on the gas and the truck leapt forward. “Why would you ask a thing like that?” Suspicion doused his ready smile.

Drawing her knee up, she faced him. “I started thinking…if I died suddenly, like Corbett did, I don’t know what would happen to Melody. I just wondered if you’ve arranged for a guardian for the twins or what?”

Gil gripped the wheel hard. “You sound like my lawyer. I plan to live a long time. But I’ve set up a trust to deal with the ranch, and it provides for the twins’ basic needs.”

“I don’t even have life insurance,” Liz murmured, gazing out the window.

“Wouldn’t your dad step forward and claim Melody?”

“That would be difficult, since he doesn’t know she exists.”

Gil shouldn’t be shocked, considering how she avoided talking about her parents or her life in Kentucky. But he was, all the same. However, she had that cornered look again, so he fettered his curiosity for the moment. “My attorney’s convinced I’m the biggest fool on earth,” he said conversationally. “I spent twenty thousand dollars in legal fees fighting my ex-wife for custody of the boys. If I died today, the court would hand them back to her. I should name my friends Morris and Nancy Littlefield as guardians and be done with it. But they’re both pushing sixty. I keep thinking it wouldn’t be fair to dump two rambunctious kids on them.”

“So is that why they keep trying to find you a woman? I mean…a wife?”

He almost put the truck in a ditch. “Who told you that?”

She grinned. “An unimpeachable source.”

“One of my men? Damn!”

“Well, it would solve your guardian problem—a wife would.”

He snorted. “Marriage creates problems. It doesn’t solve them.”

Considering the length of time since his divorce, his vehemence surprised Liz. “All marriages aren’t bad,” she said gently, remembering the cozy nights of loving and laughter she and Corbett had shared. Problems had seemed so insignificant then.

“Here we are at Pete’s, or I’d argue that point.”

Liz straightened and studied the ranch with interest. Markham’s fences were barbed wire where the Lone Spur’s were rail. Suddenly her eyes came to rest on a massive tan bull with an almost black hump. He swung his head toward her. Spittle dripped as he pawed the ground. Riveted to the seat, Liz saw another bull—a dirty white chute. And Corbett’s broken body.