Trouble At Lone Spur (12 page)

“That’s Gibraltar,” Gil volunteered. “Mean dude, according to Pete. But worth a big chunk of change.”

Her eyes remained locked on the beast even after Gil opened her door.

“Lizbeth?”

Gil’s voice reached into the swimming void to draw her back to reality. Sweat pooled between her breasts, and she wiped damp palms down her denim-clad thighs.
This bull’s name is Gibraltar—not Sudden Death.

“We walk from here. Pete keeps his horses in a field behind the house. Lizbeth, what’s wrong?”

Unconsciously Liz resisted the pressure Gil applied to her elbow. “You didn’t say he raised Brahmans.” The hollow words sounded faintly accusing.

Gil read something more in her eyes. “Stay in the truck. I’ll go get Westwind.”

“No,” she said weakly. “I have to get over this fear. It’s dumb. After all, he’s penned. Give me a minute. You go on. I’ll get there eventually. I’m assuming one of the two men who just walked around the house is Mr. Markham. Go on, Gil, or he’ll think something’s wrong.”

Gil continued to stroke her upper arm as he turned to check. “It is Pete. And Morris Littlefield. I didn’t see his rig when we drove in. Oh, there—that black truck.”

“The one with the two rifles in the window rack?” She slid out, steadier for having found a new focus. “No wonder you hesitate to make him the boys’ guardian.”

“A rifle is a necessity for a rancher. You should carry one, and a cellular phone, too. Never know when something’ll come up out on the range.”

“I intend to get a mobile phone when I can afford it. No rifle. My best childhood friend accidentally shot and killed her little brother. She never got over it.”

“One accident, Lizbeth.”

“Do you know how many gun accidents kill children each year?”

“As do boats, cars and planes. Kids have to learn gun safety, same as you caution them about all the other dangers involved in living.” Gil broke off his lecture as the two men walked up. The older and taller of the two clapped Gil on the shoulder and gave Liz a careful once-over.

“Quite a philosophical speech to reel off to a pretty lady, Gilman. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” the rancher boomed, reaching around Gil to pump Liz’s hand. “Morris Littlefield’s the name. There’s Pete Markham.” He nodded toward the lankier man. “I hope you don’t hold this boy’s lack of social grace against him, darlin’,” Morris said gravely to Liz, dropping her hand to doff his high-crowned hat. “Out at the Lone Spur they go for months at a time without laying eyes on a woman.”

“Really?” Liz didn’t have to feign shock. It was obvious Gil hadn’t told his friends about her. That hurt. Why, if he wanted to keep it a big secret, had he brought her here?

“You mean the word isn’t out?” Gil studied the tips of his boots. “I figured the phone lines would hum. Gentlemen,
meet the Lone Spur’s farrier, Lizbeth Robbins.” His friend’s astonished expressions tickled Gil purple. Morris in particular liked to think he was on top of everything that went on in Crockett County. But Gil should have guessed he didn’t know, or Nancy would have hotfooted it to the ranch by now.

Morris snapped his fingers. “Son of a gun. This is the lady we saw in your Suburban at the Halloween fest.”

Gil admitted nothing.

“Nancy’ll croak. You said you’d just given a ride to the mother of one of the twins’ friends.”

“He did,” Liz said coolly. “That’d be my daughter, Melody. Speaking of kids, I’d like to be home when the school bus drops her off. Could I see Westwind?”

She spoke with such authority Pete Markham immediately turned and started for his pasture. Morris tried to detain Gil, but he shook off the man’s hand. “Say hello to Nancy. See you Thursday.” Gil touched two fingers to his hat and hurried after Liz.

Liz knew which horse was Westwind the instant she laid eyes on him. He had long legs, a deep chest and the burnished red coat of his sire. A throwback, rather than the trademark buckskin. He definitely favored one front leg when he trotted up to greet them. She saw the worried look that passed between Pete and Gil just before she climbed through the fence and picked up the gelding’s foot.

Relief swept over Liz. She set the hoof down gently and smiled. “Westwind has a corn, gentlemen. It’s large and tender, but easily treatable with Pine Tar. If you don’t have any on hand, I’ll drop some off. He’ll need three or four treatments.”

“A corn.” Gil hugged Westwind when he really wanted to hug Lizbeth. Sobered by the thought, he turned to
Pete. “Your foreman, Murph, had me believing it was cancer. I brought the trailer—I was positive I’d have to run him to the vet. So, let me take him to the Lone Spur for treatment and I’ll lend you another.”

Pete shook hands to seal the bargain. “Murph knows cows, but I trust you to know horses, Gil.”

“In this case we’ll both trust Lizbeth.” Gil smiled into her eyes.

It warmed her to her toes and helped ease the slight she’d felt earlier, thinking he had deliberately kept her employment at the Lone Spur a secret. The affable feeling lasted even after they loaded Westwind, though they spoke little on the way home. Gil slipped a tape into the cassette player. After humming along for a few minutes, he seemed lost in his own thoughts; Liz used the time and the mellow bluegrass music to unwind after that nasty business with the bull. It was a good thing, because they entered the lane immediately behind the school bus, and when they all tumbled out of their respective vehicles, it became clear that Dustin Spencer sported a black eye and a bloody nose.

“Buddy Hodges did it,” Rusty and Melody both piped up. “Buddy told everybody the black shirt you gave Dusty made him look like a dime-store cowboy.”

“You fought over a shirt?” Gil exclaimed. “Buddy Hodges has four inches and a good twenty pounds on you, son. We’ve discussed how nothing is ever solved by using fists.”

Liz had gone to the cottage for an ice pack and returned in time to hear Gil’s charge and Dustin’s reply.

“It was ‘bout more’n a shirt. Buddy said
she’s
suckin’ up to me and Russ just to get in your bed.” Dustin glared at Liz with his one good eye.

She gasped and dropped the ice pack.

Gil’s brows drew together as he picked it up. After affixing it to Dusty’s eye, Gil hustled both boys into the cab of his truck. He jumped in, slammed his door and drove off without a word to Liz. A vein throbbing in his neck attested to his anger.

Liz remained motionless until Melody’s puzzled question prodded her to life. “Why would you want to sleep in Mr. Spencer’s bed, Mom? I’m gonna tell that dumb Buddy Hodges that you got a p’fectly good bed of your own.”

Liz shooed Melody toward the house. “Stay away from Buddy Hodges, honey. He’s a troublemaker.”

“But, Mom.”

“Feed your kitty, sweetheart. Then come with me to the barn. I’ve got a horse to treat. Afterward, how about if we go for a nice ride?”

Fortunately for Liz, Melody was easily distracted. While treating West wind, Liz imagined how she and Gil would laugh tomorrow over the incident and the fact that Buddy Hodges was hell on wheels.

Several days went by before Liz realized Gil was deliberately avoiding her. Rusty stopped visiting her kitchen, too. Surely Gil didn’t give credence to Buddy’s allegations?

By Wednesday—Thanksgiving eve—Liz began to think he did, especially when Gil sent Rafe by with the Littlefields’ phone number and the key to his sun porch so Liz could get her turkey out of his fridge.

As a result, Liz took none of the anticipated pleasure in making holiday pies, dressing and cranberry sauce that evening. She only kept up appearances for Melody’s sake. Well after midnight, while readying her turkey for the oven, Liz gazed at the Spencer’s dark house. She again lamented the loss of a budding relationship. One
that now appeared to have no hope of getting off the ground. If it ever had. Maybe she’d read the signals wrong. Did the attraction she thought they shared exist only in her mind? Lord knew she didn’t have a lot of experience to go on.

As she faced the long, empty day Liz realized something profound: unlike Gil Spencer, she wasn’t afraid of falling in love again. What did terrify her was the prospect of falling in love with the wrong man—a man who didn’t love her in return.

With that, she banished the Lone Spur’s owner from her thoughts and didn’t allow him to intrude again until midmorning when Melody came moping in, saying the Spencers had left to go to the Littlefields’ and she was bored. “Mr. Spencer said we might get snow today,” she informed her mother without enthusiasm.

“Snow?” Taking note of Melody’s pink cheeks, Liz ran to the window. She’d been too busy at the stove to pay attention to the weather. “It does look blustery. Good thing the crew cut and baled the winter hay,” she said more to herself than to Melody. “You’d think he’d have brought the horses in off the open range.”

“He did. Rusty said.” Melody hung her jacket on the peg beside the door and swiped a sugar cookie. “Oh, and Mr. Spencer ast me to remind you to look in on Marshmallow Girl. He said she’s gonna have a baby.”

“That she is. I hope she waits until the weekend. Last baby I helped deliver was you,” Liz teased.

Melody perked up. “How do babies get borned?”

Liz stood at the sink peeling sweet potatoes and wished she’d held her tongue. “Human babies are usually delivered by doctors or midwives, honey. Animal moms aren’t quite so wimpy. Your baby book is on the top shelf of my closet if you want to see how much you’ve changed.”

Melody took off like a rabbit. Liz didn’t see her again until nearly two, when she popped back into the kitchen. “The turkey smells yummy. When can we eat?”

“Around four. Get your jacket, Mel. We’ll go take a look at our expectant mom.”

They stepped outside into a cold north wind. Halfway to the foaling barn, stinging ice crystals slapped them in the face.

“Snow!” Melody danced around.

“Sleet.” Liz shivered and turned up her coat collar. The ground sparkled with it by the time they reached their destination. Both welcomed the rush of heat that embraced them as they entered the barn.

Liz needed only one look at the mare to know she was in distress. Stripping off her coat and gloves, she knelt in the stall and smoothed a cool hand down the mare’s sweating neck.

“Mom?” Melody’s obvious fear spilled out in that one word.

Liz had seen a number of foals born. She didn’t think this was normal. Not the easy birth Rafe had predicted. Nor had Liz exaggerated her lack of experience in her earlier discussion with Melody. She stood and rolled up her shirtsleeves. She did know how to check the mare’s progress. Only she didn’t want to do that in front of an impressionable six-year-old. Perhaps if it was a routine birth or if she knew exactly what she was doing…But she didn’t. Not really.

“Honey, I may have to call Mr. Spencer. I left the Littlefields’ phone number taped to the wall by our kitchen phone. Would you run to the cottage and get it for me? Rafe said Mr. Spencer installed a phone in each barn. See if there’s one by the door on your way out.”

The girl turned and ran from the stall.

Ten minutes later Liz went to see what was keeping her daughter. The mare’s condition didn’t look good. Instead of moving down the birth canal with each contraction, the foal seemed to be jerked back as if by some unseen hand.

Heavenly days!
The wind ripped the barn door from Liz’s hands and stole her breath. Icy barbs whirled so fast and furious she could barely see a foot in front of her. Venturing a few steps, she cupped her hands and called,
“Melody!”
Was that an answer or the wind’s whistling? Liz cast a worried glance back toward the barn, then pushed her gloveless hands into her coat sleeves for warmth and set out for the cottage. She was gasping for breath when she and Melody collided, unable to even see each other in the slashing snow.

“Mama,” Melody sobbed, “I thought you was lost. I had to get kitty. He went under the porch and I was scared.”

“I had no idea it was so bad out.” Liz wrapped her arms around the child and the mewling cat. “Sweetie, we have to go back to the cottage for a minute. I want to check the turkey. Plus, there’re a few things I might need. Then I’ll drive us to the barn.”

“Okay.” Melody’s voice was shaky. “You left the radio on. Some man called this a blue norther. He’s silly. Snow is white.”

Liz’s steps faltered. Fear clutched at her throat. She’d read about ice storms that blew up out of nowhere and claimed untold numbers of lives. She shook off remembered stories of people found dead five feet from shelter. “Hang on tight to my hand. Don’t let go for any reason. Do you understand?” She thought Melody answered, but her own teeth chattered so hard she couldn’t really tell. And unless her mind was playing tricks, in the direction
of the corrals the nearly obliterated skyline had a cobalt hue.

It seemed they stumbled along for a lifetime before Liz tripped over the back steps of the cottage. Almost giddy with relief, she refused to release Melody’s hand until they’d both made it safely up the five slabs of slick concrete. Liz sobbed for joy once they were inside and had closed out the storm. Her fingers and toes were numb. Somehow she wasn’t surprised to find the telephone dead.

Drawing strength from the need to remain calm in this crisis, Liz did what needed to be done swiftly and methodically. The turkey was near enough cooked that she set it out to cool, marveling that they hadn’t yet lost electricity. She collected extra blankets to cover Marshmallow Girl, and buckets for water. Among her medical supplies, she found a mild muscle relaxant. She didn’t know the ramifications of administering it to a pregnant horse; she’d use it only if she had to. But with any luck, the phone in the barn was on a different circuit, and she’d be able to reach Gil and maybe the vet. If she didn’t save both mother and foal, it certainly wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

She bundled Melody up until she waddled, and they left the house again, all but crawling to the truck over the slippery buildup of sleet. Only once, when the engine stalled about halfway to the barn, did Liz have second thoughts about what she was doing. She knew it was a straight shot from her cottage to the foaling barn. Hadn’t she sat on her porch, basking in the barn’s light the night she fed Gil that midnight supper?