Trouble At Lone Spur (16 page)

Liz coughed. When Gil glanced in her direction, she discreetly sliced her finger across her throat. “We’ll do fine,” she said with more confidence than she felt. In the same sweet tone, she added, “Your saddle’s getting wet. Maybe you’d like to help us muck out the barn while it dries.”

“What?” Wheeling, he saw that she was right. Splotches of rain darkened his hand-tooled saddle. The
humor in her voice annoyed him. Obviously she knew how cowboys felt about climbing aboard wet leather. Blocking out her knowing grin and the probability of chafed privates, Gil sprang into the saddle.

“Dad, do we hafta muck out the barn?” Dustin jogged alongside the horse, splattering mud in all directions.

The green-broke filly, still unused to dealing with a man’s weight, sunfished with a twist. “Look out, son,” Gil shouted as he rose clear out of the seat. He slammed back, unable to get a firm grip with his knees.

Liz ordered Melody and Rusty to head for the barn. Certain they’d do as they were told, she sprang forward and yanked Dustin out from under the filly’s flying back feet. The boy flung his arms around her waist and hung on for dear life until she boosted him over the fence. Climbing to the top rung, she turned and caught the rest of Gil’s wild ride. No lady, the filly tried every trick imaginable to dislodge her passenger. Gil was equally determined to stick with her.

He had, as they said in the rodeo, a gold-buckle ride. With no hazers to flank him at the end of an eight-second buzzer, Gil went the distance. Liz held her breath and mentally counted the time. He was beautiful. His knees jackknifed high on the filly’s neck, his right arm whipped high over his head, and his long body lay flat out over the horse’s rump. Just when Liz thought Gil couldn’t possibly take the punishment a moment longer, the filly quit pitching and tore out on a run.

“Golly-dang!” a white-faced Dustin exclaimed. “I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spook my dad’s horse.”

Liz draped a shaky hand over the fence to ruffle his shock of auburn hair. “He knows that, Dusty. But sometimes it pays to think before we act. If it’d been me
up on that animal, I’d probably have broken my neck. Come on.” She knew he felt bad; no sense making him feel worse.

Gil’s brush with danger had a sobering effect on everyone. The four talked little as they cleaned out old bedding and put new hay in the stalls. Since the children worked hard to help her finish before dark, Liz decided to treat them to chicken potpies for supper. That, green salad and cinnamon-sprinkled baked apples should fill a jittery stomach after a rainy unsettling day.

Liz didn’t look forward to winter. Short dark days often triggered terrible bouts of claustrophobia. Spring couldn’t arrive fast enough to suit her.

Because the boys had homework and Melody didn’t, Liz elected to cook at the ranch house. She showered, gathered some pots and pans, plus the ingredients she’d need from the sacks Gil had left on her counter and loaded them in a picnic basket. It would serve as well to bring her food and Melody’s home to the cottage. So much back and forth sounded involved, but once she worked out a routine, things should go smoothly. The year she started junior high school, the farm cook had had a family crisis. Liz recalled how her mother fixed food in her kitchen and transported it to the stable hands in baskets similar to this one.

She paused, locked in memory, seeing her mother’s smile in the rain-streaked window. A sudden jarring recollection of her father’s anger wiped it away. He didn’t want his wife and daughter exposed to stable riff-raff, he’d said. And that was the end of that. The Whitleys, unlike her mother’s family, were such snobs. Even then, sometimes Liz wished she could turn back the clock and play that scene over. And others like it…

Crazy thoughts. Thrusting them aside, Liz hurried to finish, determined to get to the ranch house and on to more pleasant things. The twins balked at sitting down to homework, until they discovered that Liz was willing to help them.

“Ben never went past fifth grade,” Rusty informed her when she peeked over their shoulders and discovered, to her consternation, that neither twin could subtract.

“Quit whining,” Dustin admonished. “Ben said he wasn’t paid to teach us. Said they should give us time to do this stuff at school. It’s Miss Burke’s fault,” he said, laying the blame squarely on his teacher.

“Did you discuss this with your father?” Liz sorted through page after curled page, all ungraded because of incomplete work.

“Naw,” Dusty said. “We’re usually ready for bed before he gets home.”

“I see.” But she didn’t. Especially as she knew Gil had had conferences with both boys’ teachers. Surely they’d explained to him how poorly the twins were doing.

She sighed, pulled up a chair and started with basics, using sugar cubes to explain subtraction. The Spencers’ cupboards revealed boxes of sugar cubes. Treats for the horses, she supposed. The twins thought it was a great game. Melody had been asking what she could get the boys for Christmas. Liz made a mental note to buy flash cards and maybe a money game. The twins learned quickly and were soon delighted to have their homework done in time to watch TV.

As Liz set the table, she noticed a lot of little things that had been let go around the house, things she hadn’t seen before. Junk piled in corners. Spills not cleaned from the beautiful old hooked rugs. Dust buildup. Things a man with aching bones would naturally let slide. But
Liz didn’t think Gil Spencer would appreciate a woman going on a marathon cleaning spree in his home. Too bad.

She happened to be staring out the dining-room window when Gil arrived home. Apparently his joints weren’t doing so well, either. She noted the tired slope of his shoulders and the stiff-legged way he negotiated the stairs. He was—what? Thirty-two or -three? Not old, but too old for a steady routine of breaking horses.

Walking in on the wondrous odor of cooking food surprised Gil. “Hey, hey,” he said as the boys charged through the kitchen and slammed into him with bear hugs before he’d even cleared the door. “Take it easy on your old man. I’ve seen the wrong end of a bronc too many times today.” He glanced at the kitchen clock. “I thought it was a lot later. Because it got dark so early, I guess. I know why you guys aren’t in your pajamas yet, but shouldn’t you be hitting the books?”

Liz stepped around the corner. She passed Melody a jacket and shrugged into her own. “Since you’re here, I guess Mel and I will go home.” She gestured to the boys. “They finished yesterday’s and today’s lessons. Let them get into their pajamas while you shower. By the way, I set a bottle of Ibuprofen beside your plate. And liniment may stink, but it’ll do wonders, too.”

He straightened immediately. “Why would I need all that?”

“Why indeed?” She went to the stove, removed two potpies and two baked apples and put them in her basket. “There’s salad in the fridge. No reason the boys can’t clean the table later and put the dishes to wash.”

They grumbled, but nodded when she said that if they wanted her to continue fixing supper and helping with homework, they’d better do their part.

“Wait.” Gil placed his hand on her arm. “Why don’t you two stay and eat with us? No sense letting your food get cold on the way home.”

Looking over his shoulder, Liz noted that Dustin wasn’t at all pleased by his father’s invitation. “My basket’s insulated. You’d better hurry, though. I turned the oven down, but everything’s ready.”

Disappointment flickered in Gil’s eyes. Rusty, too, begged them to stay. Dustin clung to Gil, so it was easy to see that
he
didn’t want to share his dad with Liz. For the first time she wondered if Dusty harbored a dream of his mother coming back. She’d read in more than one psychology book that it was common for some kids to feel that way, even years after a divorce.

As she and Melody walked back to the cottage, Liz reflected on that telling look of Gil’s. She was still thinking about it after they’d eaten. Given their present situation, it’d be easy for him to succumb to the slightest bit of TLC. Not so Dustin. He was brimming with resentment. Suppose a relationship did develop between her and Gil—not that it would. But if it did, Liz wasn’t sure she had it in her to fight a jealous child.

She set aside her thoughts about the Spencers long enough to read Melody a story before tucking her into bed. Then she washed dishes, straightened up the living room, sorted through bills. Finally, stealing a few minutes for herself, Liz relaxed at her kitchen table with a cup of tea and a book. All at once the man who still hovered around the fringes of her thoughts rapped sharply at her door.

As each was plainly visible to the other through the small-paned window in the top half of the door, Liz closed her book and rose to let him in.

“Hi! This is a surprise. I thought you’d be home coddling those aching joints. You shouldn’t be out traipsing in the rain.”

Gil stepped inside and set her empty pans on the counter. “There’s no such thing as a fair-weather rancher.” He smiled. “Anyway, I think the storm’s blown over. The stars are out. It’s turning cold.” He blew on his hands. “Fireplace weather. I came to check on your wood supply.”

She leaned around him to look at the clock. “Midnight—and you’re offering to chop my wood?”

“Well…” He removed his hat and slapped it against his leg. “Thought I might work it in tomorrow. Thanks for supper. We finished everything.”

“Didn’t I make enough?” She sucked in her lower lip.

“Plenty. Too much.” He laughed. “If we eat like that every night, the boys and I will soon resemble Pudgy Ralston. He owns the bakery in town.”

Liz’s gaze followed the hand that stroked his midsection. She remembered vividly how those same fingers felt massaging her neck. How they felt sliding up and down her back. “Pudgy?” She cleared her throat. “Shame on you. Nicknames of that sort seal a person’s fate. What kind of lesson is that for your-sons?”

“I didn’t give him the nickname. In fact, he prefers it to Angus.”

“Oh. Then use his middle name perhaps.”

“Ulysses?”

“Well.” Their eyes met and they both dissolved into laughter. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked in the awkward moment when they stopped laughing.

“Is that what you’re drinking?” He sniffed the air.

“Yes, aniseed.”

“Smells like licorice.”

“It does. I have sort of a scratchy throat tonight. I’m hoping this will help ward off a cold.” She stroked thumb and fingers down either side of her neck.

Gil stood a moment, as though mesmerized by the slow movement of her hand. “I, uh, I’d better let you get to bed. Sleep is the best medicine for a cold. Maybe looking after the boys and the extra cooking is too much. I can make other arrangements.”

She stiffened, letting her hand drop to her breast. “Whatever you like. You’ll want to add a tutor to your list. Did you know the boys are having major trouble in math?”

“Trouble?” He stepped forward and gripped her arms. “Are you saying my kids are dense?”

“On the contrary. They’re very bright. But they’re missing the boat because no one at home is taking the time to see that they understand what’s being taught at school.” She wrenched out of his hold, wishing, when she saw the pain darken his eyes, that she’d minded her own business.

He raked a hand through his hair. “The teachers said they’re falling behind, yet Ben insists they work like beavers on their homework. When Dustin’s teacher referred to him as incorrigible, I’m afraid I walked out on the conference.”

“Could you maybe get the boys up an hour earlier?”

“They’re not what you’d call morning people. We’re so far from town, I wonder where I can find a tutor.”

“I’m willing to help after school like I did tonight. Really, it’s no trouble. If they tune me out, I suppose you’ll have to get someone else—or when Ben gets back.”

Gil eased her into a full embrace. Nuzzling his face in her hair, he sighed. “Lord knows why you’re so willing, considering the way we started off.”

She pulled back. “It’s not for the reasons Buddy Hodges said.”

“I know. Just as I’ve known the job was too much for Ben lately. But he gave me a hand when I couldn’t find anybody willing to take on two squalling babies.”

“It’s all right,” Liz murmured, running her hands over his back. “I know what you mean. Hoot did the same for me. Let’s give this a few more weeks. Till after Christmas. New Year’s, we can reassess.”

“Christmas. Don’t remind me,” he groaned. “I hate shopping for presents and wrapping them. I lie awake nights plotting how to hijack a dozen elves.”

Liz’s throaty laughter shook both their bodies. “So now you know what we women have gone through for generations. Cleaning, shopping, cooking, wrapping and hiding gifts. Not to mention decorating. Don’t expect me to have any sympathy.”

He leaned back, stretching out his arms to their full length. “Bah, humbug. Get rid of all the fuss and mess—except the food and mistletoe.” Bending, he nibbled at her ear. “One thing we have plenty of on this ranch is mistletoe.”

She pushed playfully at his face. “Just like a man. Thinking only of food and sex. We women happen to
like
decorations and presents.”

“Then you’re stuck with the whole ball of wax.” He captured her lips and kissed her soundly. A kiss that went from fun to serious in a heartbeat. By the time it ended, they were both breathing raggedly.

For a long moment Liz gazed into sparkling hazel eyes that had come alive with passion. His head had begun a second descent toward her lips when she untangled herself from his arms and crossed to the window. She stared out into the dark. “Gil, the situation with me filling in for
Ben isn’t the only one that needs time. Dustin has a milehigh chip on his shoulder when it comes to women. It’s not so surprising, Gil. You’ve locked away your mother’s things and stripped the place of any sign of their mom.”

“What makes you such an authority on my life?” Nothing sobered him like the mere mention of his ex-wife.

“I’m not. But why else would Dustin hate to see you touching me?”

Gil tucked a thumb under his belt, his lips pressed for a moment in a tight line. “Do your psychology books say parents should let kids manipulate their love lives?”