Trouble At Lone Spur (3 page)

Liz secured the loose end and stood, but was thrown off guard when she saw the troubled shadows lurking in his eyes. “Hey, look, it’s no big deal. Maybe it’s because I’m new and can’t always tell them apart,” she ventured. “Why don’t you go grab some sleep? I really am capable of keeping an eye on your horse.”

Gil rose more slowly, hating to admit her offer held any appeal. “My sons’ behavior is always a big deal to me, Mrs. Robbins.” Dammit, he was disturbed by what she’d said. Although he supposed there was a chance she was lying to gain his sympathy. After all, she might have invented these escapades for the sake of keeping her job. And didn’t he just know how deceitful women could be when it suited their purposes?

“I’ll square the Lone Spur’s debt to you the minute Rafe returns. Today. And the mare will be okay until the boys get home from school. You’ll need the time to pack.” Gil touched two fingers to his hat brim and without
waiting for a response left the barn through a side door.

Liz curled a hand into the mare’s thick mane and gaped after him. Her mistake had been in believing he could be human. Tipping his hat had been out of habit, not courtesy, she decided. For a moment his brusque dismissal hurt more than she cared to acknowledge.

Then the mare nudged her, nibbling at her pocket. Liz got hold of her feelings and went in search of a feed bag. In the half hour it took the animal to eat and drink her fill, Liz rebuilt her defenses. She reminded herself that she had good health, skill in a marketable trade, and Melody. She didn’t need anything from the likes of Gil Spencer.

Lizbeth Robbins was a survivor.

L
IZ WASN’T ONE
to cry over bad luck, and in her twenty-eight years she’d had plenty—estranged from her family at eighteen, widowed, broke and pregnant at twenty-two. Being tossed off the Lone Spur was a disappointment, but once she got the money she had coming, she and Melody would make do. Without it, they’d be stuck. Liz would be darned, though, if she’d let Gilman Spencer know she only had sixteen dollars to her name.

He said he’d pay her when Padilla returned. She’d watched Rafe load those yearlings, all full of jazz and spirit. The amount Spencer owed her wouldn’t make a dent in the profit from Night Fire’s offspring.

Liz made her way outside. She reminded herself that she still had to soak the stud’s feet. She cast a glance back toward the barn, which she knew contained a stall with the requisite mud floor. But the stallion would tear up the place trying to get to Shady Lady if Liz took him inside. Although the treatment wouldn’t be as effective, she’d flood a section of the small corral, instead.

After hunting up a shovel, she dug a shallow trench about four feet out from the fence. Next she carried buckets full of water until the ground was soft and muddy. Night Fire didn’t much like it when she snubbed him to the top rail. He was used to running free. “Don’t blame you, fella,” she murmured in a soothing tone. “I’m not big on being confined, either.” And that was
putting it mildly. Never mind that now, she told herself. Just keep busy.

It had been her intention, even after Spencer fired her, to shoe those saddle horses in the east pasture—to fulfill her contract with Rafe. She was shocked to look up from looping the last knot in Night Fire’s lariat and see the school bus rumbling down the lane. Goodness, it was later than she realized. So, she thought with a pang, her successor, whoever he might be, would shoe the horses from the remuda—the group of ranch-owned horses the cowboys used during roundup. There wasn’t a doubt in Liz’s mind that her replacement would be a
he.

The Spencer twins ran pell-mell toward her. She couldn’t tell them apart. Each had a chipped front tooth, as well. “Hold it, guys.” She stepped from the corral and snagged the closest boy’s arm. “I’ve got a jumpy stallion here. Don’t scare him.”

“Okay.” Speaking in unison, they skidded to a halt, matching plaid shirttails flapping around their knees. Ornery they might be, but someone had taught them a healthy respect for horses. Liz was thankful for that. The boys respected Melody, even though she was a girl, on the basis of her riding skills.

Liz smiled wryly. Melody could be tough when she wanted or a demure young lady—like now. She walked sedately down the lane, her clothes spotless compared to the mess the boys’ outfits were in.

“Why don’tcha use the mud stall?” asked one of the twins, wrinkling his face as he looked up at Liz and into the sun.

She turned from watching her daughter. “Your dad’s mare went lame,” she said offhandedly. “She’s in the refrigerated stall.”

“Dad’s home?” The twin she’d pegged as Rusty let out a whoop and started for the barn. Spinning, he called back to his brother, “C’mon, Russ, get the lead out. We gotta catch Dad before Ben gives him those notes from our teachers, or he’ll never let us help look for that ol’ cat Rafe told us about.”

“He’s gone to take a nap,” Liz called, annoyed that she’d failed to identify them again. The two nine-yearolds were like matched bookends with their auburn hair, freckled noses and cleft chins. They did resemble their dad, except that his eyes were hazel to their green, and his hair a darker richer red. The boys’ faces were rounder than his. Gil Spencer was taller, leaner—and younger—than Liz had pictured. If he had a cleft in his chin, it was hidden today by stubble. But she could imagine him with one.

She found herself speculating what the boys’ mother looked like. Not that it mattered. The Spencers were nothing to her now. What should be at the top of her agenda was finding a way to break the news of their imminent departure to Melody. A sadness crept in, leaving Liz drained.

“Mom, wait’ll you see what I got in my book bag.” Melody hopped in circles. The red bow that held the girl’s dark ponytail flapped like a bird in flight.

Liz loved seeing sparks of excitement lighting eyes that had been somber for too much of Melody’s young life. But now…She got hold of herself. “Um, let me guess.” She eyed the bulging bag. “Not a kitten. Tell me you didn’t rescue another stray.” She pictured the bedraggled ball of fur that had joined their household last week. If they went back to following the rodeo, how could they keep a pet?

Melody giggled, a dimple flashing in her cheek. “Not a kitten. We went to the liberry today. Miss Woodson let me check out
three
books.”

Something about the number was obviously significant to her daughter, but Liz’s thoughts had skipped ahead. This was Friday. Rafe Padilla was due back soon; shortly thereafter they’d be gone. How on earth would she get books back to the school? Liz put a hand to her forehead. It all seemed horribly overwhelming.

“What’s the matter, Mom? Two of the books are ‘bout horses. I figured you’d like those. The other’s all ‘bout a mouse named Frederick. It’s mostly pictures.”

“Honey, it’s not that…”

“Then what? Don’tcha feel good?” Melody slipped her small hand into her mother’s larger one and gazed up anxiously. She’d always been a worrier.

Suddenly Liz didn’t feel well. Not well at all. It made her positively sick to think about disappointing Melody. So she wouldn’t. Not yet. Not until she saw Rafe drive in. “Why don’t you go change out of your school clothes, sweetie? After I finish here, I’ll shower and then we’ll read one of the books. Deal?”

Melody’s smile lit her face. “Can we do it before bed? After I change, I’m goin’ to the barn—to see if the twins’ dad is as neat as they said.”

He’s not,
Liz wanted to scream. She didn’t, however. What was the use? “I don’t want you bothering Mr. Spencer, hon. He just got home from roundup and needs to rest. Why don’t you saddle Babycakes,” she suggested, referring to Melody’s pony. “We’ll treat ourselves to a short ride.”

Liz couldn’t afford to keep a horse for herself, but the pony didn’t eat much. So far she’d managed to trade shoeing for his vet bills. Liz hoped she could again. But
what if some other farrier had moved in on her old job with the rodeo?

Dispiritedly Liz watched Melody skip toward the cottage. Sometimes Liz wondered if her father had put a hex on her when she ran off to marry Corbett—not that she believed in such nonsense. But he’d threatened dire consequences if she left the farm and broke her mother’s heart. Toliver Whitley’s most redeeming trait was that he loved his wife to distraction. Otherwise he was a cold harsh man. He certainly hadn’t cared about his
daughter’s
heart.

Sighing, Liz went back to rewet the ground beneath Night Fire’s hooves. She figured he’d been restrained enough for one day and was loosening his bonds when Melody hurried past the corral juggling two paper plates. “What have you got there?” Liz called.

“Oatmeal-raisin cookies for me and the twins.”

“You’d better ask Mr. Jones if it’s all right before you dole out sweets to the boys. Didn’t you tell me Rusty said they never get cookies?”

“That’s ‘cause they don’t have a mother. And Ben says he’s too old to make cookies.”

Liz released the stallion and coiled the lariat. “People don’t get too old to make cookies, Melody. My grandmother baked them up to the day she died, at eighty,” she said nostalgically. “Mr. Jones can’t be sixty.”

“More’n sixty. And his bones hurt bad. Dusty said he got throwed from a mean horse and had to quit bein’ a cowboy. That’s why he hates his job.”

“Surely he didn’t say that to the twins,” Liz exclaimed. “Maybe Dusty just told you that to gain your sympathy.”

Melody shrugged.

“Well, never mind. Run along.” Liz knew she shouldn’t encourage Melody to speculate about her friends. But if this was true, it might explain why the twins swiped cookies, engaged in pranks and generally lacked discipline. Did Gil Spencer know how his houseman felt? She recalled the rapier gaze that missed little and decided he must. Anyway, by this time tomorrow, she’d be too worried about where Melody’s next meal was coming from to feel sorry for a couple of kids who’d been born into the luxury of the Lone Spur Ranch.

T
HE BARN DOOR
squeaked as it slid open. Gil glanced tiredly over the tops of his sons’ heads. The sunlight hurt his eyes. It seemed he’d no more than dozed off when the boys bounced into his bedroom. He’d decided to check on Shady Lady and was glad. She needed a vet.

Once his vision adjusted, Gil saw that a petite dark-haired girl stood in the sun filtering through the door’s narrow opening. A pretty child, with huge chocolate brown eyes. Gil frowned. The eyes looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen them. It was rare for his sons to have visitors he didn’t know.

The twins swiveled to see what had claimed their dad’s attention. “Melody,” they chorused. “Whazzat you got?” Rushing to meet her, they grabbed from the plates she held. “Cookies. Um, yum.”

“Wait,” she said, jerking the plates away. “You’re s’pose to ask if it’s okay to have some. My mom said to ask Mr. Jones but—Is that your dad?” she asked.

“‘Course it’s all right if we have cookies, dummy,” said the twin holding the biggest fistful.

Gil stepped out of the stall, his frown deepening. “Russell David Spencer. I don’t object to your having a treat, but I do object to your calling anyone a dummy.
Apologize.” As he spoke, Gil recalled the new farrier’s complaint about his sons, and he realized the girl watched him with the same wide velvety gaze as…Lizbeth—wasn’t that the woman’s name? Yes, and now he recalled she’d mentioned a daughter.

“Hello,” he said, smiling down at the girl. “Russell,” Gil prompted. “No apology, no cookie.”

“Oh, Dad, she’s just a
girl.
”

That statement drew an even sterner look from Gil.

Dustin, quicker on the uptake than his brother, jammed an elbow in his twin’s ribs. “Rusty’s sorry, Melody. Aren’t you, nerd?” he hissed.

“Dustin, it’s no better to call your brother names. What’s with you guys all of a sudden? I don’t have time to get to the bottom of this now, but tomorrow we’re having a family caucus.”

“Now you did it, ding-dong,” Dusty muttered.

“Me? You’re the one callin’ me names,” Rusty shot back.

Gil placed his thumb and little finger between his teeth and issued an earsplitting whistle. All three kids jumped. “Enough. Go inside and ask Ben for some milk to go with the cookies,” he said firmly. “I have to call Dr. Shelton to see if he’ll take a gander at Shady Lady’s leg, then I’m going back up to bed. Do you think you can quit bickering long enough to let a man get forty winks?”

As if their heads were connected by a string, the kids nodded of one accord. The twins raced off. Melody hung back and offered Gil a cookie. “Your horse hurt its leg?” she asked after he’d accepted one and thanked her.

“She stepped in a hole.” One-handed, Gil punched out a number on the telephone that hung on the barn wall. “Do you like horses? Blast,” he muttered, glaring at the
bleating phone. “Vet’s line is still busy.” Scowling, Gil downed the cookie in two bites.

“My mom’ll help. She knows everything about a horse’s feet and legs. Hoot said she knows more’n a vet.”

Gil choked on a crumb. “Well, if Hoot’s your mom’s boyfriend, then he’s probably biased.” After he dusted off his mouth, he dialed again.

Melody rolled her eyes. “Hoot’s not Mom’s boyfriend. He’s the best rodeo clown alive. Want another cookie? My mom made ‘em. ‘Course, her chocolate-chip ones are better. And her brownies. They’re the
very
best.”

Gil listened to the insistent busy signal, trying to recall how long it’d been since he last ate a homemade cookie of any kind. Maybe at his friend and fellow rancher Morris Littlefield’s home. His wife, Nancy, took pity on Gil and the boys every few months and invited them to dinner. Mostly she served apple pie for dessert because it was the twins’ favorite. Come to think of it, the last time he’d had cookies that didn’t come from a package was at the June breeders’ meeting. Madge Brennan had made coffee and passed around a plate of molasses cookies. He really wished he could say they were better than these, but he couldn’t.

The girl passed the plate again, and Gil sampled another cookie. “These are pretty good,” he mumbled. “Shouldn’t you hurry on inside before the twins polish off the milk?” Her solemn stare unnerved him.

“You should go get my mom.”

Before Gil could say he thought her mother was probably busy packing, the phone rang. He grabbed it up and was drawn into an unsatisfying conversation with his ranch foreman. The next thing Gil knew, the kid had disappeared. Just as well, considering he’d used some
pretty colorful language. And not solely because the brakes went out on the ranch truck, leaving Rafe stranded in Abilene, either. Gil did his fair share of chewing Rafe’s tail over hiring that woman.

God, what next? Gil wondered as he signed off with a sigh. Mrs. Robbins wouldn’t get her money today. And maybe not tomorrow unless he made an unscheduled trip into town. Rafe said the service center had to send to Dallas for parts.

Hell, she should know the Lone Spur paid its bills. His dad had let things go, but not Gil. He’d go hunt her up and demand an address where he could mail her a check. Dammit, what was wrong with Doc Shelton’s phone, anyway? Gil hung up, then headed for the door. If he didn’t get some sleep soon, he’d drop in his tracks.

He’d just reached the double doors when one slid open and Gil found himself face-to-face with the woman he needed to see. A light floral scent replaced the more pungent barn smells. Gil froze midstride. Gone were the accoutrements of a farrier. She looked dainty as a new filly in worn but clean jeans and a sleeveless flowered blouse.

“Oh!” Liz leapt back. “Sorry.” She placed a spontaneous hand on Gil’s arm. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here, except maybe my daughter.” She peered around him, or at least tried. His broad shoulders filled the doorway. “Melody was supposed to saddle her pony. I thought we’d take a last ride to sort of shake out his kinks before stuffing him in a trailer. Rafe let me ride Starfire,” she said, referring to a balky gelding. “Do you mind if I take him out one last time?”