Trouble at Lone Spur

From all she’d gleaned listening to Rafe Padilla, the ranch foreman, it sounded as if Spencer was a hardheaded perfectionist who didn’t give second chances. She suspected he was ill-mannered, to boot. That notion had come to Liz through personal dealings with his ornery-assin nine-year-old twin sons. Last night’s debacle cinched it.

While today she could laugh about the incident, it hadn’t seemed funny then. She’d been in her grubbiest clothes, hanging stubborn wallpaper in her minuscule bathroom, when all at once, in waltzed this cowboy dandy, a total stranger, claiming he’d come for the candlelit dinner Liz had promised in the note she’d sent him.

Of course, Melody shouldn’t have let a stranger in the house. But apparently her six-year-old daughter was dazzled by the Chaps cologne that rose around the cowboy like a cloud. Darned stuff made Liz sneeze. The Lone Spur’s biggest Don Juan wasn’t happy when she’d ushered him out, suggesting someone had played a trick on him.

Turned out the trick was on her. Liz knew it the moment Rusty and Dusty Spencer tumbled off her porch in sidesplitting giggles. Cowboy Macy Rydell got the message then, too. Even though he should have figured it out from the crudely written note—on wide-ruled tablet paper, no less.

Liz caught the twins and threatened to tell their dad. It didn’t faze the little punks. She was normally eventempered with kids, but this prank had been one too many in a string of antics those miniature con artists had pulled. Obviously trying to run her off the ranch. But Liz needed this job. Gilman Spencer’s twins would find out she didn’t run easily. No siree-bob!

Liz kicked dirt from her low-heeled Ropers and climbed two rungs up on the corral fence to study the magnificent blood-bay stallion three wranglers had just brought in. She doubted it took three men to handle the animal, but Spencer’s hands had been riding in off the range all week to get a look at her. Liz found that amusing. Women must be in short supply on the Lone Spur.

“Aren’t you a beauty?” she breathed, her eyes leaving the horse only long enough to locate his name on the clipboard she carried. This was Night Fire, the registered stud Spencer bred with his sand-colored mares to sire the beautiful buckskin quarter horses that made the Lone Spur a power in the breeding industry.

Liz put a check beside the stallion’s name. She smiled as her gaze skipped back to admire his long legs and deep chest. “Ah, yes. Night Fire. The name suits you. I’d guess you’re a hot lover.”

As if concurring with her assessment of his prowess, the horse reared and pawed the air. Liz read the overt challenge in his sable eyes, but she didn’t rush to meet it. Instead, she laid the clipboard aside and climbed atop the fence—to let the stallion grow comfortable with her presence and her smell.

She wouldn’t actually shoe the stud, only trim his hooves and check for disease. According to the ranch foreman, Night Fire had been favoring his left hind foot—probably an indication that the horn had grown rough and uncomfortable.

Liz snapped off a piece of grass to chew. She loved the way the morning sun caught fire in the stallion’s crimson coat. It was easy to see why his offspring were in constant demand.

First day here, she’d heard rumors that her predecessor had been fired over this animal. Liz didn’t intend to make mistakes with him—or any of the others. This job was her chance to quit trailing the rodeo from one end of the Southwest to the other. Her chance to provide Melody with roots. Nibbling thoughtfully on the straw, Liz recalled a time when she hadn’t minded the rodeo circuit. When love was young and Corbett was alive.

But things changed.

Redirecting her attention to the stallion, Liz tossed the straw aside. It was better not to dwell on the past. It stirred memories of a time when she’d been alone, pregnant, crippled by grief and debt. Thanks to old Hoot Bell, a kindly soul who’d left horseshoeing to follow his lifelong dream of being a rodeo clown, Liz had learned a usable trade. And now, she finally felt strong enough to make a bid for independence—and a permanent home. Working for Gil Spencer meant her child could attend first grade at one school for the entire year. Kindergarten had been a hit-and-miss affair mixed with whatever home schooling Liz could manage between towns.

As she took the first step to coax the wary stallion closer, Liz considered again how nicely things had fallen into place. She knew for a fact that only the biggest outfits could afford to hire a full-time farrier, let alone provide accommodation. Sagging porch and all, the cottage seemed like a castle compared to the tiny camp trailer she and Melody had shared. And the rural school bus already stopped here for the Spencer twins. Yes, life at the Lone Spur was pretty much perfect.

Liz experienced a moment’s thrill as the stallion trotted up to sniff her hand. Yup, she’d do whatever it took to please Mister do-it-right-or-get-canned Spencer. She and Melody needed the Lone Spur. And if they stayed here, she might be able to conquer another problem, too. These past two weeks she’d had fewer nightmares, fewer bouts with claustrophobia—annoying conditions that had plagued her since Corbett’s death.

Liz gave herself a hard mental shake and met Night Fire’s liquid gaze. “If you knew us,” she murmured, “you’d see the changes in Melody. She’s crazy about her teacher and loves having friends. Let’s not screw it up, huh, buddy?”

Liz dropped off the fence and slowly made her way back to her pickup to get the tools she’d need to clean and polish Night Fire’s hooves. He might have caused her predecessor’s downfall, but no mere horse was going to ruin things for Melody. Not if Lizbeth could help it.

The big horse kicked up his heels and circled the enclosure like a frisky colt. Liz eyed him, her thoughts again shifting to his owner. Gil Spencer wanted things done by the book, so that was how she’d do them.

Night Fire whickered, tossed his head and teased her, skittering away. “Easy, boy.” Having donned chaps and pliable gloves, she quickly boxed him in and bent to pick up his back hoof. “Oh, oh!” He had extremely dry feet. Someone—the previous farrier, Liz supposed—had rasped too close and destroyed the natural varnish. “Darn. What now?” She climbed out of the pen and reached automatically for her heavy leather apron. She’d have to shoe him, after all, then really soak those feet.

Given the rumors surrounding the horse, Liz checked in the barn to see if Rafe Padilla was available to discuss treatment. He wasn’t. Obviously he’d already taken the load of yearlings to market. Liz sighed. She had no choice. And with any other horse, any other owner, she wouldn’t have questioned her decision.

Resolute, she fired up her forge. Her thoughts turned once more to the absent Spencer. In observing his sons, she’d formed a mental picture of dear old dad. Not too tall. Stocky. Mid to late forties. The lucky stiff had inherited this gorgeous ranch; so, most likely, would his sons. That fact alone probably contributed to their cockiness. There was no Mrs. Spencer. At least not living on the ranch. Liz had some definite ideas about that, too.

Flame ready at last, she closed the gap between herself and the jumpy stallion. Even though this change in plans put her behind, Liz took time to stroke his neck before she started to work. The horse relaxed ever so slightly and nuzzled the bare flesh below Liz’s short dark curls. She hunched her shoulder and laughed as his breath tickled her ear. “Aren’t you the charmer,” she crooned. “Pity you don’t give lessons.” Liz was plain peeved to think the twins didn’t like her. She’d gotten on well with all the kids who hung out at rodeos. Another strike against Dad—and Ben Jones, the grouchy old excowboy who served as Spencer’s houseman. Now, that man was a caution.

Shrugging, she bent to the task at hand. She slid her palm down the horse’s leg, then gently bumped his side so that he’d shift his bulk and allow her to lift his foot. “So far,” she muttered against Night Fire’s side, “the boys tolerate Melody. If I ever see that they don’t, I tell you they’ve swiped the last chocolate-chip cookie from my jar.”

Keeping up a tranquilizing flow of conversation, Liz slowly and carefully trimmed the stallion’s heels. “Whoa, boy.” She fitted the cooled shoes, reheated and reshaped them until they were exact. “I guarantee these won’t cramp your style with the ladies.”

Night Fire whiffled uneasily as she got out her ruler to measure his front feet.

Tailoring shoes took time and was hot tedious work. By the time Liz had molded them to her liking, the only thing on her mind was nailing them home, then breaking for a tall glass of cold lemonade.

Lunch was definitely out. Rafe had said he needed her in the east pasture this afternoon to reshoe three geldings who’d thrown shoes during roundup. Liz doubted she’d finish today, especially since she had to meet Melody’s school bus at three-thirty. Pulling old shoes and checking for any sign of hoof disease simply couldn’t be rushed. Meticulous as she’d heard Spencer was, Liz was equally so.

Suddenly, when she was almost done, Night Fire began to fight her. “Whoa, fella, what’s wrong?” Loosening the tie rope, Liz played it out.

As the powerful horse reared and rose above her, Liz saw the problem. A cowboy—a drifter by the look of him—limped down the lane leading a mare, whose scent was all it took to drive Night Fire wild.

Liz fought back simmering anger. Dolt! Couldn’t he see the stallion?

GIL SPENCER’S SIGHTS were set on getting home. About a mile out, Shady Lady had stepped in a prairie-dog hole, thrown a shoe and pulled up lame. It was damned hot out, and Gil’s boots weren’t made for walking—no real cowboy’s boots were. Late last night, he’d given the last water in his canteen to the mare. Right now, he was about as dry as a man could be.

And he was mad. For three days he’d been trailing a stock-killing cougar. Today he’d had the cat cornered. All at once the wily animal had escaped into a rock-strewn canyon, to hide in any one of a hundred caves. So he’d been in a foul mood even before Shady Lady’s accident. Now all that interested Gil was getting shut of the heavy saddle he’d packed a mile and drinking the well dry. That, and showering off several layers of roundup grime. The very last thing Gilman Spencer dreamed he’d see when he hobbled toward the Lone Spur’s main barn was some woman wrangling his most expensive stud.

Was she nuts?

Dropping the saddle and Shady Lady’s reins, Gil forgot his exhaustion. His thoughts centered on getting the woman out of the corral in one piece and without a lawsuit. Unfortunately Gil also forgot that his bones were thirty-four years old, not nineteen, as he vaulted the fence. Landing much too hard, he fell. His legs buckled and his Stetson flew off, spooking Night Fire.

The stallion screamed and lashed out with the foot nearest Liz. Although his kick was negligible as kicks go, she wasn’t expecting it, and she was thrown a good three feet across the corral—sunglasses one way, Liz the other. She landed smack on her backside in the hard-packed dirt.

Gil straightened and froze. His heart pounded, his legs quaked. Was she okay? Lord! Up close she was no bigger than a minute—and Night Fire stood sixteen hands. Gil dug deep for the wherewithal to race to the woman’s side.

Too late to matter, Liz connected the man she’d seen in the lane with Night Fire’s unprovoked attack. Furious, she leapt to her feet and dusted off her smarting rump. “You may dress like a cowboy,” she shouted, “but you lack the brains the Almighty gave a gnat. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to sneak up on a farrier at work? And never, never surprise a person working in close quarters with a stallion.” Liz shook a small fist under the unkempt offender’s nose.

“Is that so?” Gil had heard about enough of the lady’s lip.

“Who,” he asked icily, “gave you permission to be in close quarters with that stud?” Flashing hazel eyes raked every scrawny inch of her before the man snatched up his Stetson and jammed it back on sweaty russet locks that needed a good trim.

“None of your beeswax.” Liz didn’t like the saddle bum’s superior attitude. He wasn’t the first man who’d presumed he could give the orders because she tackled what was deemed men’s work. She’d met twice his arrogance on the rodeo circuit. But this man had no right taking his error out on her. “Rest assured I’m doing the job I’ve been hired to do,” she snapped.

“Really? Who hired you?”

“God! So, take a hike.” Liz stood her ground even though the stranger hovered over her. “Or better yet,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “take a bath.”

He didn’t move. And that was when it dawned on Liz that this saddle tramp might have blown in from Spencer’s roundup. Cursing her hot temper, she whirled to check on Night Fire. What if this know-it-all jerk carried tales back to his boss?

“Look, lady—” Gil clamped down on his anger “—I don’t know who authorized you to shoe any horse of mine, let alone my prize stud, but I guaran-damn-tee this is your last job on the Lone Spur.”

Liz turned back and let her eyes take a leisurely stroll from the top of his crusty Stetson to the tips of his run-down boots. Then she laughed. “Your horse? I’ve seen down-and-out bronc riders at the rodeo where I worked who looked more prosperous than you. I guaran-damntee Gilman Spencer’d know his prize stallion’s hooves were split, and that without shoes and wet packs those feet will break down.”

If her grating laughter hadn’t been enough to make Gil see red, her jab about the rodeo definitely did. Nobody, but nobody, mentioned bronc riders in Gil Spencer’s presence—not if they wanted to keep their teeth. Half the state of Texas had known before he did that his wife—now ex-wife—Ginger spent her nights in bronc rider Avery Amistad’s bed.

The hurt went deeper than mere infidelity. Gil had needed Ginger’s support while he worked his butt off pulling the Lone Spur out of the financial mess his father had left it in. But he’d been understanding about her desire to become a number-one barrel racer. So understanding that he’d hired Ben Jones to help care for their infant twins while his dear wife followed the rodeo.

No, Gil didn’t like anything about rodeos.

Gil was furious at this woman for reminding him of humiliations he’d managed to suppress. But dammit, he thought, as he took a closer look at Night Fire’s hooves, she was right about the splits.