Trouble at Lone Spur

As Liz watched the stranger run sure hands down the stallion’s leg, a sick feeling began to grow in her stomach. “Rafe Padilla hired me two weeks ago,” she stated firmly, assuming—hoping—that would straighten things out.

The woman now seemed subdued, a fact that cooled Gil’s temper. Even supposing Rafe had hired her, Gil would never allow anyone connected to the rodeo to stay on his ranch. “If that’s true,” he sighed, “my beef is with Rafe. But it changes nothing. Stow your gear and be on your way.” He glanced away as huge brown eyes blinked up at him, then retreated into blankness again.

Liz’s brain stalled. She saw all her hopes, all her dreams for Melody, slipping away.

“I see you still doubt who’s giving you your walking papers,” the man said harshly. “Here’s my driver’s license.” He pulled a plastic sleeve out of his wallet and sailed it toward her. It plopped at her feet, kicking up a tiny cloud of dust.

Night Fire reared again and pawed the ground. Liz scooped the plastic out of the dirt before climbing through the rails. A terrible crushing weight trapped the air in her lungs as she scanned the picture of a ruggedly handsome clean-shaven man who bore scant resemblance to this scruffy cowpoke. Except for maybe the cool hazel eyes that could freeze a woman’s soul. And the name, Gilman Spencer, that leapt off the paper to taunt her.

Liz tried to speak. The words stuck in her throat. Shaking her head, she handed back his license. “I don’t understand,” she stammered. “The friend who recommended me set it up with Mr. Padilla, but I assumed you had hired me.” If only she’d asked Hoot more about Spencer. Not that he’d have said anything, closedmouthed as he was.

Gil jammed his license into his wallet and returned the worn leather case to his back pocket. “If I hired women on the Lone Spur, which I don’t because they distract my wranglers, I most assuredly wouldn’t hire a rodeo groupie.”

“I beg your pardon.” Liz drew herself straight up. Even then the top of her head barely reached his shirt pocket. “Rafe told Hoot Bell—that’s my friend—that you were desperate for a good farrier. I am that, Mr. Spencer. And for your information, I am not a rodeo groupie. I shoe horses as well as any man alive. Better than most.”

“Not on the Lone Spur. I’m not that desperate.”

“Really?” Liz arched a brow. “Wasn’t it a man you fired? Padilla probably thought you wanted the shoeing done right this time.”

A muscle twitched along Gil’s cheek. “Look,” he muttered, “I’ve had a hell of a day—three in a row if you want to get technical. I’m not up to sparring, Miss—”

“Mrs.,” Liz supplied. “Mrs. Corbett Robbins. Lizbeth. You may not believe this, but I usually get along with everyone—” Liz broke off. She’d be darned if she’d grovel. If he had an ounce of decency, he’d have told her up front who he was.

Gil frowned. “Corbett Robbins? The name rings a bell.” The frown deepened. “I knew someone once who spouted rodeo stats. Robbins—isn’t he national bull-riding champion?”

“Was,” she whispered, eyes unexpectedly misting. “Corbett was champion. It’s been awhile.” Spencer’s blunt statement hurled memories at Liz, the kind, of memories that normally woke her out of a sound sleep. But in the dead of night she had time to conquer her demons, even if she’d never truly forget the horror of watching her husband die in that narrow chute. Some made allowances because she’d been eight months pregnant. Not Liz. She knew that if she’d thrown her jacket, instead of freezing to the bench, she might have distracted the bull and saved Corbett’s life.

“I see,” Gil sneered. “Old Corbett lost a few purses, so you left him for greener pastures. Well, not on my ranch, sister.”

Liz stared vacantly at the man whose bitter accusation broke into her private reverie. Her fingers dug into her thighs as the old pain rocked her heart.

Night Fire whistled and kicked over her shoeing box. The clank of metal jerked Liz fully back to the present. “Corbett was trying to beat his record in Houston—and he drew a rank bull. It was his last ride. Ever. Not that my personal life is any of your business, Mr. Spencer. I hired on at the Lone Spur to shoe horses.”

“You’re quite right about the first part, Mrs. Robbins,” Gil said stiffly. Although something in her quiet dignity tweaked his jaded conscience. Not enough to make him relent, but enough to niggle. “I’m, ah, sorry about your husband. I’ll give you till, say, three o’clock to vacate the premises?”

He squinted up at the sun as if calculating the time. Indeed Liz saw that he didn’t wear a watch. She didn’t know why she found such an insignificant fact intriguing, unless it was because she assumed all men who built empires like the Lone Spur were slaves to the ticking of a clock. Especially men like Gil Spencer. Men like her father. The only difference between them was that one raised quarter horses in Texas, the other thoroughbreds in Kentucky. Her attention snapped back to what he was saying.

“…and it’ll take me at least that long to make myself human again. Maybe by then Night Fire will have calmed down enough to let me assess any damage you may have done. I think it’d be wise if you’re gone by then. I’ll deal with Rafe when he gets back.”

Liz couldn’t remember ever having the desire to hit anyone. Yet she’d have liked nothing better than to smack the arrogance right off this man’s face. Instead of acting on that desire, she stripped off her heavy apron. “Three hours won’t make you human, Mr. Spencer. But I wouldn’t leave by then even if my daughter’s school bus had arrived—which it won’t. There remains a little matter of two weeks’ pay. Not to mention that Padilla promised reimbursement for travel expenses and for the carpet and curtains I put in the cottage.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to believe Raphael let you shoe my stock for two whole weeks without telling me?”

Liz peeled off one glove and retrieved the clipboard that lay beside the corral. “I don’t care what you believe. These,” she said coolly, “are the horses I’ve shoed.”

Gil’s eyebrows rose to meet a tumble of mahogany curls. “Some of these are the most ill-tempered horses on the ranch.”

“Like horse, like owner, I always say.” Liz ripped off the second glove.

“Why, you’re no bigger than a peanut. Frankly I don’t believe you got within spitting distance of some of these corkers.”

Liz cut in. “Horseshoeing isn’t about size as much as know-how. Funny, I had a feeling I was being tested. Maybe Padilla had second thoughts and figured if one of those nags put me in the hospital, he wouldn’t be raked over the coals for giving me a job.”

Gil frowned at the list, then at her. “Look, my accountant has the ranch ledgers in town. And the ranch checkbook—for quarterly taxes.”

“Things are tough all over, Mr. Spencer.”

“I can’t go get it this minute. I need some sleep. Besides, regular payday isn’t for another two weeks.”

“That’s your problem.” Liz left him standing while she systematically stored equipment in her pickup. The shock of meeting him was beginning to wear off. Suddenly she found despair crowding out the need to have him acknowledge her worth. All she’d wanted out of this job was a chance to give Melody a normal life. But she couldn’t expect a man like Gil Spencer to understand.

She shot him a dark glance and was surprised to see he hadn’t moved. In fact, he looked as if he’d been hit by a freight train. How had she missed the tired slump of those broad shoulders? Her glance slid away to his drooping black mare. At least she thought the horse still waiting in the lane was black. Her coat was almost too dirty to tell. Covertly Liz’s eyes sought Spencer again. Darn, she didn’t want to show him an ounce of compassion. He certainly had none when it came to her.

The horse, who stood so obediently, reins touching the ground, shifted to take the weight off a swollen leg in a way that drew Liz’s trained eye. “Did the black throw a shoe?” She sauntered over and ran a hand down the mare’s leg before Gil could reply.

The pleasant feminine voice startled Gil from his stupor. He must be getting old. He’d missed sleep plenty of times, but he’d never forgotten to take care of his horse. Finding this woman working on his ranch had rattled him.

“Her leg needs icing,” Liz said matter-of-factly.

Gil fancied a hint of accusation in her statement as he joined her. “I plan to call my vet.” He edged her aside and stroked the mare’s velvet nose, then picked up the reins and led his injured mount toward the barn.

Darn! Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone? Yet no more than a second slipped by before Liz called, “Wait. I’ll ice that leg and get a wrap on it while you catch forty winks.” She caught up to Spencer easily. “Look at you. You’re dead on your feet.” Avoiding his eyes, she murmured, “A vet will shoot her full of cortisone.”

Gil swallowed the refusal that sprang to his lips. Getting by without cortisone would be his preference, too. To find this woman so astute surprised him. Her offer was tempting. So tempting he let her take the reins from his grasp. A light herbal fragrance penetrated the trail dust clogging Gil’s nose. He stopped dead, feeling his tooempty stomach tighten. She smiled over her shoulder and the breath left his lungs.

It’d been seven years since Ginger moved out with her cases of powders and paints. With a pang, he wondered if his sons missed the sweet scents of womanhood as much as he did, or if they’d been too young to remember. Gil scowled; he didn’t like the path his mind had started to wander. He jogged after the woman and snatched Shady Lady’s reins without a word. Back stiff, he entered the dark barn, away from Lizbeth Robbins and the unwanted memories her presence triggered.

Vaguely hurt, she stayed outside. For a minute there, she’d detected a crack in Gil Spencer’s tough exterior. A brief softening deep in the green-gold eyes. Perhaps it was worth pursuing. For Melody’s sake, Liz didn’t want to give up this job without a fight.

Inside, the barn was cool after the heat of the midday sun. She stood a moment to let her eyes adjust and to overcome the sudden choking claustrophobia darkness always brought. Her ears picked up a clank as Spencer heaved the heavy saddle over a rail. Liz gritted her teeth and moved toward the familiar sound.

Gil didn’t have to see her to know the Robbins woman had followed him. Ignoring her, he began measuring feed into a trough. “You have unbelievable persistence. And you’re wasting my time.”

Her hands tightened into fists. To hell with him and his job. No one talked to her like that. “And you, Mr. Spencer, are unbelievably rude. Although I can’t fathom why that should surprise me, considering your sons had to get their bad manners from somewhere.”

She spun on her low-heeled boots and would have left him had his right hand not shot out to stop her. For what seemed an eternity to Liz, his eyes blazed through the dim light and his fingers cut off the circulation in her upper arm. She would have jerked away if a fleeting something—pain, anxiety, vulnerability, whatever—hadn’t crept into his eyes.

She pushed at his hand, anyway, not liking the shiver that wound up her spine.

“What about my sons?” he asked, releasing her the moment she struggled.

“Nothing.” Liz truly regretted her childish retaliation. It was just that his arrogance made her so mad. Her temper was a weakness. Hoot always said it would be her downfall one day.

Gil massaged the back of his neck, then closed his eyes and smoothed a hand over gaunt cheeks ragged with a three-day beard. “Does it have anything to do with the meeting their teachers requested? Ben sent a note out to the roundup. I was headed in, but then I picked up the trail of a stock-killing cougar—” He broke off, opened his eyes a slit and sighed. Gil didn’t know why he was spilling his guts to a stranger. He should be having this conversation with Benjamin Jones, considering how much he paid the retired cowboy to cook and keep a line on the twins in his absence.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Liz said quickly. “The job is important to me, okay? I was disappointed, that’s all. I don’t know about any meeting at school.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and glanced away from his tired eyes.

Gil silently observed the emotions crossing her delicate heart-shaped face. Outside, dressed in all that leather, she’d seemed small, but with it off she seemed…fragile. Feeling defensive, Gil turned back to the mare. He led her into a large stall with overhead refrigerated plumbing. He’d built it to deal with injuries to ligaments and tendons. As he uncoiled a hose, Gil said gruffly, “Rusty and Dusty don’t like school much. Fall is hardest, after they’ve spent all summer out on the range with me. Going back means they miss roundup. Not that I’m excusing bad manners, mind you. But…out of curiosity, what did they do?”