Trouble at Lone Spur

“So? She wouldn’t have if Melody hadn’t bugged her. She didn’t want us there. I could tell.”

“Hold it right there.” Gil raised a hand, then slammed it on the table as he gazed in horror from one boy to the other. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You two know bats carry rabies.”

Dustin looked smug. “We didn’t touch ‘em, Dad. They came from Rafe’s bat trap. We opened the box and shook ‘em out in her room. Same as we did that old bull snake we put in her bed last week.”

Gil counted to ten under his breath, then he exploded. “Remember that rabid coyote I showed you last year? We discussed how painful treatment is for our horses. I assumed you knew it’d be as bad or worse for humans.”

Dustin stuck out his lower lip. “Men are smart ‘nuff to not get bit. Can we help it if girls are stupid?”

Livid, Gil rose over his sons. Grounding them for life was too lenient. Through a haze of anger Gil heard his white-haired houseman bang a cupboard door and grunt. “Spit out what’s on your mind, Ben. It can’t get much worse.”

“Time somebody teaches them knot-heads some respect,” he said. “Lord knows they don’t listen to me. It’s a cryin’ shame, the shenanigans they pull on folks. I tell you, Gil, I’m too old to be kickin’ the frost out of kids meaner than oily broncs.” In cowboy lingo he’d likened the twins’ need for discipline to breaking a bad horse—which, Gil knew, laid Ben’s feelings squarely on the line. He loved the twins.

So, the lady had told the truth, Gil fumed. No doubt the teachers’ notes regarding disrespect in the classroom were on target, too. Had he closed his eyes to behavior he should have seen all along? Well, they were open now. Gil wadded his napkin and threw it on his empty plate. Stalking around the table, he grabbed both boys by the shirt collars, marched them into his office and kicked the door closed. “Sit. We’re going to have a frank talk about how men treat women.”

Ten minutes later Gil slumped in his chair. The upshot of the twins’ half of the conversation was that they held some pretty unflattering opinions of the opposite sex—which they claimed to have gotten from him. Gil was stunned to learn his bitter divorce had translated as a total disregard for all women. “Boys…I don’t hate women. Just where, I ask, would the world be without women?”

“Shorty Ledoux says a man don’t need women or schooling to work horses,” Dusty informed his dad sullenly, quoting one of Gil’s best but crustiest old wranglers.

“Dustin.” Gil smacked a hand on his desk top, making both boys jump. “Nothing is less true. It takes a college degree in agriculture or animal husbandry or both to successfully operate a ranch the size of Lone Spur. Moreover, whether or not we have women on our ranch, men treat them with respect wherever they are. Your behavior toward Mrs. Robbins is inexcusable. I’m angry and disappointed.”

Rusty started to sniffle. Dustin blustered. “Well, gol dang, Buddy Hodges says we don’t need women no way, no how.”

“I beg to differ with Buddy. Maybe it’s time we sat down and addressed the whole subject of the birds and bees.” Gil jumped up and paced the length of his office.

Both boys turned red and wiggled uncomfortably in their chairs. Gaze locked on his toes, Dustin again spoke first. “Buddy told us where babies come from. He ‘splained exactly what happens in the mating barn.” The boy rolled his eyes. “Me’n Rusty made a pact. Ain’t neither of us ever gonna get married. All that gruntin’ and squealin’ is pure disgusting.”

Gil’s jaw sagged. Tugging at his earlobe, he stomped out to get a cup of coffee and look for Ben. The old wrangler was nowhere to be found. Sly old dog. Gil remembered he’d been thirteen when he and his dad had a man-to-man chat. Thirteen had been too late, but damn—nine—they were still babies.

Determined to meet his obligation head-on, he returned to the office and took the bull by the horns, so to speak. But after stumbling through generalities as best he could while the boys fidgeted and asked to be excused to go to the bathroom three times each, Gil gained a new respect for his father, who hadn’t pussyfooted around the subject of sex. Nor did Gil doubt that Buddy Hodges had been more graphic in his portrayal. Gil only hoped he’d corrected some of Buddy’s gross misconceptions.

Weighing each word, Gil realized it was damned uncomfortable trying to explain the more heartwarming aspects of sex when it’d been so long he’d almost forgotten them himself. As it turned out, his sons understood a whole lot more about the mating ritual than Gil wanted to imagine. They apparently also knew that a couple of women in town had boldly invited their dad to sleep over. And that friends had tried to set him up for more than dinner a few times when he’d gone out of town on business. It appeared the twins had thrown a monkey wrench in some of those trips by developing planned illnesses. Why, the little devils—Not that Gil would have indulged in any one-night stands with virtual strangers, but he’d believed the boys sick on those occasions. The thought of how easily they’d manipulated him made Gil a little sick.

He plodded through the rest of his explanations and finally touched on a gentleman’s code of conduct before calling a halt to their chat. Then he sent the boys crying to their room as punishment for the episode with Mrs. Robbins and the bats. “And there’ll be no TV for a week,” he shouted up the stairs. “When I get back from assessing the damage caused by those bats, I’ll draw up a list of chores. Maybe work will keep you out of mischief.” Their door slammed midsentence.

Damn. He’d never spanked his kids and didn’t intend to start now. Anyway, their most effective punishment was to be confined indoors on nice days; they hated that more than anything. They took it even harder if he happened to be home. As a rule Gil didn’t believe in retroactive punishment, but this time he’d make an exception. And they’d better believe he meant business.

Gil plucked his Stetson from the hat rack. Normally he found it best to take care of all unpleasantness at once. Like it or not, he had to go see the Robbins woman. Hell, he’d stood at the barn door last night and watched her walk into that cottage—into who knew what kind of mess while he’d cogitated over some damned library book. The book. Gil snapped his fingers. What better excuse to go calling this early?

Shifting the book from hand to hand on the short walk to the cottage, Gil worked out his speech. Something he hadn’t counted on was finding his ex-farrier outside on her hands and knees weeding a colorful profusion of fall flowers. He stopped short of the picket fence as his stomach fought his morning coffee. No one had planted flowers at the Lone Spur since his mother passed away—the year he turned sixteen. Without her constant loving care, the gardens had withered and died. Until now, Gil hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the bright colors or the sweet aroma that used to greet him.

The sight before him hit Gil hard and stole what little defense he had mustered on behalf of his sons. “You’re wasting your time,” he growled, slipping through the gate. “If the drought doesn’t get them, the deer that feed here at night will.”

Liz jerked around in surprise. She hadn’t heard his footsteps. Removing her gloves, she wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. Lord, he did have a cleft in his chin. How had she missed seeing it last night? It softened his straight eyebrows and angular features. The effect had Liz throwing up her guard. “Not to worry, Mr. Spencer. I won’t charge you for the plants or for the spring bulbs I already planted.” She stood and dusted the knees of her jeans. “Have you brought my wages?”

“Uh…no.” Gil took off his hat and moved from one foot to the other, remembering the book. “Your daughter left this in the barn. I didn’t think you’d want to lose it…By the way, is she all right?” He squinted at the door. “I, uh…Is that her I hear crying?”

Liz glared at him. “Yes.”

“Not from a bat bite, I hope. God, I’m sorry. I just got wind of the twins’ latest escapade. Rest assured, Mrs. Robbins, they will pay. We’d better quit jawing, and I’ll drive you to town. A bat bite is nothing to fool with.”

Lizbeth plucked the book from his hand and marched up the porch steps. “Melody slept through my awardwinning bat dance. She’s sobbing her heart out because I finally told her we’re leaving.”

Once again Gil suffered remorse. No matter how hard he tried to shelter his sons from the fallout of his divorce, their lives had changed. But the twins probably still had more continuity day to day than Melody Robbins did tagging after the damned rodeo.

Not given to snap decisions, Gil made one. “Stay,” he blurted. “Through the school year at least. I’ll hold off putting out feelers for a new farrier until mid-May.” Considering where they’d left things yesterday, Gil thought his offer generous.

“What?” Spots of red blazed on Liz’s cheeks. “You propose that I let Melody make friends, and then you have the nerve to suggest I put her through this again in May? What’s really behind your benevolence, Spencer? Are all the good farriers taken?”

“I haven’t checked. Look, I’m trying to do the decent thing.”

“A belated attack of conscience?” Liz laughed. “Touching, I’m sure. But all I want from you is my pay. And I’d appreciate cash.”

“Dammit, the offer’s got nothing to do with conscience. I sure as hell won’t beg you to stay.” He didn’t know why he’d weakened in the first place. Insufferable woman!

It didn’t help Gil’s mood to have three of his best wranglers ride in off the range just then and pounce on him, all three willing to plead Mrs. Robbins’s case. How they’d heard so quickly that he’d fired her Gil hadn’t a clue. Sometimes he thought ranch gossip traveled on the wind.

“Check out the shoes she made for Firefly, boss. This dang horse always shuffled before,” exclaimed Clayton Smith, one of Gil’s steadiest hands.

However, Gil noticed that today even Clay had on his Sunday shirt and that he kept darting shy glances toward the farrier. In her favor, she didn’t comment or do anything to solicit Clayton’s endorsement.

It was obvious to Gil that Yancy Holbrook had also slicked himself up for this occasion. Gil almost choked on Yancy’s cologne when the man brought his gelding over for Gil to inspect shoes he claimed Liz had fashioned to fit a slight deformity.

The third wrangler in the trio wasn’t any big surprise. Luke Terrill was a flirt, a ladies’ man, although not as blatant as Macy Rydell. Today, however, Terrill sported a fresh haircut, a newly trimmed mustache and laundry-creased jeans. Though he spoke last, Gil pegged him as the ringleader in today’s mission. Luke got right to the point.

“The lady forges a fine shoe, boss. But more important to us lonesome wranglers, she’s a dang sight easier on the eyes than any farrier we’ve ever had. Fire her, and some of us might just mosey on down the road, too.”

It was a matter of pride with Gil that he had the reputation of treating his hands fairly. Plus, he paid aboveaverage wages. Cowboys lined up to work here. The Lone Spur rarely had an opening because the men he hired usually stayed. He didn’t take kindly to being backed into a corner over an administrative decision.

Gil smoothed a palm down the nose of Luke’s strawberry roan. “I’d hate to lose you, Luke, but it’s your choice. My CPA’s got the ranch checkbook in town this week. You wanta pick up your gear and meet me at his office in a couple of hours, I’ll cut you a check. Same goes for anyone else who’s got a hankering to leave.”

From the way Luke turned white, then red and back to white again, it was clear he’d hoped to bluff his way past Gil.

The tension between the two men grew and spread to the others. Even the horses shifted restlessly. Liz knew the gauntlet had been thrown. She blanked her expression, wishing Luke hadn’t put her in the middle. Although, in all fairness, Spencer had given the men wiggle room to keep their jobs and still save face.

On the rodeo circuit, where men’s egos were bigger than their hat size and belt buckles combined, a challenge of this nature always ended in a brawl. Liz had learned to keep quiet. Too many times she’d seen situations in which a woman tried to mediate, only to have a fist fight erupt. She reached for the screen door. Let them bay at the moon. By nightfall, she’d be history here. Unexpectedly the door flew out of her hand and Melody hurtled out. She threw her arms around her mother’s waist and sobbed. “I saw you and Mr. Spencer talkin’. Didja tell him we don’t want to leave, Mom? Say please. You told me ‘please’ always works.”

Liz’s heart wilted. Dropping to one knee, she gathered Melody into her arms. “Honey…” she said brokenly. But no explanation made its way to her tongue. Talk about egos. Gil Spencer had offered a reprieve and she’d turned him down flat. True, it had only been for nine months, but that was nine months in which to check out other jobs in the area. Liz hadn’t really considered Melody’s feelings when she’d thrown Spencer’s offer back in his face to salve her own pride. Now she had to eat her words.

Straightening, Liz lifted Melody’s chin. “Dry your eyes,” she said in a voice that carried. “Mr. Spencer brought back the library book you left in the barn. And…he asked me to shoe some horses in the east pasture. Hurry, go saddle Babycakes. I doubt he’s one to pay his farriers to stand around.”

The wranglers were quick to jump on the out Liz provided. Crowding Gil, they asked why he hadn’t said in the first place that he’d rehired her. The three men lost no time making tracks out of Liz’s yard. If Gil hadn’t been so dumbfounded, he might have laughed.

Liz let Melody work through her excitement without comment. She felt Spencer’s eyes boring holes in her back and heard him dusting his Stetson rhythmically against his lean thigh. She didn’t turn to meet his gaze until Melody had dashed off to the barn to saddle her pony. Actually Liz waited another moment to see if the cadence of the tapping changed from irritation to resignation. It didn’t. So she fixed a smile on her lips before facing him.

Tap, tap, tap. “What happened to ‘not on your life’?”

Liz tossed her head defiantly. “I changed my mind.”