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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?”
If she hadn’t been occupied inspecting his stall setup, Liz might not have answered with such honesty. She hunkered down beside where he knelt to lend a hand with the wrap and spoke without thinking. “You mean besides the snake in my bed? Or emptying my cookie jar on more than one occasion and then denying it? Or when they interrupted my work to claim their cat was caught in a crevice? I went to investigate, got down on all fours with my nose to the ground, and lo and behold, the furry ball I reached in and grabbed turned out to be a skunk. The devious little rats were quite disappointed to find out I could run so fast. And that’s what they pulled the first week I was here.”
Disbelieving at first, Gil did nothing while she finished the wrap. Then he reconsidered. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Robbins. I’ll speak with them and withhold their privileges.”
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.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c84c619f-3afd-583e-bfe8-44a699ad8ae9)
LIZ 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.
THE 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.”
