Trouble At Lone Spur (10 page)

The way he’d said her name sent a chorus of vibrations along her limbs. Liz crossed her arms and massaged the soft flannel of her gown’s long sleeves. “I didn’t mean to stare. Has anyone ever told you that your eyes are a collage of colors?” she asked dreamily. “Probably not,” she muttered when he choked on a bite.

She leapt up and thumped him on the back. “Hey, sorry for making you listen to all my woes.”

Gil pushed his now empty plate aside and stood. “Frustration, grief—they gotta go somewhere.” He took her hand, dropped it at once and reached quickly for the knob to the back door. “I break horses. A lot of horses. And if that doesn’t do it, I set fence posts until I’m numb.”

She trailed him to the door, a frown wrinkling her brow. “Yes, but I pound the daylights out of a ton of iron. Mr. Spencer,” she said, feeling they’d circled back to an employer-employee standing. “I wouldn’t want my story getting out. It’s important for the wranglers to see me as a professional. As a farrier and not as a woman.”

“Everybody who works on the Lone Spur calls me Gil.”

Shivering in the doorway, Liz looked down at the toes of her fuzzy slippers. A stab of conscience had her darting a furtive glance toward the barns and corrals. She doubted any of the hands were lurking there at this hour, but what would the men think if one of them did see her saying good-night to their boss in her nightgown?

“It’s very late,
Mr. Spencer,
” she muttered, quickly withdrawing. “Good night.”

“Gil,” he said again as the door closed in his face. And he stood there even when he’d heard the lock engage.
Damn,
he thought. Talk about damaging tales—what would happen if Rafe or the doc saw him leaving Lizbeth Robbins’s place this late at night? Whirling, Gil peered at the foaling barn where a light still burned. Considering how difficult Lady Belle’s delivery had been, something could have gone wrong with her or the weaker foal—something that might have sent Rafe in search of him at the house. And if the foreman hadn’t found him in his bed, what then?

Double damn!
Gil had known from the minute he laid eyes on her that Lizbeth Robbins was going to cause trouble at the Lone Spur. He chanted the reminder like a litany as he circumvented the silent bunkhouse and rechecked the foaling barn. But Lady Belle and her babies were alone, all of them fine. Phew. Gil breathed easier. He didn’t ever want the men whispering, pitying him again, the way they had when Ginger took off with Avery Amistad.

Nice as tonight’s interlude had been, Gil wasn’t one to fool himself—he’d just eaten his last midnight snack with the Lone Spur’s farrier. Trudging up the two flights of stairs to his bed, he did everything humanly possible to comply with her wishes, to think of her as a professional, not a woman. It’d be easier if he didn’t keep hearing the lonesome wail of her guitar, or if the way she looked in that voluminous white nightgown would quit playing behind his closed eyelids.

Gilman Spencer had made at least one decision by the time the morning sun blazed through his east window. He was going to stay the hell away from his farrier, by damn, at least until May. By then, he’d be sure to have her replacement hired. When he rose, bleary-eyed, the first thing he did was draw a big black X through October thirty-first on his wall calendar. This would mark the beginning of a new regimen, with the chief task of avoiding Lizbeth Robbins. Day by day he’d get through, just as he had following the breakup with Ginger.

True to his word, he made it to the end of day one without laying eyes on Lizbeth. He knocked off early to shower and get ready to take the boys to the Halloween play. Gil’s eyes still burned from lack of sleep. He’d sooner fight a bobcat than socialize tonight. All his friends from the neighboring ranches would be there, and
Gil expected they’d rag on him about his latest hire. What if they badgered him to introduce her? Scowling, he dropped in on the twins to hurry them along.

“Dustin!” he exclaimed, aghast. “You can’t wear that shirt. It’s about two sizes too small. And the pants are miles too short.”

“I wore ‘em last year. It’s the only black stuff I got. I can’t be one of the headless horsemen less’n I got on a black shirt and pants.” He ended on a wail of desperation.

Gil stood in the doorway, hands bracketing his hips. “Did you just find this out today?”

Rusty stuck his head out from behind the closet door. “We got our parts a long time ago, Dad. He knew.”

“Shut up,” Dustin ordered. “I told Ben more’n a week ago.”

“So, Russell?” Gil faced his second son, trying to hide his mounting frustration. “What do you have to wear?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Gil’s brows shot up.

Rusty giggled. “Nothing special, I mean. I’m gonna be a ghost. My teacher’s bringing sheets. She took ‘em home to cut eyeholes.”

Gil felt his good mood slip away. “I’m sorry, Dustin, you’ll have to be a ghost, too. Change into your jeans and a shirt that fits. And step on it, or we’ll be late.”

“Not gonna! Not gonna!” Dusty stamped a foot. “I ain’t gonna be no weenie ghost. The headless horsemen are cool. We already made our horses!”

“Dad,” Rusty howled, “ghosts aren’t weenies. Tell him they’re not.” He shoved his brother against the bed.

Gil’s jaw went slack. Violence was so untypical of Rusty. God, was he losing all control over his sons’ behavior? Lizbeth’s words from last night flashed through
his head like the neon beer sign hanging downstairs over his bar. Hell, he’d sooner chug a six-pack of Red Dog than ask to borrow those child-psychology books of hers. And he was a two-beer-limit man.

About the time Dustin hauled back and slugged his brother in the eye, Gil jerked them both up by their shirt collars and dangled them like a mother cat does her kittens.

Ben Jones limped into the room. “What’s all the racket?” The old man struggled to catch his breath. “Oh, you’re here, Gil. I thought these two was killin’ each other.”

“Ben. Dustin claims he told you he needed black pants and shirt for this shindig tonight. Did he?”

The leathery face fell. “Danged if he didn’t. I wrote it down to tell you. But I plumb forgot.”

He looked so guilt-ridden, Gil was afraid he’d have a stroke. “Never mind. A man’s allowed to make a mistake now and then.” Trouble was, they both knew there’d been more than a few lately. Deciding he’d have to deal with the problem when he had more time and less stress, Gil steepled his fingers. “We have two choices, fellas. Stay home.” He paused to let that option sink in. “Or,” he said softly, “Dustin can wear a pair of newer jeans and a navy blue shirt. You have two minutes to decide. What’ll it be?”

It took less than a minute for Dustin to opt for the jeans. Both boys seemed to know their dad had been pushed to the limit. Surprisingly, when they piled in the Suburban, tough guy Dustin dropped a remark that floored Gil. “If we had a mom, ‘stead of Ben, this wouldn’t a happened. The other horsemen all have moms who bought them the right stuff to wear.”

For the second time within an hour, Lizbeth’s prophetic words regarding his sons rattled Gil’s composure. As if having her words smack him in the face wasn’t bad enough, he drove down the lane and saw her standing with her daughter under the old oak tree. The hood was up on her blue pickup, and she appeared to be fiddling with the engine. Gil had never seen her in a dress before—a summery thing with little straps that left her shoulders bare. What was she doing, working on a car in a floaty pink dress? It was fall, dammit. Once the sun set tonight she’d freeze.

Rusty craned his neck as they went by. “Looks like Mrs. Robbins has car trouble, Dad.”

Gil slowed but didn’t stop. After all, she’d said not to treat her like a woman. He hunched his shoulders.
Was it any wonder Dustin had an attitude?
Gil winced. Again Rusty pricked his conscience.

“Dad, aren’t ya gonna see if she needs help? Mrs. Robbins has got most of the costumes for the play.”

Shoot and sugar!
Gil reached the end of the lane and did a U-turn. He swung in close to the ailing truck and stepped out of his vehicle. “Problems, Mrs. Robbins?” he asked, half under his breath. But she heard.

“Water pump, I’m afraid.” Liz wiped her hands on a remnant of towel. “I’d hoped it was a hose and I could manufacture one. But I think the pump itself is shot.” She slipped an arm around Melody, who’d started to cry.

“Dad,” Dustin whined, slumping lower in his seat, “It’s bad enough I ain’t dressed right. Now we’re gonna be late, too.”

Gil’s hesitation was brief. His sigh was longer. “Get out, boys, and give me a hand. We’ll transfer all the costumes into the back of our rig and give Melody and her mom a lift into town.” Gil could practically hear the
smart-aleck remarks his rancher friends would make when they got a load of the five of them driving through town—all cozylike. He dared not even
think
any of the swear words crowding his mind, lest he spill a doozy in front of the boys.

Rusty scrambled out, brimming with enthusiasm. Sullen, Dustin ignored his dad’s orders.

“Shake a leg, Dustin,” Gil reminded him none too gently.

Each time Liz carted a load of costumes to the Spencers’ vehicle, she darted a sidelong look at Dusty, who only slumped lower in his seat. Partway through the process, she poked her head in his window. “Aren’t you feeling well, Dustin?”

He muttered something she didn’t quite catch.

“What’s that? You don’t like your shirt? I think it’s quite handsome.” She was glad to hear it wasn’t a bad stomachache, as was common with kids about to perform.

“It’s s’pose to be black. So’er my pants,” he grumbled, kicking his feet aimlessly against the back seat and picking at a shirt button held on by a thread.

“Oh.” She straightened, darting Gil a puzzled look.

“He’s fine,” Gil snapped. “Everyone there’ll be watching their own kids. I’ll bet you no one even notices.”

“Will, too.” Dustin gave a final twist and the button came off in his hand. “The guys’ll all laugh at me. And you and Ben don’t care.”

Liz noticed Gil’s jaw bunch as he spun and went back for another load. When he returned, she caught his arm. “Before we moved, a friend gave me a box of clothes she thought Melody might grow into. I know there are two or
three pairs of black jeans and probably at least one black shirt. What size does Dustin wear?”

“Seven, jeans. Eight or ten in a shirt. What about that, son? Do you want to take a quick look-see?” Gil looked hopeful, if not relieved.

“Ain’t gonna wear no girl’s pants,” Dustin declared.

Liz laughed. “I wouldn’t have offered them, Dustin. My friend had four boys, and these clothes came from Patrick, her youngest. It won’t hurt to check them out while your father finishes here. I know right where the box is in my closet.”

Dustin climbed out at his brother’s urging and shuffled after Liz. She led the way to her bedroom, never saying a word. After the incidents with the snake and the bats, she figured he knew his way to her room. With luck, this might change the tide and put them on better terms.

By the time Dusty appeared in the doorway, Liz had laid two pairs of nearly new black jeans on the bed and two black Western shirts complete with black pearl snaps. She noticed the boy’s eyes sparkle.

“Wow. Those are cool shirts.” He reached for the one with red piping. The other had black piping, but it also had a small black rose appliquéd on the pocket. She could tell that he wasn’t one for flowers.

He’d almost unbuttoned his shirt when he suddenly stopped. “You ain’t gonna watch, are you?”

“Heavens no!” Liz raised both palms and backed from the room. “Try on the newer pants first. I think they’re the right size. And hurry,” she called. “The teachers will be panicked about those costumes as it is.”

He was fast. Faster than Liz had anticipated after all the times she’d had to nag Melody. “Looks good. How do they feel?” She had to put her hands behind her back to keep from combing tufts of his hair that stood on end.

“Spiffy. Thanks, Mrs. Robbins.” His grin was her reward. She was amused by the way he swaggered over to the Suburban. Rusty and Melody were already buckled into the back seat. Dustin charged ahead of Liz to show off his finery, snagging the center. That left Liz next to Gil, although she’d planned to sit with the children.

“You kids keep an eye on those pumpkin frames,” she cautioned, trying to hide her nervousness as Gil hurried to open the door for her.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, thoroughly thrown when Gil not only handed her in, but pulled out her seat belt, which hooked to the wall above and behind her right shoulder. He smiled then, so close it froze Liz in her tracks. Twice she fumbled the fastener.

“It’s me who should be thanking you,” he said quietly before he slammed her door and traversed the front of the vehicle to climb in. “I hated it when my dad started a sentence with ‘When I was a boy.’ But I swear, when I was their age, I didn’t give a damn about the color of my clothes.” He started the engine, smiling back at his son. “I have to say you made his day—and mine. You see, he’s a whole different kid when he’s content. I just wish I knew what comes over him at times.”

His smile faded after he pulled out. Never big on talking while driving, Gil was uneasy about what she might expect of him in the way of conversation. It wasn’t just Lizbeth; he felt the same when one of his friends’ wives cornered him at gatherings. Gil knew horses inside out, and weather as it affected the land. He could quote the current price of grain, but he knew next to nothing about art, novels or music—subjects dear to the hearts of most women he’d met.

As the silence grew, Gil cast a furtive glance at his passenger. He was surprised to find her looking relaxed.
Ginger had always gabbed nonstop whenever they traveled. Furthermore, she’d bugged him if he didn’t answer her quickly enough. Apparently Lizbeth was different. No apparently about it. She
was
different.

He settled back. Well, maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad. Except, what happened when they arrived together, looking like a couple? Would she follow him around? Did offering her a ride constitute being her escort for the evening? Gil had planned to deliver his sons into the care of their separate classrooms, follow up on last week’s conference with their teachers, then go hang out with other ranchers. Most smoked, so the group gathered behind the gymnasium. Gil had never developed a taste for tobacco, but he tolerated it for friendship’s sake.