Trouble At Lone Spur (14 page)

“Yeah, right!” A grin bowed her mouth. “And old single moms.”

His full-bodied laughter bounced off the ceiling. “Touché.”

Liz’s heart gave a funny hitch. Laughter etched appealing creases in his lean cheeks. A playful Gilman Spencer had chased away the blues that always came with a gloomy day. Suddenly Liz underwent a painful collapse of her jubilation. Corbett had been the only man to have that effect on her. Until now, he’d been the only man to provide a total infusion of sunshine into her life. Oh, she’d known that someday she’d probably take another mate—so Melody would have a father. Liz just hadn’t expected to meet anyone who’d brighten those empty corners of her life, the way Corbett had. The ease with which the man seated on her left had accomplished it left her feeling terribly disloyal.

Her abrupt withdrawal reminded Gil of a night cereus at daybreak. Like the pretty white blossom his mother had once let him stay awake to observe, Lizbeth folded in on herself—the light gone from her eyes. Unfortunately they’d reached the second lean-to, and she bounded out of the vehicle before Gil could ask why.

And afterward they were too busy. Although the wind had definitely slackened, and also the sleet, they had more difficulties with this second group of animals. A young unbranded mare had given birth in the past few days to a long-legged colt. The mare was more than half-wild and nipped at Gil when he tried to get close. “Dammit,” he muttered, risking the mare’s teeth again. “Her colt’s gonna die if we don’t get him warmed up.”

“He’s the son of your rogue stallion,” Liz breathed, moving silently up behind Gil. “Why don’t you toss out the feed and let me try coaxing him? If I can get the little guy on the trailer, the mom will follow us, don’t you think?”

“She won’t let you. And he’s so weak, he’ll fall off.”

“I’ll ride back there with him. Do you have some sort of blanket?”

“Yeah, but you’re not riding in an open trailer. Even if that wild mare doesn’t trample you, you’ll freeze.”

“I won’t. Please, Gil? He’s worth a little frostbite, isn’t he?”

Gil had no defense against her pleading eyes. “All right.
If
you catch him, and
if
the mare follows. Only I’ll ride back there with him and you’ll drive home.”

His statement had a ring of finality that did not invite argument. Liz inclined her head and handed him her pitchfork.

Gil stared at it a good two seconds, wondering why he felt as if he’d been seduced by the devil. He didn’t give her an iceberg’s chance in hell of catching that little varmint. And dammit, she’d probably get herself horse-bit to boot. As he spread the hay, Gil warmed to the idea of treating her. Rubbing in salve could be damned erotic. Then he pictured teeth marks marring Lizbeth’s pale skin, and he promptly went back to tell her she wasn’t to fool with a wild mare.

Once again Gil had misjudged his farrier. Lizbeth already had the colt on the flatbed wrapped in two lap robes she’d found behind the Suburban’s back seat. The mare stood beside him and sniffed at the blankets suspiciously—but showed no sign of wanting to bite. “Well, I’ll be,” was Gil’s only comment as Liz adroitly switched places with him and went to start the vehicle.

On the drive home, he not only froze his fanny but had to balance the colt and put up with fish faces made by all three kids, who had their noses pressed to the rear window. Gil did his best to look content. Somehow he imagined that the twins, if not Melody, kept up a running commentary on his tribulations for Liz’s entertainment.

Apart from a near mishap—when Gil lost his grip on the gangly colt and almost tumbled them both off the trailer—things went fairly well. Still, he was stiff, cold and miserable by the time Liz braked in front of the barn. And she was entirely too cheerful, hopping out, dancing around, light as one of the snowflakes that had begun slapping him in the face.

“You okay?” She laughed, trying to catch one of the soft fluffy flakes on her tongue.

“Abso-damn-lutely!” But of course he wasn’t. His teeth nearly cracked when he jumped down, and Gil feared his joints would never work again—which turned out to be the least of his worries. Now that they had the renegades, the mare refused to set foot in the barn. Yet the minute they took her baby inside, she reared and battered at the door with both front feet.

Both Gil and Liz were afraid she’d break a leg or hurt one of the children, who were laughing and chasing around in the snow.

Liz stuck her head back outside. “Kids! I know you’re excited. But you’re scaring the mare. Why don’t you three go feed the birds? I have half a bag of birdseed under the kitchen sink.”

“I know where it is,” Melody said, sounding important. “But you can help me throw it under the trees,” she informed the twins.

With all this discussion of feeding horses and birds, the twins immediately claimed they were starved.

Gil gazed at their empty house. A sigh escaped his lips, melting a lazy snowflake or two. “Ben cleaned out the fridge before he took off for his sister’s. I suppose there’s some sort of leftovers in the freezer.”

“Leftovers—on Thanksgiving? Yuck, Dad!”

“Boys, boys!” Liz clapped her hands. “You’ll have turkey, I promise. I bought a twenty-pound bird. Please, let your dad and me finish up here, then we’ll eat.”

Amid high fives and a loud chorus of “All right!” the three children scampered off toward the cottage.

Gil’s sigh was bigger this time. “You sure speak with authority and they mind you. Maybe I’ll hire a drill sergeant, instead of a housekeeper.”

She clicked her heels and saluted. “Does that mean if I say, ‘Hut, two, three,’ the mare will fall in and march into the barn?”

“Stand aside. Let a wily old horseman get this show on the road. I’ll prop the door open, and you put that colt in the first stall yonder.” He tipped his hat. “I’ll rattle the food, like so. See?” He grinned as the mare poked a wary head inside. “I just hope she doesn’t tear out the side of the barn making her getaway.”

“Surely not. When she sees oats—and that her baby looks warmer…”

“I’ll even add a carrot or two. But dammit, Lizbeth, you can’t let yourself get so attached. These are horses, not human beings. You sound as if you think they can reason.”

Taking tiny backward steps, she went beyond the stall door. “Maybe it’s not exactly reasoning,” she said stubbornly. “But instinct in caring for their young is shared by all mothers in the animal kingdom.”

Gil dumped oats into the feed trough and climbed a ladder to reach a rack of carrots suspended overhead. When he landed beside her and slapped the vegetables into her hands, his lips had taken on a harsh set. “You’re asking the wrong man to buy that philosophy. My ex-wife has no instinct for mothering. I have to track her down three weeks in advance of the twins’ birthday and remind her to send cards.” Turning, he walked away.

Liz heard the heartbreak in his voice. She wanted to call him back—to say that he must be mistaken, that no mother could possibly forget her kids. But she knew Ginger Lawrence too well to dispute him. The sad thing was that he still held all the hurt and anger inside. Her eyes filled with tears that Gil Spencer couldn’t shed.

The carrots were shredded tops in her hands and her eyes were dry when Liz rejoined Gil outside. All the same, her heart ached for him and his sons. Corbett might have left her in a financial bind and to bear their child alone. But he’d laid a foundation of love before he died. It didn’t sound as if the Spencer family had many good memories to get them through bad times.

Liz was determined to do what she could to change things. She began by insisting they needed a candlelit Thanksgiving supper. Those, tough Spencer males could do with a bit of romantic atmosphere, she decided.

Catching the spirit, Gil offered to bring the food from her cottage. “I’ve got a sideboard full of china and silver that belonged to my mother. Let me clean up first, then I’ll dig it out.”

It was on the tip of Liz’s tongue to tell him she’d do it—until she saw by the wistful look in his eye that he wanted to help. “All right. But I’ll bring the food. I need to go home and shower.”

Gil’s generator was a godsend. Her cottage had a decided chill, and she nearly froze in a cold shower. By contrast, Gil’s home was cozy. Soon holiday odors permeated enough corners to entice the kids into the kitchen. Preparing the dinner was mostly a matter of reheating. Liz hummed while she set things to simmer.

“Do we get gravy?” Rusty asked as he peered into the various pots. “Mrs. Littlefield makes the
best
gravy. Ben’s always has a ton of lumps.”

Liz never made gravy. Corbett had watched his waistline, and Hoot and his pals worried about cholesterol. But how hard could it be?

She found out when they were all seated around the table. Her hasty concoction was so thick, lifting the spoon practically picked up the gravy boat, as well.

“This stuff’s like cement,” Dustin declared a moment after their napkins were unfurled.

“Shall we say grace?” Liz asked brightly.

“Bless the meat, damn the skin, turn over your plates and all begin,” Melody singsonged.

“Mel!” Liz blushed to the roots of her hair.

“Well, isn’t that what Hoot always says?”

“That doesn’t mean you’re allowed to repeat it.”

Rusty raised himself onto his knees. “I can’t see. And those candles stink. What happened to the lights? Did the generator quit?”

“No. Hush,” Gil scolded. “I think everything looks great.” Beaming at Liz, he passed her a steaming slab of white meat. “I guess the boys have forgotten last Thanksgiving. Ben caught a wild turkey—or a buzzard. Dang thing was full of buckshot.”

Liz tested her meat with her knife. “Oh, no,” she wailed, “this isn’t quite done.” Probably because she’d taken it out of the oven early.

Gil shrugged and cut around the really pink parts. He told the boys to eat.

Liz dug around on her plate. The dressing was cooked, and she knew the pies were fine. All in all it wasn’t quite a disaster; neither was it a roaring success. It might have been better if Gil hadn’t kept insisting everything was great. If he used that word one more time or if the boys bellyached about one more thing, Liz thought she’d scream. Remembering her earlier vow to bring positive change to the Spencers’ lives, she pasted a smile on her face and kept it there until she thought her face would break.

It was just as well that the power came on when it did, and that the boys and Gil dived for the TV to see the football game. Liz savored the peace and quiet of cleaning up.

“Melody fell asleep on the couch.” Gil popped into the kitchen at the end of third quarter. “Come watch the end of the game. One of the teams is my old alma mater. When it’s over, I’ll see you back to the cottage.”

She would have gone along, had he not praised her illfated meal yet again. “No sense in my trying to play catch-up with the game,” she said a bit testily. “I think I’ll go check on our two babies. Uh…I mean,
yours,
” she stammered.

Bracketing her face with two weather-roughened hands, he said, “You got it right the first time. If not for you, neither of those foals would see daylight. They’re yours when we wean them, Lizbeth.”

Her irritation melted like the rum sauce had over her warm mince pie. Not because he was giving her two expensive pieces of horseflesh but because of how he said her name. He had a way of pronouncing it that sent the hot blood racing to her toes. She couldn’t help it. She rose
to the tips of those toes and kissed him full on the mouth—intending to end with an impassioned thank-you and be on her way to the barn.

At the touch of her lips, Gil’s palms slid around her neck. His fingers tunneled beneath her thick curls, and his mouth opened, eliciting an entirely different kind of kiss.

Surprised and then pleased, Liz accepted the honeyed investigation of his tongue. Her hands circled his lean waist, and she settled her slim body neatly between his splayed legs. It’d been so long—too long—since she’d enjoyed the feel of a man’s burgeoning erection. And Gil’s was instantaneous. A slow suffusion of heat started low in Liz’s stomach. It spread deliciously outward, weakening her limbs.

Gil flamed like a torch. He couldn’t remember when he’d last held a woman this close. Couldn’t remember when he’d wanted to—or when he’d wanted more than kisses. It seemed a lifetime since he’d thought that he would die if he didn’t bury himself in a woman’s softness—since he’d wanted to wring every bit of emotion from both of them—to end in a tangle of hot bodies and cool sheets. He wanted that now with Lizbeth Robbins, and he didn’t want to wait. Lifting her, he pressed her slight frame against the kitchen counter.

Suddenly airborne and weightless, Liz clung to Gil, her thighs circling his narrow hips. The rasp of denim on denim nearly sent her over the edge. She ripped open the pearl snaps down the front of his shirt. She wanted to feel the bronzed skin she’d so far only seen. Running her fingers through the crisp hair that fanned across his chest was almost her undoing.

The untimely arrival of his sons, coming to let him know the fourth quarter had started, shocked Gil back to reality. Dustin’s voice came at him through a red haze.

“Game’s on. Whatcha doin’, Dad? Is somethin’ wrong with Mrs. Robbins?”

Mrs. Robbins.
That cut through his passion fast. Gil plunked Liz unceremoniously on the counter, heedless of his mother’s good dishes. One saucer fell to the floor and broke while Gil endeavored to refasten his shirt and Liz blinked at him through luminous eyes.

She teetered on her precarious perch, taking longer than Gil to make the transition. When she finally did and quickly reached for the cupboard above her head, more of the dishes she’d stacked on the counter threatened to fall. “Your father’s helping me put these cups on the top shelf,” Liz said in what she thought was a remarkably calm voice. “Thanks for the boost,” she told Gil, all the while cringing at the skepticism lacing the twins’ silence. As well she might. For the top shelf was totally filled with the popcorn popper and the slow cooker. Nary a cup in sight.

Just then Melody wandered in, giving a sleepy yawn. “When are we goin’ home, Mom? I’m tired.”