Trouble At Lone Spur (17 page)

“Certainly not. But they do say to be aware of problems and try to help your kids resolve them.”

“How do you feel about my touching you?”

She waved a hand. “That’s hardly the point.”

“I think it’s very much the point,” he said curtly, making his way stiffly toward the door. “This is between you and me. Leave the boys out of it. I’ll handle my kids.”

Unhappily she watched him jerk the door open and leave in a huff. She could have called him back and answered his question, said how much she liked being touched by him. On the other hand, she would’ve thought he could recognize for himself that she turned to gumbo in his hands. What would it take to get through to that man? And what had happened to that firmly stated decision of his about not getting
involved?
Did he want to or didn’t he? She wasn’t a Ping-Pong ball, for goodness’ sake.

For the rest of the week Liz worked close to home. Her lessons with the boys went well, even though she insisted on doing her cooking at the cottage. The minute she saw
Gil drive in, she loaded the basket and sent the twins home. Every morning, the basket reappeared on her back porch, filled with clean dishes and accompanied by a terse note of thanks. Lord, she missed their casual visits. Should she be the first to try to bridge the rift? If only she had more experience in such matters…

By Friday a chilly wind had kicked up, and her scratchy throat grew worse. Not only was Liz hoarse when the school bus pulled in that afternoon, her hands and face were chapped and sore from spending so much time shoeing out in the weather. She had little patience when the boys complained about being forced to go back with her to the south pasture.
She
was the one with six horses left to shoe, not them.

Her lack of patience, she suspected later, was the catalyst that resulted in Melody’s cat, Mittens, ending up stuck in the top branches of the tallest oak tree. She’d only gone into the house for five minutes to get Melody changed into play clothes and hadn’t even realized the cat had escaped. The twins, already in jeans, were instructed to drop their book bags on their sun porch and come right back to the cottage.

Liz was positive that in the few minutes they were apart the boys had, out of spite, terrorized Mittens and chased the poor cat up the tree.

“We didn’t,” they denied, in the midst of Melody’s bawling and Liz’s frantic raspy cries of “Here, kitty, kitty. Nice, kitty. Come on, Mittens, there’s food inside.”

No amount of cajoling or rattling a box of dry cat food dislodged the frightened animal from her perch. After ten more minutes, by which time Liz’s voice had given out, she decided she’d have to personally rescue the cat.
Which is how she came to be at her worst when Suzette Porter, of the big bazooms, drove in.

The woman apparently spied the Spencer twins shivering beneath the spreading limbs of the oak. She stopped her silver-gray Mercedes and hopped out to check on the little dears.

Halfway up the tree, Liz was afforded a bird’s-eye view of everything happening below. The acoustics weren’t bad, either. Sound carried upward on the wind.

“Boys,” the newcomer cooed in a too-sweet voice. “Whatever are you doing standing out here in this freezing weather? Why aren’t you inside by the fire?”

Liz watched the woman wrap her thigh-length mink coat tight around her short winter white wool dress and stoop to look where Rusty pointed at the branches.

“I just learned about dear Ben’s accident,” she gushed. “Russell, are you saying the woman your father hired to care for you is up in that tree? I can’t believe your daddy would condone such behavior. Where is he, by the way?” She straightened and gazed toward the barn.

Liz found herself wishing Melody’s cat would take it upon himself to piddle instead of just yowl. The spitting feline crouched on a limb slightly out of Liz’s reach—but directly above their visitor’s salon-styled hair.

Dustin, the very same child who’d claimed at Halloween that Suzette Porter had her sights set on his father, pointed to the weanling barn and offered to go fetch Gil.

Let him,
thought Liz, creeping out on a swaying branch. “Cat,” she croaked, “I’m gonna wring your scrawny neck, and then I’m gonna start on a couple of boys.”

Unfortunately her words also carried. Melody sobbed harder and Rusty began to cry. All but clucking, Suzette Porter gathered the twins beneath her mink and announced
they should forget that horrible woman and go to the house for some of the chocolate cake she’d brought.

Liz made a lunge for the cat just as the Mercedes whizzed off. Having missed, she dug her fingernails into the bark and choked on diesel fumes. If that wasn’t indignity enough, the darned cat chose that moment to scamper across Liz’s head and down the tree.

She clung there, afraid to move a muscle, feeling like a monkey on display. Which was how she came to have such a clear view of Gil’s untimely return to his house.

Following what Liz would term an effusive greeting from Gil, Suzette Porter gestured toward the oak.

Hands on hips, he sauntered to the edge of his porch for a closer look.

Liz would be darned if she’d give him one inkling that anything was wrong. Ignoring her scratched palms, she released one hand and gave a carefree wave. She wasn’t so far away as to miss the amused pucker of Gil’s brow. Soon—but not soon enough in Liz’s estimation—the group, Gil included, turned their backs and waltzed back into the ranch house.

Left to find terra firma alone, Liz ached in every spot imaginable by the time she touched ground. All she could think of was taking a long soak in a nice hot bath. The hell with finishing those horses in the south pasture. Hobbling into the cottage, she grumbled to her now beaming child that it’d be a cloudy day in you-knowwhere before she took supper to Gilman Spencer and his lady friend. Let them eat cake!

“A
HH
.” L
IZ’S SIGH
of relief as she slid up to her neck in a steamy bath was cut off by someone pounding on the back door of the cottage. She tensed, hearing Melody scurry through the house. “No, hon,” she rasped. “Don’t…Mob’s in the tub.” Liz couldn’t help remembering the night Melody had escorted Macy Rydell into this very room when she’d been draped over the commode hanging wallpaper. Liz hadn’t set foot in here since without locking the door. It was locked—right?

“Lizbeth?”

Recognizing Gil Spencer’s resonant voice, Liz slid lower, covering what flesh she could with a ridiculously small loofah. No one said Lizbeth quite the way he did. Half formal, half caress. Why was he here? What did he do with Miss Kitten Britches? That was Hoot’s apt description of women who draped themselves in dead animals.

“Lizbeth? Are you all right?” The question was followed by a light tap. “Melody says your cold’s so bad you can hardly talk.

Liz croaked something that was meant to be “Go away.”

“You sound terrible. Why did you work outside today?”

Liz’s next attempt at speaking was less fruitful.

“I’m coming back in ten minutes with Ben’s cold remedy. I expect to find you in bed wrapped up in that white flannel thing you wear. The boys and I’ll fix soup or something for Melody and you, if you feel up to eating.”

“I hate it when you’re nice, Spencer.” For some reason—the steam perhaps—her voice had returned.

“Feisty again, eh? That’s more like it.” Gil smacked the flat of his hand against the door frame. “Rusty explained what happened with Melody’s cat. I’m sorry, Lizbeth. Mel said you’re all scraped from the bark. Why didn’t you send one of the boys to get me, or at least yell when you saw me on the porch? I thought you were clowning.”

Liz slid lower and rested her head against the back of the tub. The slightest movement of the water made her cuts sting, and she’d discovered a new bruise on her hip. “It was safer not to. Where’s your guest, addyway? Shouldn’t you be hobe entertaining?”

Gil pieced together her froggy histrionics. “Mrs. Porter had to leave. She
said
she wanted to help. But when I told her the floors needed scrubbing, she remembered a prior appointment. Lizbeth, I’d apologize for Dustin, but dammit…there’s no excuse. I honestly don’t know him lately. Normally he loves animals.”

Liz didn’t want to say that she thought Dustin’s aim was to drive her off the way he had the others. Since her feelings still felt bruised, she said nothing. Besides, she and Dustin needed to work things out on their own.

“I’m leaving now. Remember what I said about bed. I want to find you there when I get back.” His footsteps echoed along the hardwood floor of the hall.

Liz held her breath until the outer door slammed. Already her bathwater was cooling and her throat felt scratchier.

“Mommy, are you goin’ to bed before supper? I’m hungry.”

Hearing the plaintive quaver in her daughter’s voice, Liz sighed and pulled the plug. She stood up, and a shiver overtook her as she reached for a towel. “Mob’s getting out, sweedie.” Liz hated being sick. Melody worried so much. But who could blame her? Chasing the rodeo was like riding a roller coaster over shifting sand. Her psychology books said few children thrived on constant change; they needed a steady anchor.

Liz wondered if there was enough farrier work in Crockett County to support her and Melody if she free-lanced for small ranches. Come May, she’d have to find
something,
and she preferred to stay in this area, for her daughter’s sake. Unfortunately her time was limited as long as Melody attended elementary school—not an ideal situation for a farrier in business for herself. Lord, but life was complicated, she thought as she pulled the nightgown over her head. Not the gown Gil had suggested; this one had a pink background dotted with sprigs of roses. It was soft and comforting. Oh, how she wished she could just crawl into bed and make the world go away.

She’d no more than slipped into her fuzzy slippers and stepped into the hall than she heard a commotion in the kitchen. Shivering from the cooler air, she grabbed a robe and went to see what Melody was up to.

Two steps into the living room, and she tripped over a Hot Wheels track the Spencer twins were busy assembling. “What…?” The intended question began in bass, rose to alto and disappeared in a squeaky soprano. The
three children gaped. Dustin shuffled his feet and growled an apology. One intended to cover the cat caper, she guessed, as well as the near accident in her own living room.

Gil appeared in the kitchen archway. Their gazes met, skipped away and connected again. “I figured I could handle something simple, like heating canned vegetable soup and making microwaved hot dogs. How’s your throat?”

Liz gestured toward it with both hands, tried to speak and gave up with a helpless shrug.

“Detour past here on your way to bed. I’ve mixed you a shot of Ben’s snake oil. Guaranteed to cure what ails you.” He waved a tablespoon.

She picked her way across the room looking doubtful, stopping when Dustin declared, “Accordin’ to Ben, it’ll kill a cold and put hair on your chest at the same time.”

Liz tried to laugh, but it hurt.

“Ben tends to make up things to fit the circumstances. I’m sure he’d tell the ladies it would curl their hair. I checked once, and his concoction actually has less alcohol per dose than commercial cough syrups.”

“Okay,” Liz strained to whisper. “I’m never sick, so I have nothing on han—”

Gil had poured a thick substance from a mixing cup into a spoon, and he popped the spoon into her mouth before she’d finished speaking. “Sorry,” he said as her eyes began to water. “Tomorrow you’ll thank me.” On that prophetic note, he disappeared into the kitchen.

The whiskey burned a path the length of her throat between gasps. Her whole face puckered from the lemon. Fortunately the honey soothed and covered a bitter taste she thought might be Chittam. Through her tears, Liz
saw the boys gaze at her with interest. She tried to smile but figured at best it was a grimace.

Damn Gilman Spencer. He knew. He knew she couldn’t gag or spit it out in front of the kids. If she went to the kitchen now, she’d kill him. Instead, she ran to her bedroom. She had to let the last bit trickle down her throat, and by the time she’d kicked off her slippers, ripped back the covers and thrown herself into bed, Liz had to admit that she already felt better.

Gil glanced over his shoulder, expecting a rear attack as he rinsed the cup and spoon. The minute he heard her bedroom door slam, he felt guilty for not warning her. He’d wanted to strangle Ben after experiencing his first dose. But the stuff did help, and as Ben said, no use punishing your palate a sip at a time.

“Does your mom have some kind of serving tray?” Gil asked Melody after he’d called the kids and settled them at the table with soup and hot dogs.

“I dunno.” She shrugged.

“Where’s your bowl, Dad?” Dustin climbed to his knees and scanned the table.

Gil looked up from his inventory of a bottom cupboard. “I’ll eat with Lizbeth if I find trays.”

“In her bedroom?” his son demanded. “She’s wearin’ a nightgown.”

“She’s sick, dodo.” Rusty elbowed his brother.

It was a telling moment. Gil wrestled a pang of regret. Through no fault of their own, his sons had never seen him wait on a woman. It was way past time they did; Lizbeth had done a heap of nice things for them. Gil hadn’t realized how much he looked forward to ministering to her for a change. But what did it say about him that he’d never done anything like this for Ginger? Those days, he’d skipped more meals than he’d eaten—and
she’d been completely involved in training the buckskin he’d given her as a wedding gift. Once she got the horse trained, she’d spent all her spare time traipsing around the state to rodeos, only coming home when she needed money for entry fees.

He didn’t often have free cash then. But he’d managed to find it—somehow. Especially when she met him at the door wearing tiny scraps of black lace. It had taken him a while to see that she was using him as a means to an end.

Hell, he would have given her the money; he wanted to give his wife more. The only thing Ginger coveted that he hadn’t given her was the gold-spur key chain that had belonged to his grandfather. Outside of the property, it’d been the most valuable thing he owned at the time they split. As it was, she’d done her level best to break him. Fortunately he hadn’t had much stock then, and his land was mostly unimproved. Today she’d have walked away with a helluva lot more.

Gil stared at the set of three nested bamboo trays he’d finally unearthed. All these years, and he was just beginning to get over that feeling of being used. The boys knew how he’d felt. Did Dustin see history repeating itself with Lizbeth?

Impossible. Gil had never met a less designing woman in his life. He knew that with Lizbeth, he could let go of the past. It was what he needed, what he intended—though it might take his sons longer to come around. As Nan Littlefield had so bluntly put it, what he had to do was set the example. And there was no time like the present to start.

Aware of Dusty’s disapproval, Gil filled two trays with food. “The door will be open, son,” he said as he balanced a tray in each hand. “Give a yell when you’re ready
for more soup or hot dogs. I don’t want you kids getting burned helping yourselves.”

Hands full, Gil wasn’t able to knock on Lizbeth’s bedroom door. It sat ajar, and he nudged it open with a hip. When he turned, a clever greeting fizzled on his tongue. She’d fallen asleep. Her face was flushed a soft pink beneath a dark cap of tumbled curls that made her look scarcely older than Melody. A scrawny cat with big feet took up half her pillow. As Gil paused, his gizzard turning to pulp, the calico cat opened a lazy eye, yawned and flicked his tail.

He hovered in the doorway on the balls of his feet until both soup bowls rattled against their respective trays. Except for a gallery of photographs showing Melody’s growth on one wall, Lizbeth’s room was sadly spartan. An iron bedstead sagged. A two-drawer dresser and unmatching nightstand both had books propping them up. Gil didn’t think even Goodwill would take the rickety straight-backed chair. Only a bright cheery oval rug looked new. It picked up colors from the frilly curtains. Clean wallpaper with faint stripes in the same shades as the rug covered a multitude of imperfections.

Gil wanted to snatch her from this room. He wanted to whisk her away—wanted to lavish her with
things.
Nice things. Pretty things. She always seemed so happy Gil had never guessed she had so little.

“Gil?” Liz leaned up on an elbow and stifled a yawn. She tried to clear the cobwebs from her brain and attach a reason to his forbidding look. She sat up abruptly, dislodging the cat, and retied the neck of her gown. “What time is it?” She reached for a small plastic Mickey Mouse clock she’d placed on the nightstand beside her only framed picture of Corbett. “Six o’clock? Is that a.m. or p.m.?”

“Evening. Don’t you remember you have a bad cold? I said I’d bring you a bowl of soup.”

The day’s events came flooding back. She felt her cheeks with the back of her hand and then rubbed her throat. “I remember that rot-gut tarantula juice you stuffed down me earlier. What kind of Texas lightning did you dump in my bowl of soup?”

Her sarcasm dragged a laugh from him as he watched her scoot upright. “Eat it and see, Ms. Sassy Mouth. I should rate a thank-you for giving you back your voice.”

She accepted the tray he held out, her eyes suddenly aglow with mischief. “Beware. I make a green-chili cheeseburger guaranteed to singe your eyebrows. I rarely get mad, Spencer. I
always
get even.”

“Forewarned is forearmed.” He hunkered down on his heels beside her bed, as he might have done by a camp fire.

“I’ll move over and you can sit on the end of the bed. That looks uncomfortable.”

Gil cast a nervous glance toward the door, expecting to see Dusty’s scowl of disapproval.

“Looking for help?” she teased. “What? You think I bite?”

“How’s the soup?” he asked, unwilling to cast his son in a less favorable light than she already viewed him.

“Good. I never get waited on. I could get used to this.”

Setting his bowl aside, Gil picked up his hot dog and broke off a piece to feed the cat. “I can name at least five of my wranglers who’d fall all over themselves for the opportunity to jump at your beck and call.”

Liz’s cold left her chuckle slightly rusty. “A woman who wants to wallow in velvet doesn’t choose a cowboy. They want a servant-mother-mistress all rolled into one package.”

“I thought you had a perfect marriage.”

“I like to think it would have lasted fifty years or more,” she said wistfully. “I’m not so foolish as to believe it wouldn’t have taken work. Corbett operated on whimsy, me on practicality. He spent money we didn’t have on flowers that wilted before nightfall, or silk teddies that weren’t me.” She gazed into her soup as if remembering.

Gil pictured her in cool pastel silk. Shifting his weight from one heel to the other, he tossed the remainder of his second hot dog to the cat. The ceiling had been wallpapered, too, he noticed, which must have taken some backbreaking contortions. Suddenly his mind was imagining contortions of another sort.

“Dad!”

Gil sprang to his feet. His tray tipped and his bowl clattered to the floor. The words
guilt, guilt, guilt
pulsed in a brain throbbing with less-than-pure thoughts.

Liz broke off what she’d begun to say about Corbett’s not having the word “domestic” in his vocabulary. “Did your foot go to sleep? I told you to sit on the bed.”

He gazed at her helplessly, still envisioning her swathed in something clingy and pink. Sitting on her bed wasn’t going to be any help.

She frowned; his guilty expression seemed exaggerated for someone who hadn’t even chipped a dish.

Dusty stopped just inside the door, suspicious hazel eyes sweeping the room. “Whatcha doin’, Dad? You said to holler and you’d come, but you didn’t.”

Gil bent to pick up his scattered utensils, using the time to collect his thoughts. “I was on my way. Are you kids ready for more soup?”