Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

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Dear Reader

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

“Rusty and Dusty don’t got no
mom and I don’t got no dad.”

Melody took a deep breath. “So, Mom—we could be a family!”

“Oh, no!” Lizbeth gasped. “Melody, baby, you can’t just pick up stray people like you do kittens and make them part of your family.”

“Why not?” A tear caught in thick lashes, then trickled down a round cheek.

“Well, because…because…” Liz sighed. “Because you can’t. And whatever you do, promise me you’ll never bring up this subject with Mr. Spencer or his sons.”

“But how will they ever think of it on their own? They’re boys and—”

“Never, Melody. Is that understood?”

“O-kay. But will you make enough sandwiches for them? And take the rest of the cupcakes. Please, Mom.”

“Melody Lorraine. I can see the wheels turning. You will not lure the Spencers with food. Where on earth are you getting this nonsense? Certainly not from me.” Liz threw up her hands. “I want to make sure you know I’m dead serious about this, Mel.”

“All right. But jeez!” Melody slid off her pony and plunked down on the porch steps, chin in hand, to wait for the Spencers.

Dear Reader,

Trouble at Lone Spur is a composite of several story ideas that finally jelled into one. I’ve wanted to set a story in the wide-open spaces of west Texas ever since I discovered that this sometimes harsh, arid land casts a lasting spell. And so do the men who work it! Cowboys—who can resist ‘em?

Gil came to me in a flash. A bone-weary rancher who’d inherited a run-down ranch called the Lone Spur. A man left to raise his unruly twin sons alone. I knew those twins; I baby-sat them in another life. Believe me, Gil needed a strong helpmate!

I found Lizbeth in my bottom drawer, along with an article I’d clipped from Western Horseman about a female farrier. The article was sketchy, my notes on Lizbeth brief. She was pretty and petite and she was married to a grand national bull-riding champion. A nice guy who was also a good-looking hunk. In my original version of Liz, she and this husband of hers had a sweet young daughter. Wow, talk about problems. Gil needs Lizbeth desperately, and she already has a man in her life! Plus trouble of her own. Stapled to Lizbeth’s file were clippings and news stories about children who’d fallen in abandoned wells. More specifically, I’d played around with the idea of what would happen to Lizbeth’s marriage if her daughter tumbled into a well while she was off shoeing horses. But I couldn’t ask Gil to wait around for her to work through all that. So…I made Liz a widow. Let the trouble at Lone Spur begin!

As you’ll see, a finished book rarely ends up the way it starts. For all readers who, over the past few years, have written and asked how I come up with story ideas—I give you Trouble at Lone Spur. My secret is out, but I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll stop writing to me.

Roz Denny Fox

P.O. Box 17480-101

Tucson, Arizona 85701

Trouble at Lone Spur
Roz Denny Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thanks to my former critique partners in San Angelo, Texas—Ken, Jan, Barbara, Janet and Linda—for helping me fine-tune Gil and Lizbeth’s story. Mary, thanks for all the horsey info. Humble thanks to the patient farrier who answered endless questions about shoeing horses. He prefers to remain anonymous—a macho thing, I guess.

And finally, thanks to Ken Hoogson for sharing his first-hand experience with mine and well rescues.

CHAPTER ONE

IN THE TWO WEEKS since Lizbeth Robbins had hired on as farrier at Gilman Spencer’s ranch, she hadn’t laid eyes on the man. The Lone Spur, situated in a sparsely populated corner of Crockett County, Texas, was a quarterhorse operation—and badly in need of her services. But if Spencer’s name hadn’t appeared on the sign at the entry gate, she might well have believed that her elusive boss was a phantom. Not that Liz cared whether she ever met the Lone Spur’s head honcho. She’d already formed her opinions.

From all she’d gleaned listening to Rafe Padilla, the ranch foreman, it sounded as if Spencer was a hardheaded perfectionist who didn’t give second chances. She suspected he was ill-mannered, to boot. That notion had come to Liz through personal dealings with his ornery-assin nine-year-old twin sons. Last night’s debacle cinched it.

While today she could laugh about the incident, it hadn’t seemed funny then. She’d been in her grubbiest clothes, hanging stubborn wallpaper in her minuscule bathroom, when all at once, in waltzed this cowboy dandy, a total stranger, claiming he’d come for the candlelit dinner Liz had promised in the note she’d sent him.

Of course, Melody shouldn’t have let a stranger in the house. But apparently her six-year-old daughter was dazzled by the Chaps cologne that rose around the cowboy like a cloud. Darned stuff made Liz sneeze. The Lone Spur’s biggest Don Juan wasn’t happy when she’d ushered him out, suggesting someone had played a trick on him.

Turned out the trick was on her. Liz knew it the moment Rusty and Dusty Spencer tumbled off her porch in sidesplitting giggles. Cowboy Macy Rydell got the message then, too. Even though he should have figured it out from the crudely written note—on wide-ruled tablet paper, no less.

Liz caught the twins and threatened to tell their dad. It didn’t faze the little punks. She was normally eventempered with kids, but this prank had been one too many in a string of antics those miniature con artists had pulled. Obviously trying to run her off the ranch. But Liz needed this job. Gilman Spencer’s twins would find out she didn’t run easily. No siree-bob!

Liz kicked dirt from her low-heeled Ropers and climbed two rungs up on the corral fence to study the magnificent blood-bay stallion three wranglers had just brought in. She doubted it took three men to handle the animal, but Spencer’s hands had been riding in off the range all week to get a look at her. Liz found that amusing. Women must be in short supply on the Lone Spur.

“Aren’t you a beauty?” she breathed, her eyes leaving the horse only long enough to locate his name on the clipboard she carried. This was Night Fire, the registered stud Spencer bred with his sand-colored mares to sire the beautiful buckskin quarter horses that made the Lone Spur a power in the breeding industry.

Liz put a check beside the stallion’s name. She smiled as her gaze skipped back to admire his long legs and deep chest. “Ah, yes. Night Fire. The name suits you. I’d guess you’re a hot lover.”

As if concurring with her assessment of his prowess, the horse reared and pawed the air. Liz read the overt challenge in his sable eyes, but she didn’t rush to meet it. Instead, she laid the clipboard aside and climbed atop the fence—to let the stallion grow comfortable with her presence and her smell.

She wouldn’t actually shoe the stud, only trim his hooves and check for disease. According to the ranch foreman, Night Fire had been favoring his left hind foot—probably an indication that the horn had grown rough and uncomfortable.

Liz snapped off a piece of grass to chew. She loved the way the morning sun caught fire in the stallion’s crimson coat. It was easy to see why his offspring were in constant demand.

First day here, she’d heard rumors that her predecessor had been fired over this animal. Liz didn’t intend to make mistakes with him—or any of the others. This job was her chance to quit trailing the rodeo from one end of the Southwest to the other. Her chance to provide Melody with roots. Nibbling thoughtfully on the straw, Liz recalled a time when she hadn’t minded the rodeo circuit. When love was young and Corbett was alive.

But things changed.

Redirecting her attention to the stallion, Liz tossed the straw aside. It was better not to dwell on the past. It stirred memories of a time when she’d been alone, pregnant, crippled by grief and debt. Thanks to old Hoot Bell, a kindly soul who’d left horseshoeing to follow his lifelong dream of being a rodeo clown, Liz had learned a usable trade. And now, she finally felt strong enough to make a bid for independence—and a permanent home. Working for Gil Spencer meant her child could attend first grade at one school for the entire year. Kindergarten had been a hit-and-miss affair mixed with whatever home schooling Liz could manage between towns.

As she took the first step to coax the wary stallion closer, Liz considered again how nicely things had fallen into place. She knew for a fact that only the biggest outfits could afford to hire a full-time farrier, let alone provide accommodation. Sagging porch and all, the cottage seemed like a castle compared to the tiny camp trailer she and Melody had shared. And the rural school bus already stopped here for the Spencer twins. Yes, life at the Lone Spur was pretty much perfect.

Liz experienced a moment’s thrill as the stallion trotted up to sniff her hand. Yup, she’d do whatever it took to please Mister do-it-right-or-get-canned Spencer. She and Melody needed the Lone Spur. And if they stayed here, she might be able to conquer another problem, too. These past two weeks she’d had fewer nightmares, fewer bouts with claustrophobia—annoying conditions that had plagued her since Corbett’s death.

Liz gave herself a hard mental shake and met Night Fire’s liquid gaze. “If you knew us,” she murmured, “you’d see the changes in Melody. She’s crazy about her teacher and loves having friends. Let’s not screw it up, huh, buddy?”

Liz dropped off the fence and slowly made her way back to her pickup to get the tools she’d need to clean and polish Night Fire’s hooves. He might have caused her predecessor’s downfall, but no mere horse was going to ruin things for Melody. Not if Lizbeth could help it.

The big horse kicked up his heels and circled the enclosure like a frisky colt. Liz eyed him, her thoughts again shifting to his owner. Gil Spencer wanted things done by the book, so that was how she’d do them.

Night Fire whickered, tossed his head and teased her, skittering away. “Easy, boy.” Having donned chaps and pliable gloves, she quickly boxed him in and bent to pick up his back hoof. “Oh, oh!” He had extremely dry feet. Someone—the previous farrier, Liz supposed—had rasped too close and destroyed the natural varnish. “Darn. What now?” She climbed out of the pen and reached automatically for her heavy leather apron. She’d have to shoe him, after all, then really soak those feet.

Given the rumors surrounding the horse, Liz checked in the barn to see if Rafe Padilla was available to discuss treatment. He wasn’t. Obviously he’d already taken the load of yearlings to market. Liz sighed. She had no choice. And with any other horse, any other owner, she wouldn’t have questioned her decision.

Resolute, she fired up her forge. Her thoughts turned once more to the absent Spencer. In observing his sons, she’d formed a mental picture of dear old dad. Not too tall. Stocky. Mid to late forties. The lucky stiff had inherited this gorgeous ranch; so, most likely, would his sons. That fact alone probably contributed to their cockiness. There was no Mrs. Spencer. At least not living on the ranch. Liz had some definite ideas about that, too.

Flame ready at last, she closed the gap between herself and the jumpy stallion. Even though this change in plans put her behind, Liz took time to stroke his neck before she started to work. The horse relaxed ever so slightly and nuzzled the bare flesh below Liz’s short dark curls. She hunched her shoulder and laughed as his breath tickled her ear. “Aren’t you the charmer,” she crooned. “Pity you don’t give lessons.” Liz was plain peeved to think the twins didn’t like her. She’d gotten on well with all the kids who hung out at rodeos. Another strike against Dad—and Ben Jones, the grouchy old excowboy who served as Spencer’s houseman. Now, that man was a caution.

Shrugging, she bent to the task at hand. She slid her palm down the horse’s leg, then gently bumped his side so that he’d shift his bulk and allow her to lift his foot. “So far,” she muttered against Night Fire’s side, “the boys tolerate Melody. If I ever see that they don’t, I tell you they’ve swiped the last chocolate-chip cookie from my jar.”

Keeping up a tranquilizing flow of conversation, Liz slowly and carefully trimmed the stallion’s heels. “Whoa, boy.” She fitted the cooled shoes, reheated and reshaped them until they were exact. “I guarantee these won’t cramp your style with the ladies.”

Night Fire whiffled uneasily as she got out her ruler to measure his front feet.

Tailoring shoes took time and was hot tedious work. By the time Liz had molded them to her liking, the only thing on her mind was nailing them home, then breaking for a tall glass of cold lemonade.

Lunch was definitely out. Rafe had said he needed her in the east pasture this afternoon to reshoe three geldings who’d thrown shoes during roundup. Liz doubted she’d finish today, especially since she had to meet Melody’s school bus at three-thirty. Pulling old shoes and checking for any sign of hoof disease simply couldn’t be rushed. Meticulous as she’d heard Spencer was, Liz was equally so.

Suddenly, when she was almost done, Night Fire began to fight her. “Whoa, fella, what’s wrong?” Loosening the tie rope, Liz played it out.

As the powerful horse reared and rose above her, Liz saw the problem. A cowboy—a drifter by the look of him—limped down the lane leading a mare, whose scent was all it took to drive Night Fire wild.

Liz fought back simmering anger. Dolt! Couldn’t he see the stallion?

GIL SPENCER’S SIGHTS were set on getting home. About a mile out, Shady Lady had stepped in a prairie-dog hole, thrown a shoe and pulled up lame. It was damned hot out, and Gil’s boots weren’t made for walking—no real cowboy’s boots were. Late last night, he’d given the last water in his canteen to the mare. Right now, he was about as dry as a man could be.

And he was mad. For three days he’d been trailing a stock-killing cougar. Today he’d had the cat cornered. All at once the wily animal had escaped into a rock-strewn canyon, to hide in any one of a hundred caves. So he’d been in a foul mood even before Shady Lady’s accident. Now all that interested Gil was getting shut of the heavy saddle he’d packed a mile and drinking the well dry. That, and showering off several layers of roundup grime. The very last thing Gilman Spencer dreamed he’d see when he hobbled toward the Lone Spur’s main barn was some woman wrangling his most expensive stud.

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Was she nuts?

Dropping the saddle and Shady Lady’s reins, Gil forgot his exhaustion. His thoughts centered on getting the woman out of the corral in one piece and without a lawsuit. Unfortunately Gil also forgot that his bones were thirty-four years old, not nineteen, as he vaulted the fence. Landing much too hard, he fell. His legs buckled and his Stetson flew off, spooking Night Fire.

The stallion screamed and lashed out with the foot nearest Liz. Although his kick was negligible as kicks go, she wasn’t expecting it, and she was thrown a good three feet across the corral—sunglasses one way, Liz the other. She landed smack on her backside in the hard-packed dirt.

Gil straightened and froze. His heart pounded, his legs quaked. Was she okay? Lord! Up close she was no bigger than a minute—and Night Fire stood sixteen hands. Gil dug deep for the wherewithal to race to the woman’s side.

Too late to matter, Liz connected the man she’d seen in the lane with Night Fire’s unprovoked attack. Furious, she leapt to her feet and dusted off her smarting rump. “You may dress like a cowboy,” she shouted, “but you lack the brains the Almighty gave a gnat. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to sneak up on a farrier at work? And never, never surprise a person working in close quarters with a stallion.” Liz shook a small fist under the unkempt offender’s nose.

“Is that so?” Gil had heard about enough of the lady’s lip.

“Who,” he asked icily, “gave you permission to be in close quarters with that stud?” Flashing hazel eyes raked every scrawny inch of her before the man snatched up his Stetson and jammed it back on sweaty russet locks that needed a good trim.

“None of your beeswax.” Liz didn’t like the saddle bum’s superior attitude. He wasn’t the first man who’d presumed he could give the orders because she tackled what was deemed men’s work. She’d met twice his arrogance on the rodeo circuit. But this man had no right taking his error out on her. “Rest assured I’m doing the job I’ve been hired to do,” she snapped.

“Really? Who hired you?”

“God! So, take a hike.” Liz stood her ground even though the stranger hovered over her. “Or better yet,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “take a bath.”

He didn’t move. And that was when it dawned on Liz that this saddle tramp might have blown in from Spencer’s roundup. Cursing her hot temper, she whirled to check on Night Fire. What if this know-it-all jerk carried tales back to his boss?

“Look, lady—” Gil clamped down on his anger “—I don’t know who authorized you to shoe any horse of mine, let alone my prize stud, but I guaran-damn-tee this is your last job on the Lone Spur.”

Liz turned back and let her eyes take a leisurely stroll from the top of his crusty Stetson to the tips of his run-down boots. Then she laughed. “Your horse? I’ve seen down-and-out bronc riders at the rodeo where I worked who looked more prosperous than you. I guaran-damntee Gilman Spencer’d know his prize stallion’s hooves were split, and that without shoes and wet packs those feet will break down.”

If her grating laughter hadn’t been enough to make Gil see red, her jab about the rodeo definitely did. Nobody, but nobody, mentioned bronc riders in Gil Spencer’s presence—not if they wanted to keep their teeth. Half the state of Texas had known before he did that his wife—now ex-wife—Ginger spent her nights in bronc rider Avery Amistad’s bed.

The hurt went deeper than mere infidelity. Gil had needed Ginger’s support while he worked his butt off pulling the Lone Spur out of the financial mess his father had left it in. But he’d been understanding about her desire to become a number-one barrel racer. So understanding that he’d hired Ben Jones to help care for their infant twins while his dear wife followed the rodeo.

No, Gil didn’t like anything about rodeos.

Gil was furious at this woman for reminding him of humiliations he’d managed to suppress. But dammit, he thought, as he took a closer look at Night Fire’s hooves, she was right about the splits.

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.

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“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.”

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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.

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“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.

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