Читать книгу Trouble at Lone Spur - Roz Fox Denny - Страница 8

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.”

“Oh, Dad, she’s just a girl.”

That statement drew an even sterner look from Gil.

Dustin, quicker on the uptake than his brother, jammed an elbow in his twin’s ribs. “Rusty’s sorry, Melody. Aren’t you, nerd?” he hissed.

“Dustin, it’s no better to call your brother names. What’s with you guys all of a sudden? I don’t have time to get to the bottom of this now, but tomorrow we’re having a family caucus.”

“Now you did it, ding-dong,” Dusty muttered.

“Me? You’re the one callin’ me names,” Rusty shot back.

Gil placed his thumb and little finger between his teeth and issued an earsplitting whistle. All three kids jumped. “Enough. Go inside and ask Ben for some milk to go with the cookies,” he said firmly. “I have to call Dr. Shelton to see if he’ll take a gander at Shady Lady’s leg, then I’m going back up to bed. Do you think you can quit bickering long enough to let a man get forty winks?”

As if their heads were connected by a string, the kids nodded of one accord. The twins raced off. Melody hung back and offered Gil a cookie. “Your horse hurt its leg?” she asked after he’d accepted one and thanked her.

“She stepped in a hole.” One-handed, Gil punched out a number on the telephone that hung on the barn wall. “Do you like horses? Blast,” he muttered, glaring at the bleating phone. “Vet’s line is still busy.” Scowling, Gil downed the cookie in two bites.

“My mom’ll help. She knows everything about a horse’s feet and legs. Hoot said she knows more’n a vet.”

Gil choked on a crumb. “Well, if Hoot’s your mom’s boyfriend, then he’s probably biased.” After he dusted off his mouth, he dialed again.

Melody rolled her eyes. “Hoot’s not Mom’s boyfriend. He’s the best rodeo clown alive. Want another cookie? My mom made ‘em. ‘Course, her chocolate-chip ones are better. And her brownies. They’re the very best.”

Gil listened to the insistent busy signal, trying to recall how long it’d been since he last ate a homemade cookie of any kind. Maybe at his friend and fellow rancher Morris Littlefield’s home. His wife, Nancy, took pity on Gil and the boys every few months and invited them to dinner. Mostly she served apple pie for dessert because it was the twins’ favorite. Come to think of it, the last time he’d had cookies that didn’t come from a package was at the June breeders’ meeting. Madge Brennan had made coffee and passed around a plate of molasses cookies. He really wished he could say they were better than these, but he couldn’t.

The girl passed the plate again, and Gil sampled another cookie. “These are pretty good,” he mumbled. “Shouldn’t you hurry on inside before the twins polish off the milk?” Her solemn stare unnerved him.

“You should go get my mom.”

Before Gil could say he thought her mother was probably busy packing, the phone rang. He grabbed it up and was drawn into an unsatisfying conversation with his ranch foreman. The next thing Gil knew, the kid had disappeared. Just as well, considering he’d used some pretty colorful language. And not solely because the brakes went out on the ranch truck, leaving Rafe stranded in Abilene, either. Gil did his fair share of chewing Rafe’s tail over hiring that woman.

God, what next? Gil wondered as he signed off with a sigh. Mrs. Robbins wouldn’t get her money today. And maybe not tomorrow unless he made an unscheduled trip into town. Rafe said the service center had to send to Dallas for parts.

Hell, she should know the Lone Spur paid its bills. His dad had let things go, but not Gil. He’d go hunt her up and demand an address where he could mail her a check. Dammit, what was wrong with Doc Shelton’s phone, anyway? Gil hung up, then headed for the door. If he didn’t get some sleep soon, he’d drop in his tracks.

He’d just reached the double doors when one slid open and Gil found himself face-to-face with the woman he needed to see. A light floral scent replaced the more pungent barn smells. Gil froze midstride. Gone were the accoutrements of a farrier. She looked dainty as a new filly in worn but clean jeans and a sleeveless flowered blouse.

“Oh!” Liz leapt back. “Sorry.” She placed a spontaneous hand on Gil’s arm. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here, except maybe my daughter.” She peered around him, or at least tried. His broad shoulders filled the doorway. “Melody was supposed to saddle her pony. I thought we’d take a last ride to sort of shake out his kinks before stuffing him in a trailer. Rafe let me ride Starfire,” she said, referring to a balky gelding. “Do you mind if I take him out one last time?”

When the man didn’t speak but stared, instead, at the supple fingers resting on his long-sleeved shirt, Liz lifted her hand and snapped her fingers in front of his glazed eyes. “Mr. Spencer. Are you all right? Has something else happened to your mare?”

“Nothing,” he croaked, stepping abruptly back. “I was on my way to find you. Rafe called a minute ago. He’s had trouble with the truck and won’t make it to the ranch for a couple of days. If you bank locally, I’ll have my accountant deposit direct. If not, you’ll have to tell me where to mail a check.”

Liz braced herself against the door frame. Now she’d have to explain her ailing finances, no matter how embarrassing. “Uh, I haven’t opened an account here yet. And I’m short on cash for gasoline. I’ll have to wait until Rafe returns.”

Gil’s eyes narrowed. “How short? Don’t you have credit cards?”

“I, ah, no.” She felt her face getting red and toyed with the gold-plated chain Melody had given her last Mother’s Day. She’d long since sold the two real ones she’d worn when she left her parents’ home. Those and her wedding rings had bought the plot to bury Corbett. It had taken her until last year to pay off the casket.

Liz felt Gil Spencer’s eyes following the movements of her hand. She stopped twisting the chain and hoped she’d washed away the green ring it sometimes left. She imagined the women he knew wore only high-grade silver and gold. Lizbeth Robbins didn’t need expensive baubles, and tried to convey as much to the owner of the Lone Spur with a carefree up-thrust of her chin.

Gil was too close to running on empty to pick up on any of her fleeting emotions. He could barely keep his eyelids ajar. The flash of sunlight on her gold necklace made him light-headed. “We’ll settle this in the morning, Mrs. Robbins. If I don’t get some shut-eye, I’m gonna pass out.”

To Liz’s surprise, he brushed past her and stalked across the yard and up the steps to his house. She’d barely closed her mouth when Melody and the twins came tumbling out the door that had so recently swallowed Gilman Spencer.

“My dad said for us to keep quiet,” one twin announced. “He wants us to ride over and get Doc Shelton for Shady Lady. Can Melody come along?”

The boys had never asked her permission for anything before. They just took what they wanted, often convincing Melody to join them. But today…well, what harm in letting Melody accompany them one last time? According to Rafe, the vet was located near the west end of the ranch. Maybe a half-hour ride away. It would give Liz time to do some preliminary packing. “Okay,” she agreed. “No side trips, though. Stay on Lone Spur land and come straight home afterward. It’ll be suppertime.”

“Yuck,” confided the twin who’d done all the talking so far. “Ben’s fixing liver and onions. I hate liver.”

“Me, too,” said his brother, making a gagging sound.

Liz turned abruptly toward the cottage. Secretly she agreed, but it wouldn’t do to let those little rapscallions see, Lord knew what they’d tell Mr. Jones. Not that it made any difference now.

Back inside the cottage, Liz didn’t know where to start. In two weeks she’d scrubbed, painted, sewed curtains, put down rugs and made this place into a home. Unless Spencer’s next farrier had a wife, she doubted the pastel paint and lace curtains would be appreciated. Yet to leave the floors and windows bare seemed petty. In the end she elected to leave everything behind, not wanting any reminders of her sojourn here. That decision made, her chore shrank considerably. Liz poured a glass of lemonade and went out to sit on the porch. No need to box things up until Rafe returned. Tonight she’d make Melody’s favorite supper. Chicken and dumplings. With chocolate cupcakes for dessert. Later they’d read her library books.

The evening sky was streaked with what looked like layers of raspberry and orange sorbet by the time the children galloped into the yard. The cooled cupcakes were frosted, and plump dumplings simmered on top of thick chicken stew. As Liz stepped to the door, all three children slid off their mounts and talked at once. The gist was that the veterinarian’s house had burned down. According to his neighbor, the doctor and his wife were staying at one of the hotels in town. The neighbor didn’t know which one.

“Rusty and me gotta go tell Dad,” one twin said as he tugged on his brother’s arm. “He wanted Doc to fix Shady Lady. Now what’ll he do?”

“Mom, you’ll take care of her, won’t you?” Melody asked earnestly.

Liz wiped sweaty palms down the sides of her jeans. “Oh, I don’t know, hon. You know I’m not a vet.”

“But Mr. Spencer said it’s her leg. You know ‘bout legs.”

The children formed a ring at the bottom of the steps. Three pairs of eyes clung to Liz. She shrugged and tucked her hands into her front pockets. “Your dad was done in,” she told the boys. “I’d hate to have you wake him needlessly. Tell you what, after supper, I’ll take a look at the mare. If I think I can help her, I will. If not, I’ll call around and try to locate Dr. Shelton.”

One of the boys sniffed the air. “Something smells great.”

Liz smiled. “Nothing special. Chicken and dumplings.”

Melody’s eyes danced. “Yippee!”

“You got ‘nuff for me and Rusty?” one boy asked wistfully. The one Liz had thought was Rusty. Turned out she was wrong again.

“I have enough, but Mr. Jones—”

“—won’t care!” whooped the twins together.

“But your father—”

“—said for us to be quiet,” Rusty finished sagely.

“Please, Mom,” Melody begged, prancing around on tiptoe. “We haven’t had company for supper since we moved in.”

Liz leveled a stern look at the boys. “We almost did,” she said pointedly. “I mean Macy Rydell’s surprise visit.”

The twins had the grace to look guilty, but neither admitted a thing;

Liz threw up her hands. If Melody wanted company, how could she say no? They were just kids, after all—kids without a mother. Liz didn’t know what had become of Mrs. Spencer, but young as they were, they must miss her. “All right.” She gave in. “Bed the horses, then see if Mr. Jones agrees. Melody, you go with them to make sure he knows it’s me doing the inviting.” For a minute it was difficult to associate the eager little boys with the hellions who’d harassed her for two weeks.

Supper went off without a hitch, even though one of the boys—Dustin, Liz thought—picked the celery out of his chicken stew and piled it beside his plate, and the other fed the cat under the table even though she said not to.

The cupcakes were, of course, the biggest hit. Both boys gobbled them up and conned her into allowing them seconds. It seemed like a good opportunity to satisfy her curiosity about their mother, but Liz struck out flatly when she asked a discreet question. Immediately thereafter, one twin spilled his milk. It was so quick on the heels of her query, Liz wondered if he’d done it on purpose. She cleaned up the mess without comment, and a few minutes later, when the boys insisted it was time to leave, she offered to walk them home.

“Boys ain’t a-scared of the dark,” one twin declared brashly.

Liz still trailed them to the door. “I’ll look in on the mare,” she promised, lingering on the porch until she saw they’d reached home safely. Not wanting to leave Melody alone, Liz suggested she don her pajamas and bring a library book to the barn.

Turned out it was a smart move. Shady Lady had managed to get twisted in the sling. Cold water no longer ran on her injured limb. Liz spent forty minutes loosening the sling and turning the horse. By the time she finished, Melody was asleep in a pile of fresh straw. Liz felt bad about not reading to her. She stroked a hand through Melody’s bangs and wondered if the Spencer twins would remember the cupcakes long enough to grant her the favor of returning the books to school on Monday.

Near midnight Liz thought the mare’s leg looked a little better. She had dug through the supply cabinets and found two ingredients, liniment and DMSO, an anti-inflammatory salve. Some vets eschewed using either or both. In the past she’d had some success mixing the two. Her father always stressed trying homeopathic methods before using steroids. On that they agreed.

Melody slept on, and Liz lost track of time as she alternated the applications with ice packs.

GIL AWOKE with a start and looked at the clock—2:00 a.m? He still lay naked and crosswise on his king-size bed. The last thing he recollected was toweling off after he’d showered and shaved. All at once Gil remembered Shady Lady. He grabbed the clock and shook it. Was that the right time? He’d sent the twins for the vet. Why hadn’t someone come for him when Doc Shelton arrived?

Bolting off the bed, Gil searched his closet in the dark for a clean pair of jeans. He jerked them on, tugged on his boots, then hurried from his room and down the stairs, stopping at the second level to check on the boys. The pair were sleeping soundly in their bunk beds. The ranch house was big enough so each could have had a separate room, but every time he suggested it, they declined.

Smiling at the way Dustin slept with his rump in the air and Rusty lay curled around a raggedy stuffed dog, Gil backed out, closed the door and smothered a yawn. The teachers separated them at school, claiming that otherwise they couldn’t tell the boys apart. Gil didn’t understand that. He had no trouble. Dustin did everything with a swagger, sort of like his great-grandfather Spencer. That kid was a leader, a mover and a shaker. Lately, more of an instigator.

Gil paused on the landing to glance back at the closed door. Sobered, he headed down the next flight. Russell, now, was a thinker. A cuddler. He was also a follower, which worried Gil. He wished he had more free time to spend with his sons. Ben Jones, by his own admission, was slowing down. The boys needed someone caring yet energetic. A tall order.

Gil couldn’t say why, when he stepped outside into the moonlight, his gaze strayed to the cottage snuggled beneath the live oaks—the ranch farrier’s cottage. She fairly oozed energy. Clattering disgustedly down the steps, Gil jogged to the back door of the barn. He counted on the crisp night air to clear his head. He’d pretty well succeeded in shaking out the cobwebs when he burst through the barn’s side door and tripped over the woman who muddied his thoughts.

“Oof!” Liz let out a muffled scream as she fell. She’d taken Shady Lady out of her stall and they’d ambled the length of the barn. She was bent over checking the mare’s sore leg when a shadowy hulk barreled through the door, knocking her flat.

Gil grabbed for her and missed. His momentum toppled both of them to the hard-packed earthen floor. He sprawled over her, as yet unable to get his bearings.

She landed an elbow in his diaphragm, stealing his wind.

“Get off me.” Instinct prompted her wild struggle. For a second Liz feared Macy Rydell had decided to take revenge for the twins’ practical joke. It dawned slowly that she didn’t smell Rydell’s strong cologne; the warm skin pressed against her nose exuded the subtle scent of spruce.

Liz lay still, breathing deeply. It was silly to be attracted or repelled by a man’s cologne, but from the first day she’d met Corbett, she’d been drawn by his clean scent of heather and sea breeze. When good memories sneaked in like this, Liz still had problems accepting the unfairness of Corbett’s early death.

Her sudden quiescence allowed Gil time to scramble up. “What in hell are you doing in my barn at this hour?” he demanded, extending her a hand.

The warm feelings evaporated instantly. “Not stealing your horse, if that’s what’s running through your mind.” She batted his hand aside and climbed to her feet unaided. “Twice we’ve met, Mr. Spencer, and twice I’ve bruised more than my pride. Haven’t you ever heard of a handshake?”

Gil ignored her sarcasm. He’d bent to examine Shady Lady’s trim ankles. It was difficult to tell which leg had been injured. “So, were you here when Doc Shelton came by? I thought the boys would wake me.”

“Your vet had a house fire. According to the kids, he’s temporarily moved his practice into town. His neighbor didn’t know exactly where.”

“Then the ice water did the trick. Guess that leg wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

Liz debated whether or not to mention her home remedy, and decided he needed to know. “I popped in here after supper. Your horse had managed to twist herself up in the sling. I rummaged around and found cold packs, then alternated them with a topical mixture my dad used on his thoroughbreds. I was just walking her, to see if the swelling stayed down.”

Frowning, Gil ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair.

Liz’s eyes followed the play of muscles down his arm and chest. She’d assumed, because of the long-sleeved shirt he’d worn earlier, that the skin beneath would be pale. In fact, his tan was the color of Kentucky bourbon and covered every inch of his flesh she could see. And that was quite a few inches. No farmer’s tan for Gilman Spencer. He bronzed nicely for someone with so much red in his hair. Liz studied his body with open appreciation.

Gil noticed. He ran a self-conscious hand over his bare chest. “Sorry if I offend your Southern sensibilities. I didn’t expect to find ladies in my barn at this hour—except the equine variety.”

Liz didn’t flush or look away. “Who says I’m Southern?”

Gil crossed his arms and laughed. “You have that drawl, Miss Scarlett.”

Whirling, Liz led Shady Lady to an empty stall she’d spread deep with sand and sawdust, then covered with fresh hay. “I was born and raised in bluegrass country. We don’t consider ourselves Southern.”

“That’s right,” he said lightly as he followed her. “You said your daddy raises thoroughbreds. So why aren’t you home in Kentucky shoeing his horses?”

Liz felt a knife blade slide into her heart. How had their conversation taken this turn? Corbett and Hoot Bell were the only two people who knew about her permanent estrangement from her parents. Melody had never asked about grandparents or her lack thereof. Liz wanted to keep it that way. The poor kid had enough strikes against her having never known her father. Patting Shady Lady’s silky nose one last time, she backed out of the stall and quietly closed the door. “I’ve left the mixture for her leg in the fridge. You should use it liberally two or three times a day until the swelling’s completely gone. And don’t ride her for a week. But I’m sure you know that.” Liz strode briskly through the barn, stopping where Melody lay asleep in the hay.

Gil wondered at being so rattled by Lizbeth Robbins that he hadn’t seen the child until now. He was even more puzzled by the woman’s curt response.

“Wait,” he called as she bent and slid her hands beneath the girl. “You aren’t going to carry her, are you? She must weigh fifty pounds.”

“Forty-four,” Liz replied. “And I’m quite capable, Mr. Spencer.”

Gil didn’t know why it grated on his nerves when she said “Mr. Spencer” in that tone, but it did. “I’ll take her,” he offered politely, refraining from suggesting she call him Gil. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for the time you put in on my horse.”

Liz straightened, Melody draped over her arms. “I wasn’t looking for gratitude,” she said, moving carefully toward the door. “The only thing I want from you is the money I’ve earned. ‘Nice’ doesn’t suit you, Spencer. Don’t strain yourself.”

Gil blinked as if he’d been slapped and watched her disappear into the night. The moon had slipped behind a cloud, swaddling the area beyond the barn in inky blackness. He debated the wisdom of chasing her down. But before he could make up his mind, he saw a light appear in the cottage. Then another. He stood a moment where he was, until he noticed a colored square lying in the hay where the child had slept. It was a book—a horse story, he saw as he picked it up. From the school library. The book had been checked out only today.

Guilt swamped him. There were many reasons Gil had fought for sole custody of his sons. A major one—with which the judge had agreed—was that Ginger’s job with the rodeo necessitated her jerking the twins from school to school.

In firing his farrier today, he’d just sentenced that sweet dark-eyed little girl to the vagabond life he hadn’t wanted his own boys to suffer. Gil dropped the book back on the hay bale. Damn Mrs. Robbins for being what she claimed. And damn Rafe Padilla for hiring her in the first place.