Trouble At Lone Spur (9 page)

Liz glanced beyond him to where Dustin heaved sticks across the stream. “Why don’t you take him a sandwich and a cupcake?” she said lightly, picking up one of each.

“No.” Gil plopped down on a log a few feet away, where he could keep his stubborn son in full view. He shredded a dead limb of its bark, trying to stave off the dull pain licking around his heart. He couldn’t help thinking that he was partly to blame. He and Ginger.

Liz made up a plate for each of the others and one for herself. Minutes ticked by. She almost hated to chew and swallow, it was so quiet. Even the birds had fallen silent. Liz was relieved when, after polishing off the food, Rusty and Melody claimed they didn’t want to hunt for crawdads or go wading, after all.

Gil stood. “Just so you know we won’t be making another trip out here this year. Understood?”

Rusty gazed longingly at the water.

Melody stowed the garbage, then clasped his hand. “Don’t worry. The crawdads’ll be bigger next summer.”

Liz was proud of those two kids. She hoped Dustin would one day appreciate their sacrifice. Grabbing up the
basket and the jug, both much lighter now, she started back up the trail.

Gil snatched the items from her hands, then called to tell Dustin they were leaving.

Liz thought they must make a pathetic-looking caravan trekking home. Dustin streaked ahead and Gil gave him room. Rusty’s horse wanted to run, but the boy kept him in check to stay abreast of Melody. Liz brought up the rear, her heart leaden with sorrow for the owner of the Lone Spur. She no longer thought of him as a man who had everything. Gil Spencer’s family problems weren’t going to be solved by any amount of money or acreage. And underneath, she’d bet he felt just as lonely as she did.

D
URING THE NEXT MONTH
, following the incident at the river, Liz caught no more than distant glimpses of Gil Spencer. Her orders came from Rafe who, since his return, treated her politely but stiffly. And he refused to meet her eyes, as if she’d somehow tricked him into hiring her—which she hadn’t. If the opportunity ever presented itself, she’d point that out.

Luckily the weather remained good. Liz settled into a comfortable, sometimes solitary routine shoeing Lone Spur stock. It reminded her of the farm where she’d been raised. Sometimes the similarities caused a wrench of nostalgia.

Night Fire’s hooves did so well with the mud soaks and lavish conditioning that Liz figured in another few weeks she could remove his old shoes. He didn’t like them, nor did the wranglers assigned to help when he was mated. News filtered back to Liz that he’d developed a nasty habit of lashing out with his back feet. But when she showed up at the mating barn unannounced to suggest covering the shoes with thick socks, her presence embarrassed the cowboys. “Look, guys,” Liz protested, “I grew up on a horse farm. I’ve also been married and had a baby. Believe me, procreation holds no secrets for me.”

Rafe escorted her out. “The men are superstitious, ma’am. We’ll keep out of his way till you pull his shoes. And you keep out of ours.” He left her standing outside
the door, paying not a bit of attention to her indignant sputters.

Liz stormed back to her cottage. If she’d been the drinking sort, she would’ve belted back a stiff brandy. No matter how efficient she was, there were barriers on the Lone Spur she couldn’t seem to cross—even though most members of the crew tried at one time or another to make a date with her. Her lack of a sitter for Melody allowed her to turn them down without ruffling feathers. She didn’t want to date them; she wanted to be a colleague on an equal footing. Liz was sick of the double standards men deemed their gift at birth. Not
all
men, thank goodness. Times like these she missed Hoot—and of course, Corbett—more than she could say.

She held some hope that Rusty Spencer might grow up to be more enlightened. He often popped in after supper to hang around her kitchen while she baked bread or cookies. Without his brother, he seemed less constrained by the bonds of male convention and, to all appearances, enjoyed his visits.

Several Saturdays in a row, Liz saw Dustin ride off with two bigger boys. She didn’t like their looks, but she wouldn’t presume to interfere in Gil Spencer’s domestic domain. Besides, she had problems of her own. Problems not related to work. Old nightmares had, for no reason, come back to haunt her. For more than a week she’d been plagued by dreams of being trapped inside the chute with the crazed bull that had killed Corbett. Why was this happening again?

Liz knew if she went to the doctor, he’d prescribe sleeping pills. Having been down that route, she tried other methods these days, such as staying up past the point of exhaustion. Nothing gave relief. Perhaps if she could keep her mind occupied…

So she volunteered to sew costumes for the school’s Halloween play. The corners of her living room were stacked with pumpkin frameworks, over which she stretched neat gores of bright orange cotton. Green leaf caps for the children’s heads took up any chairs not draped with witches’ costumes. But despite working all evening, every evening, in the wee hours she still bolted wide awake, bathed in perspiration.

Liz guzzled warm milk by the quart and counted sheep by the score. By the time Thursday night of the second week of insomnia rolled around, she’d dropped six pounds and was beginning to feel like a zombie. It was the night before the school play, and all the sewing was done. Sleep continued to evade her.

As a last resort, she got out Corbett’s guitar and retired to the porch swing. In the past, when she felt confined by the camp trailer she’d sometimes made her bed in the back of the pickup, where she’d gaze at the stars and serenade herself to sleep.

Tonight it was downright chilly. Liz went back for a quilt and slipped on fuzzy slippers to go with her favorite flannel nightgown. When she’d finally settled in, the stars had disappeared behind a layer of clouds. Lone Spur Ranch lay cloaked in darkness, except for a light in her living room and one in the foaling barn. Drawing comfort from the distant beacon, Liz began to strum the instrument she’d once had to pawn to buy-Melody a crib.

As a surprise, Hoot and his pals had redeemed it for her the next payday. The old guitar, three worthless plaques and a dozen pictures of Corbett atop those ugly bulls were the only mementos Liz had left of her happygo-lucky young husband.

God, but she missed him. Missed the warmth of his arms and the laughter he’d brought into her life, however
briefly. Her parents were all work and no play. They simply didn’t understand a man like Corbett Robbins. Nor were they pleased when he’d come to the farm with a friend to buy a racehorse and ended up stealing the affections of the Whitleys’ only child.
Someday, you’ll be made to repent falling in love with that shiftless cowboy,
her father had predicted.

Maybe insomnia was her penance. Swallowing a hysterical laugh, Liz coaxed the mournful wail of a train whistle from the taut strings. The bluesy sound suited her mood when she got like this.

Suddenly, without warning, she felt eyes on her from the darkness beyond the porch, and she broke off with a sharp twang. “Who’s there?” she called, trying not to sound frightened or breathless.

At first there was only the chirp of a stray cricket. Then a shadow, darker than the outline of the oak, separated itself from the tree and fell across the porch steps. “Don’t stop playing.” Gil Spencer moved into the shaft of light. “Except isn’t it a mite cold to be out here like this?”

“Did my playing disturb your sleep? Sorry. I didn’t think it would carry so far.”

“I doubt you can hear it in the house. I was on my way back from helping Lady Belle deliver. At first I thought the twins had left a radio on outside.”

“Is Lady Belle all right? I heard Rafe tell Luke Terrill you expected trouble.”

“Belle had twins, but thanks to Doc Shelton, we delivered both colts. One’s the spitting image of Night Fire. The second one’s a little squirt, but Doc thinks he’ll make it. Equine twins rarely both live, you know.”

“Yes, it’s so sad.” Liz watched him walk wearily into the bar of light cast by her living-room lamp. “I’ll go
have a look at Lady Belle’s miracle tomorrow—if they don’t throw me out of the foaling barn.”

“They who?” Gil asked.

“Didn’t Rafe tell you about our tussle? He thinks women bring bad luck to the mating barn.”

Gil leaned on the porch railing and raked a hand through his hair. “Of all the idiot ideas…We’ve got several women ranchers in the breeders’ association. Does Rafe think they avoid the mating barns?”

Liz stifled a yawn. “Look, it’s no big deal.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to bend your ear. I get so wired when we’re pulling a foal I forget the time. I asked Doc to come up to the house for coffee. He acted as if I’d slipped a cog, it being so late and all.”

“I don’t have coffee, but I have a thermos of hot chocolate.” She patted something in the shadows at her feet. “I’ve had trouble sleeping,” she murmured, not telling him why or how long it’d been. “If you don’t mind drinking from the metal lid, you’re welcome to share.”

“Thanks. I will, if you don’t mind my smelling like a horse and a few other things. Last time I showered or saw food was sometime yesterday, I think.”

Liz glanced up sharply from filling the cup. “You mean you haven’t eaten since then? I have chicken salad left from supper, and fresh pumpkin bread—if you don’t need something more substantial, that is.”

“Sounds good, but. I wasn’t hinting. Don’t go to any trouble on my account. Ben has leftover hash I can warm in the microwave. I’m sure there’s plenty. The boys hate hash.”

“It’s no trouble.” She rose and gathered her blanket and guitar.

Gil automatically took the thermos.

She led the way, turning to place a finger to her lips when they got inside. Her nod indicated that Melody slept behind the partially closed door leading off the living room.

Gil gazed around at the piles of costumes. “Don’t I pay you enough?” he whispered. “You need to moonlight as a seamstress?”

Waiting until they reached the kitchen to answer him, Liz explained she was sewing costumes for the school play. Then she snapped on the light.

Gil had been about to comment on the event—that it was a big all-community affair—when the light gave him a clear look at her granny nightgown. He was sure his face turned five shades of red. “I, uh, didn’t realize you were dressed for bed,” he stammered. It wasn’t even that the gown was provocative, he decided. More that it suggested a casual intimacy he’d been a long time without. Suddenly Gil asked himself what in hell he was doing in this woman’s kitchen at two in the morning.

Liz had her back to him and her head stuck in the refrigerator, apparently unfazed by the situation. Gil wiped nerve-damp palms down his thighs. So why was
he
bothered by it? Maybe because Lizbeth Robbins had sneaked into his thoughts so much this past month.

Liz set a bowl on the counter, got out a plate and scooped him a generous helping of chicken salad. Moving easily, she unwrapped a fragrant loaf of pumpkin bread and cut him two thick slices. Still brandishing the knife, she pointed to the small dinette table that sat in one corner. “It’ll be sort of hard to juggle a plate and a cup standing up. Take a load off, why don’t you?” She poured the contents from his metal cup into a ceramic mug and placed it in the microwave. “I’ll warm this up.”

Gil discovered he hadn’t moved, except to take off his Stetson and maybe cleave his backbone to the connecting door. It flashed through his mind that his ex-wife wouldn’t have been caught dead in a gown that covered so much flesh. Nor would she have been standing in the kitchen serving him food in the dead of night. Ginger had rarely even cooked supper. Her thoughts and her time were only for herself—and her rodeo obsession. It shocked Gil to realize he hadn’t seen that when they dated—before they married and brought babies into the world.

Perhaps he would have if he hadn’t missed the ranch so keenly when he went away to college. Ginger was the first woman he’d met who loved horses as much as he did. Not for the same reasons, though.

Liz gazed at him curiously as she warmed her own mug of cocoa. “Are you too exhausted to eat? I don’t want to force this on you.”

“What? Oh, no. It looks great. Sorry, guess I spaced out. For some reason I was thinking about the twins’ mother.” He ambled over to the table, set his plate on one of the green-checked place mats and then pulled out a chair. His back to her, Gil didn’t see the way Liz abruptly stopped pouring and sucked in her breath.

“Tomorrow’s All Hallows’ Eve,” she said, carefully carrying the mugs of cocoa to the table. “It’s when we traditionally remember our dead. For two weeks I’ve been fighting memories of Corbett. Experts say the only grief harder to bear than losing a spouse is losing a child. So…your wife died? No one’s said.”

Gil stiffened, a forkful of chicken salad halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t mean to imply that she died,” he said curtly, “or that I missed her.”

Startled by his bluntness, Liz flushed. For a moment neither spoke. What was there to say?

He finished swallowing that bite and then sampled a piece of bread. “Mmm. No wonder Rusty hangs out here. I trust you’ll let me know if he makes a pest of himself.”

Still disturbed by his callous dismissal of someone who’d borne him two children, Liz just stared at him.

He picked up the napkin that lay beside his plate and wiped his mouth. “Is that better? Did I have salad spread from ear to ear? Or bread crumbs?”

“Neither. Mr. Spencer,” Liz began tentatively. “Rusty—in fact, both boys—exhibit classic behavior suggesting they miss their mother very much. I can see why, if you bite their heads off when they innocently mention her. Regardless of how you feel, they need to know they weren’t abandoned. You should try ironing out your differences with their mother, at least for the boys’ sake.”

Gil looked from her to his barely touched plate of food. He folded the napkin as carefully as a road map and laid it precisely where he’d found it. “If I wanted a sermon with supper, I’d have gone into town to the Salvation Army.” He started to rise.

Liz motioned him back to his seat. “Finish. I’m not usually given to messing in other people’s lives. It’s just that I thought I recognized the symptoms in the boys, having gone through all the steps with Melody even though Corbett died before she was born.” Sighing, Liz picked up her cup of hot chocolate. “I think I’ve read every child-psychology book written on the stages of grief. Maybe I was misreading your kids’ behavior. I guess a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.” She ended with a deprecating shrug.

Tension arced between them for several moments. Then Gil settled back in the chair and toyed with his salad. “My divorce wasn’t what you’d call amicable. Sounds as if your marriage was good. Has he been gone long?”

“Gone?” She wrapped her hands too tightly around the mug. “You make it sound as if he’s visiting Houston or Kansas City. Corbett’s been
gone
six years, four months and twenty-two days. And our parting wasn’t amicable, either. It was courtesy of a bull called Sudden Death.” Without lifting her eyes, she let her story spill out—including the part about her recurring nightmares of finding herself in the chute, and how the fear manifested itself in debilitating claustrophobia. By the time she finished, her knuckles were white.

Gil leaned forward and gently parted her fingers. Rising, he dumped her cold cocoa down the drain. When he poured her another cupful from the thermos, he brought it back to the table. “Drink this,” he said quietly.

Dazed, she met his eyes. Up close the hazel took on many hues. Chestnut, bronze and saffron, in addition to flashes of green.

“Lizbeth.” He said her name with a rough embarrassed catch. “If you expect a man to eat, don’t stare.” Picking up his fork, he deliberately attacked the salad.