Trouble at Lone Spur. Roz Fox Denny

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

       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. СКАЧАТЬ