“Are you fixin’ to fire me again?” Liz drawled softly, wishing he wasn’t such a hard man to read. She could see he’d worked up a head of steam but honestly didn’t know why. “I only meant you can trust me to do a good job of shoeing.”
Gil stared at her neat array of tools. The card she’d been writing on fluttered to the ground. He picked it up, realizing at a glance that if all her records were this precise, she was definitely telling the truth. “Guess I’m kind of touchy when it comes to my family,” he said gruffly, handing her back the card.
Liz filed it and filled one out for the next gelding, Coppertone’s Pride. Named for his perfect all-over tan, she reasoned—and then her mind flipped back to what Melody had said about her teacher’s pictures of family. Mom, dad, kids. It seemed grandparents were acceptable, as long as there were two. But one parent and child? Apparently not. By Miss Woodson’s definition, she and Melody weren’t a family. But of course they were, the same as tens of thousands of other single-parent families in the world. Liz would have to have a talk with Miss W. She needed a new supply of pictures.
“C’mon, boys,” Gil called. “Mount up. Time to check fence.” He squinted at the sun. “We’ll mosey toward the river about noon,” he told Liz.
“Do we hafta go with you?” The boys stopped tossing the football. “Riding fence is boring. Can’t we stay here and play? We brought a Frisbee, too.”
“No. Remember, I said idle hands make mischief.”
“Aw, Dad. We said we were sorry.”
Gil turned back to Liz, giving an apologetic shrug. She wasn’t sure if he was asking her to let them stay or if he was irked at having her witness a little family discord. “I’ll keep an eye on them if you’d like,” she murmured discreetly. She didn’t want to be accused of aiding and abetting dissension.
His sudden grin was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Thanks. I’ll put the fear of the Lord in them so they won’t cause you any trouble. Riding fence is boring. Someday they’ll accept that it’s part of the job. Now they’re at the age where anything short of calamity is boring.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I get so sick of hearing that word.”
“You, too?” He laughed. “I always picture girls playing quietly with tea sets and dolls. Like Melody there.” He gestured over his shoulder at the pickup.
Liz pointed out a fact he’d obviously missed. Mel had left the truck to join the twins and had just delivered a punt that sent both boys running back into the dry wash.
Gil was still shaking his head when he mounted up and rode north along the fence row. He’d been right to bring the boys along. Being around Melody and Lizbeth might be the best way for them to learn some genuine respect for women.
Liz appraised the way his soft blue shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders and narrowed snugly down to lean hips that rocked gently against a tooled leather saddle. Heat struck her like a blast of hot wind. She jerked sideways, assuming she’d let the forge get too hot. In fact, the fire burned low and steady. Annoyed by her own response, she coiled her lariat and went to separate Coppertone’s Pride from his companions.
His feet were well shaped and symmetrical. Liz finished the easy shoeing just as the three children charged up, begging for water. She poured them each a generous cup from her jug. “Your faces are red as beefsteak tomatoes. Why don’t you go sit in the shade of that old oak to drink these?”
“I’m ready to jump in the river,” one of the twins said. “What do you s’pose is keeping my dad?”
Liz checked her watch. “He hasn’t been gone an hour. He said noon. It’s not quite eleven.”
“We don’t have to wait for him,” the twin with the reddest face declared.
“Oh, ho,” Liz chuckled, thinking he was baiting her. “Guess again, young man.” She’d almost called him Dustin, but caught herself in time as she wasn’t certain.
“We don’t gotta mind you, do we, Rusty?” the boy said, deliberately crushing his plastic glass beneath the heel of his boot.
So, it was Dustin. Instinct had served her well, Liz thought smugly. When it came to confrontations, she noticed he most often led. But this time, Rusty ignored his challenge. “You’re absolutely right, Dustin,” Liz said quietly, walking over to pick up his flattened glass. “The rules you have to go by are the ones your dad set down before he left. And only you and Russ know how he’ll react if you break them.” She walked past him to toss the plastic pieces into the box lid. Unfurling her lariat, she deftly roped the third gelding, Little Toot. At this moment Liz felt it described Dustin Spencer. With his flashing go-to-the-devil eyes and pouting lips, he was a little toot, all right.
“Hey, that was cool,” Rusty exclaimed, running to meet her as she returned with the dun-colored gelding in tow. “Will you teach me how to throw a rope like that?”
Liz cast a surreptitious glance toward his surly twin. Dusty’s head was down and he was digging a furrow in the dirt with a boot heel. She’d bet the contents of her lunch basket that he didn’t want any part of her teaching.
“I’m not sure how long it’ll take to shoe this horse.” She patted the soft nose as Little Toot nibbled her collar. “There are several lariats behind the pickup seat. Melody can explain the basics. If I have time before your dad gets back, I’ll be glad to show you some simple rope tricks.” She pointed. “See that old stump?” It looked as if it’d been sheared off by lightning. “That’s how I learned and how I taught Melody. You practice roping stumps by the hour.”
Rusty let out a whoop that scared the horse. “Sorry,” he muttered, dashing after Melody. “C’mon!” he yelled to his brother.
“I don’t want some dorky girl teachin’ me to rope,” Dustin declared loudly. “Shorty said he’d show us how before the next roundup. Let’s wait.”
Rusty’s steps slowed. He glanced back at his brother, then at the rope Melody offered him. Hunching his shoulders, he turned and raced Melody to the stump.
Good for you, kid, Liz thought as she bent to her task. Still, she did feel for Dusty. Tough guys took a lot of falls before they learned. Especially the ones who used stubborn pride as a defense mechanism. This child came by the trait honestly; Gil Spencer wore pride like a suit of armor. Rusty was the anomaly here. More open. You could even call him sweet. Liz hammered the first white-hot piece of metal into the proper curve and cooled it in the bucket of water. She’d have to be careful not to treat Rusty with more affection, she told herself. Who knew better than she that pride was sometimes all that protected a fragile heart? So many times she’d picked up a pen to write her parents. At least four times she’d slipped Melody’s picture into an envelope. She’d thought that maybe if this job panned out…But now, of course, it wasn’t going to last. Yes, she knew all about stubborn pride.
And Dustin Spencer showed no sign of relenting. Liz watched him slam rock after rock, hard as he could, against a rusted coffee can. She stayed silent, knowing there was nothing she could say to him.
She was driving the final nail into Little Toot’s fourth shoe when Gil Spencer galloped toward them from the north, his horse blowing hard. “Hurry,” he called. “You guys saddle up and follow me if you want a treat. The rogue stallion has his herd grazing just up the draw. It’s a sight, I’ll tell you.”
All three children sprang into action. Rusty dropped the rope he was using and raced his brother for their tethered mounts. Melody coiled her rope and his and carefully