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