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. “Rafe Padilla hired me two weeks ago,” she stated firmly, assuming—hoping—that would straighten things out.
The woman now seemed subdued, a fact that cooled Gil’s temper. Even supposing Rafe had hired her, Gil would never allow anyone connected to the rodeo to stay on his ranch. “If that’s true,” he sighed, “my beef is with Rafe. But it changes nothing. Stow your gear and be on your way.” He glanced away as huge brown eyes blinked up at him, then retreated into blankness again.
Liz’s brain stalled. She saw all her hopes, all her dreams for Melody, slipping away.
“I see you still doubt who’s giving you your walking papers,” the man said harshly. “Here’s my driver’s license.” He pulled a plastic sleeve out of his wallet and sailed it toward her. It plopped at her feet, kicking up a tiny cloud of dust.
Night Fire reared again and pawed the ground. Liz scooped the plastic out of the dirt before climbing through the rails. A terrible crushing weight trapped the air in her lungs as she scanned the picture of a ruggedly handsome clean-shaven man who bore scant resemblance to this scruffy cowpoke. Except for maybe the cool hazel eyes that could freeze a woman’s soul. And the name, Gilman Spencer, that leapt off the paper to taunt her.
Liz tried to speak. The words stuck in her throat. Shaking her head, she handed back his license. “I don’t understand,” she stammered. “The friend who recommended me set it up with Mr. Padilla, but I assumed you had hired me.” If only she’d asked Hoot more about Spencer. Not that he’d have said anything, closedmouthed as he was.
Gil jammed his license into his wallet and returned the worn leather case to his back pocket. “If I hired women on the Lone Spur, which I don’t because they distract my wranglers, I most assuredly wouldn’t hire a rodeo groupie.”
“I beg your pardon.” Liz drew herself straight up. Even then the top of her head barely reached his shirt pocket. “Rafe told Hoot Bell—that’s my friend—that you were desperate for a good farrier. I am that, Mr. Spencer. And for your information, I am not a rodeo groupie. I