Trouble at Lone Spur. Roz Fox Denny
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door closed. “Sit. We’re going to have a frank talk about how men treat women.”
Ten minutes later Gil slumped in his chair. The upshot of the twins’ half of the conversation was that they held some pretty unflattering opinions of the opposite sex—which they claimed to have gotten from him. Gil was stunned to learn his bitter divorce had translated as a total disregard for all women. “Boys…I don’t hate women. Just where, I ask, would the world be without women?”
“Shorty Ledoux says a man don’t need women or schooling to work horses,” Dusty informed his dad sullenly, quoting one of Gil’s best but crustiest old wranglers.
“Dustin.” Gil smacked a hand on his desk top, making both boys jump. “Nothing is less true. It takes a college degree in agriculture or animal husbandry or both to successfully operate a ranch the size of Lone Spur. Moreover, whether or not we have women on our ranch, men treat them with respect wherever they are. Your behavior toward Mrs. Robbins is inexcusable. I’m angry and disappointed.”
Rusty started to sniffle. Dustin blustered. “Well, gol dang, Buddy Hodges says we don’t need women no way, no how.”
“I beg to differ with Buddy. Maybe it’s time we sat down and addressed the whole subject of the birds and bees.” Gil jumped up and paced the length of his office.
Both boys turned red and wiggled uncomfortably in their chairs. Gaze locked on his toes, Dustin again spoke first. “Buddy told us where babies come from. He ‘splained exactly what happens in the mating barn.” The boy rolled his eyes. “Me’n Rusty made a pact. Ain’t neither of us ever gonna get married. All that gruntin’ and squealin’ is pure disgusting.”
Gil’s jaw sagged. Tugging at his earlobe, he stomped out to get a cup of coffee and look for Ben. The old wrangler was nowhere to be found. Sly old dog. Gil remembered he’d been thirteen when he and his dad had a man-to-man chat. Thirteen had been too late, but damn—nine—they were still babies.
Determined to meet his obligation head-on, he returned to the office and took the bull by the horns, so to speak. But after stumbling through generalities as best he could while the boys fidgeted and asked to be excused to go to the bathroom three times each, Gil gained a new respect for his father, who hadn’t pussyfooted around the subject of sex. Nor did Gil doubt that Buddy Hodges had been more graphic in his portrayal. Gil only hoped he’d corrected some of Buddy’s gross misconceptions.
Weighing each word, Gil realized it was damned uncomfortable trying to explain the more heartwarming aspects of sex when it’d been so long he’d almost forgotten them himself. As it turned out, his sons understood a whole lot more about the mating ritual than Gil wanted to imagine. They apparently also knew that a couple of women in town had boldly invited their dad to sleep over. And that friends had tried to set him up for more than dinner a few times when he’d gone out of town on business. It appeared the twins had thrown a monkey wrench in some of those trips by developing planned illnesses. Why, the little devils—Not that Gil would have indulged in any one-night stands with virtual strangers, but he’d believed the boys sick on those occasions. The thought of how easily they’d manipulated him made Gil a little sick.
He plodded through the rest of his explanations and finally touched on a gentleman’s code of conduct before calling a halt to their chat. Then he sent the boys crying to their room as punishment for the episode with Mrs. Robbins and the bats. “And there’ll be no TV for a week,” he shouted up the stairs. “When I get back from assessing the damage caused by those bats, I’ll draw up a list of chores. Maybe work will keep you out of mischief.” Their door slammed midsentence.
Damn. He’d never spanked his kids and didn’t intend to start now. Anyway, their most effective punishment was to be confined indoors on nice days; they hated that more than anything. They took it even harder if he happened to be home. As a rule Gil didn’t believe in retroactive punishment, but this time he’d make an exception. And they’d better believe he meant business.
Gil plucked his Stetson from the hat rack. Normally he found it best to take care of all unpleasantness at once. Like it or not, he had to go see the Robbins woman. Hell, he’d stood at the barn door last night and watched her walk into that cottage—into who knew what kind of mess while he’d cogitated over some damned library book. The book. Gil snapped his fingers. What better excuse to go calling this early?
Shifting the book from hand to hand on the short walk to the cottage, Gil worked out his speech. Something he hadn’t counted on was finding his ex-farrier outside on her hands and knees weeding a colorful profusion of fall flowers. He stopped short of the picket fence as his stomach fought his morning coffee. No one had planted flowers at the Lone Spur since his mother passed away—the year he turned sixteen. Without her constant loving care, the gardens had withered and died. Until now, Gil hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the bright colors or the sweet aroma that used to greet him.
The sight before him hit Gil hard and stole what little defense he had mustered on behalf of his sons. “You’re wasting your time,” he growled, slipping through the gate. “If the drought doesn’t get them, the deer that feed here at night will.”
Liz jerked around in surprise. She hadn’t heard his footsteps. Removing her gloves, she wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. Lord, he did have a cleft in his chin. How had she missed seeing it last night? It softened his straight eyebrows and angular features. The effect had Liz throwing up her guard. “Not to worry, Mr. Spencer. I won’t charge you for the plants or for the spring bulbs I already planted.” She stood and dusted the knees of her jeans. “Have you brought my wages?”
“Uh…no.” Gil took off his hat and moved from one foot to the other, remembering the book. “Your daughter left this in the barn. I didn’t think you’d want to lose it…By the way, is she all right?” He squinted at the door. “I, uh…Is that her I hear crying?”
Liz glared at him. “Yes.”
“Not from a bat bite, I hope. God, I’m sorry. I just got wind of the twins’ latest escapade. Rest assured, Mrs. Robbins, they will pay. We’d better quit jawing, and I’ll drive you to town. A bat bite is nothing to fool with.”
Lizbeth plucked the book from his hand and marched up the porch steps. “Melody slept through my awardwinning bat dance. She’s sobbing her heart out because I finally told her we’re leaving.”
Once again Gil suffered remorse. No matter how hard he tried to shelter his sons from the fallout of his divorce, their lives had changed. But the twins probably still had more continuity day to day than Melody Robbins did tagging after the damned rodeo.
Not given to snap decisions, Gil made one. “Stay,” he blurted. “Through the school year at least. I’ll hold off putting out feelers for a new farrier until mid-May.” Considering where they’d left things yesterday, Gil thought his offer generous.
“What?” Spots of red blazed on Liz’s cheeks. “You propose that I let Melody make friends, and then you have the nerve to suggest I put her through this again in May? What’s really behind your benevolence, Spencer? Are all the good farriers taken?”
“I haven’t checked. Look, I’m trying to do the decent thing.”
“A belated attack of conscience?” Liz laughed. “Touching, I’m sure. But all I want from you is my pay. And I’d appreciate cash.”
“Dammit, the offer’s got nothing to do with conscience. I sure as hell won’t beg you to stay.” He didn’t know why he’d weakened in the first place. Insufferable woman!
It didn’t help Gil’s mood to have three of his best wranglers ride in off the range just then and pounce on him, all three willing to plead Mrs. Robbins’s case. How they’d heard so quickly that he’d fired her Gil hadn’t a clue. Sometimes he thought ranch gossip traveled on the wind.
“Check out the shoes she made for Firefly, boss. This dang horse always shuffled before,” exclaimed Clayton Smith, one of Gil’s steadiest hands.
However, Gil noticed