Trouble at Lone Spur. Roz Fox Denny
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were like matched bookends with their auburn hair, freckled noses and cleft chins. They did resemble their dad, except that his eyes were hazel to their green, and his hair a darker richer red. The boys’ faces were rounder than his. Gil Spencer was taller, leaner—and younger—than Liz had pictured. If he had a cleft in his chin, it was hidden today by stubble. But she could imagine him with one.
She found herself speculating what the boys’ mother looked like. Not that it mattered. The Spencers were nothing to her now. What should be at the top of her agenda was finding a way to break the news of their imminent departure to Melody. A sadness crept in, leaving Liz drained.
“Mom, wait’ll you see what I got in my book bag.” Melody hopped in circles. The red bow that held the girl’s dark ponytail flapped like a bird in flight.
Liz loved seeing sparks of excitement lighting eyes that had been somber for too much of Melody’s young life. But now…She got hold of herself. “Um, let me guess.” She eyed the bulging bag. “Not a kitten. Tell me you didn’t rescue another stray.” She pictured the bedraggled ball of fur that had joined their household last week. If they went back to following the rodeo, how could they keep a pet?
Melody giggled, a dimple flashing in her cheek. “Not a kitten. We went to the liberry today. Miss Woodson let me check out three books.”
Something about the number was obviously significant to her daughter, but Liz’s thoughts had skipped ahead. This was Friday. Rafe Padilla was due back soon; shortly thereafter they’d be gone. How on earth would she get books back to the school? Liz put a hand to her forehead. It all seemed horribly overwhelming.
“What’s the matter, Mom? Two of the books are ‘bout horses. I figured you’d like those. The other’s all ‘bout a mouse named Frederick. It’s mostly pictures.”
“Honey, it’s not that…”
“Then what? Don’tcha feel good?” Melody slipped her small hand into her mother’s larger one and gazed up anxiously. She’d always been a worrier.
Suddenly Liz didn’t feel well. Not well at all. It made her positively sick to think about disappointing Melody. So she wouldn’t. Not yet. Not until she saw Rafe drive in. “Why don’t you go change out of your school clothes, sweetie? After I finish here, I’ll shower and then we’ll read one of the books. Deal?”
Melody’s smile lit her face. “Can we do it before bed? After I change, I’m goin’ to the barn—to see if the twins’ dad is as neat as they said.”
He’s not, Liz wanted to scream. She didn’t, however. What was the use? “I don’t want you bothering Mr. Spencer, hon. He just got home from roundup and needs to rest. Why don’t you saddle Babycakes,” she suggested, referring to Melody’s pony. “We’ll treat ourselves to a short ride.”
Liz couldn’t afford to keep a horse for herself, but the pony didn’t eat much. So far she’d managed to trade shoeing for his vet bills. Liz hoped she could again. But what if some other farrier had moved in on her old job with the rodeo?
Dispiritedly Liz watched Melody skip toward the cottage. Sometimes Liz wondered if her father had put a hex on her when she ran off to marry Corbett—not that she believed in such nonsense. But he’d threatened dire consequences if she left the farm and broke her mother’s heart. Toliver Whitley’s most redeeming trait was that he loved his wife to distraction. Otherwise he was a cold harsh man. He certainly hadn’t cared about his daughter’s heart.
Sighing, Liz went back to rewet the ground beneath Night Fire’s hooves. She figured he’d been restrained enough for one day and was loosening his bonds when Melody hurried past the corral juggling two paper plates. “What have you got there?” Liz called.
“Oatmeal-raisin cookies for me and the twins.”
“You’d better ask Mr. Jones if it’s all right before you dole out sweets to the boys. Didn’t you tell me Rusty said they never get cookies?”
“That’s ‘cause they don’t have a mother. And Ben says he’s too old to make cookies.”
Liz released the stallion and coiled the lariat. “People don’t get too old to make cookies, Melody. My grandmother baked them up to the day she died, at eighty,” she said nostalgically. “Mr. Jones can’t be sixty.”
“More’n sixty. And his bones hurt bad. Dusty said he got throwed from a mean horse and had to quit bein’ a cowboy. That’s why he hates his job.”
“Surely he didn’t say that to the twins,” Liz exclaimed. “Maybe Dusty just told you that to gain your sympathy.”
Melody shrugged.
“Well, never mind. Run along.” Liz knew she shouldn’t encourage Melody to speculate about her friends. But if this was true, it might explain why the twins swiped cookies, engaged in pranks and generally lacked discipline. Did Gil Spencer know how his houseman felt? She recalled the rapier gaze that missed little and decided he must. Anyway, by this time tomorrow, she’d be too worried about where Melody’s next meal was coming from to feel sorry for a couple of kids who’d been born into the luxury of the Lone Spur Ranch.
THE BARN DOOR squeaked as it slid open. Gil glanced tiredly over the tops of his sons’ heads. The sunlight hurt his eyes. It seemed he’d no more than dozed off when the boys bounced into his bedroom. He’d decided to check on Shady Lady and was glad. She needed a vet.
Once his vision adjusted, Gil saw that a petite dark-haired girl stood in the sun filtering through the door’s narrow opening. A pretty child, with huge chocolate brown eyes. Gil frowned. The eyes looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen them. It was rare for his sons to have visitors he didn’t know.
The twins swiveled to see what had claimed their dad’s attention. “Melody,” they chorused. “Whazzat you got?” Rushing to meet her, they grabbed from the plates she held. “Cookies. Um, yum.”
“Wait,” she said, jerking the plates away. “You’re s’pose to ask if it’s okay to have some. My mom said to ask Mr. Jones but—Is that your dad?” she asked.
“‘Course it’s all right if we have cookies, dummy,” said the twin holding the biggest fistful.
Gil stepped out of the stall, his frown deepening. “Russell David Spencer. I don’t object to your having a treat, but I do object to your calling anyone a dummy. Apologize.” As he spoke, Gil recalled the new farrier’s complaint about his sons, and he realized the girl watched him with the same wide velvety gaze as…Lizbeth—wasn’t that the woman’s name? Yes, and now he recalled she’d mentioned a daughter.
“Hello,” he said, smiling down at the girl. “Russell,” Gil prompted. “No apology, no cookie.”
“Oh, Dad, she’s just a girl.”
That statement drew an even sterner look from Gil.
Dustin, quicker on the uptake than his brother, jammed an elbow in his twin’s ribs. “Rusty’s sorry, Melody. Aren’t you, nerd?” he hissed.
“Dustin, it’s no better to call your brother names. What’s with you guys all of a sudden? I don’t have time to get to the bottom of this now, but tomorrow we’re having a family caucus.”
“Now you did it, ding-dong,” Dusty muttered.
“Me? You’re the one callin’ me names,” Rusty shot back.
Gil placed his thumb and little finger between his teeth and issued an earsplitting whistle. All three kids jumped. “Enough. Go inside and ask Ben for some milk to go with the cookies,” he said firmly. “I have to call Dr. Shelton to see if he’ll take a gander at Shady Lady’s leg, then I’m going back up to bed. Do you think you can quit bickering long enough to let a man get forty winks?”
As if their heads were connected by a string, the kids nodded