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Gil counted to ten under his breath, then he exploded. “Remember that rabid coyote I showed you last year? We discussed how painful treatment is for our horses. I assumed you knew it’d be as bad or worse for humans.”
Dustin stuck out his lower lip. “Men are smart ‘nuff to not get bit. Can we help it if girls are stupid?”
Livid, Gil rose over his sons. Grounding them for life was too lenient. Through a haze of anger Gil heard his white-haired houseman bang a cupboard door and grunt. “Spit out what’s on your mind, Ben. It can’t get much worse.”
“Time somebody teaches them knot-heads some respect,” he said. “Lord knows they don’t listen to me. It’s a cryin’ shame, the shenanigans they pull on folks. I tell you, Gil, I’m too old to be kickin’ the frost out of kids meaner than oily broncs.” In cowboy lingo he’d likened the twins’ need for discipline to breaking a bad horse—which, Gil knew, laid Ben’s feelings squarely on the line. He loved the twins.
So, the lady had told the truth, Gil fumed. No doubt the teachers’ notes regarding disrespect in the classroom were on target, too. Had he closed his eyes to behavior he should have seen all along? Well, they were open now. Gil wadded his napkin and threw it on his empty plate. Stalking around the table, he grabbed both boys by the shirt collars, marched them into his office and kicked the 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 stu
“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 go
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 di
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 awardwi