Trouble at Lone Spur

“I don’t want some dorky girl teachin’ me to rope,” Dustin declared loudly. “Shorty said he’d show us how before the next roundup. Let’s wait.”

Rusty’s steps slowed. He glanced back at his brother, then at the rope Melody offered him. Hunching his shoulders, he turned and raced Melody to the stump.

Good for you, kid, Liz thought as she bent to her task. Still, she did feel for Dusty. Tough guys took a lot of falls before they learned. Especially the ones who used stubborn pride as a defense mechanism. This child came by the trait honestly; Gil Spencer wore pride like a suit of armor. Rusty was the anomaly here. More open. You could even call him sweet. Liz hammered the first white-hot piece of metal into the proper curve and cooled it in the bucket of water. She’d have to be careful not to treat Rusty with more affection, she told herself. Who knew better than she that pride was sometimes all that protected a fragile heart? So many times she’d picked up a pen to write her parents. At least four times she’d slipped Melody’s picture into an envelope. She’d thought that maybe if this job pa

And Dustin Spencer showed no sign of relenting. Liz watched him slam rock after rock, hard as he could, against a rusted coffee can. She stayed silent, knowing there was nothing she could say to him.

She was driving the final nail into Little Toot’s fourth shoe when Gil Spencer galloped toward them from the north, his horse blowing hard. “Hurry,” he called. “You guys saddle up and follow me if you want a treat. The rogue stallion has his herd grazing just up the draw. It’s a sight, I’ll tell you.”

All three children sprang into action. Rusty dropped the rope he was using and raced his brother for their tethered mounts. Melody coiled her rope and his and carefully returned them to the pickup. “Is it all right if I go?” she asked her mother.

“Go ahead. I’ll stay and pack up. The engine noise would probably scare him off before we got within range.” She wanted to go, though. Liz had never seen a true wild horse.

“It’s not far,” Gil said, riding up beside her. “Come on, ride with me.” He leaned from the saddle and stretched out a hand.

Liz felt her eagerness fade in a rush of embarrassment, even though she’d made her living working with men since Corbett died. She’d learned to sidestep advances and had developed a no-nonsense handshake, but it had been more than six years since she’d slid her arms around a man’s waist. And, Lord, when you weren’t intimate with the man, what did you do with your hands? Just now Liz tucked them in her back pockets and gave a little shake of her head.

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