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Authors: Roz Denny Fox
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he knew his only son wouldn’t. To Gil, the key chain symbolized the heart and soul of the LoneSpur. “It’s almost impossible to bury someone on private property,” he said in a low voice.
“Yes. Corbett’s rodeo buddies wanted him buried beneath that chute. I was relieved when the funeral home refused.” Brushing a sudden tear from her eye, Liz hurriedly pressed a hand to Melody’s shoulder. “Come along,” she urged softly, “I have work to do. Run and tell the boys you’ll see them later.”
Gil watched the woman gather her tools and stride toward the horses to be shod. Tears? At this late date? He couldn’t say why it annoyed him to see proof that she grieved for her husband, that she’d loved him.
It more than annoyed him, it made him damned uncomfortable. Because Lizbeth Robbins didn’t seem to fit his image of rodeos and their hangers-on.
And, thanks to his wife, he knew plenty about those.
CHAPTER FOUR
A FTER L IZ FINISHED checking the hooves of all three horses, she started with the one that was hardest to fit. Rafe had told her cold-shoeing was the only method the previous farrier used. It was certainly cheaper to use ready-mades, but Liz had been taught by an old-timer who believed that a foot shod properly and at regular intervals would remain sound for the life of a horse. Forming a shoe to fit exactly corrected a multitude of problems and extended the animal’s work life.
Liz slipped a lariat over the first horse and led him to a big oak tree. Its spreading branches provided shade and a relatively clean work space. From the notations Rafe had made on her clipboard—indicating each animal’s identifying features and markings—she determined that this horse was called Sand Digger. Back at her pickup, Liz wrote his name on a three-by-five card, dated it and briefly listed what she intended to do. Then she placed the card in a recipe box, which would eventually include every horse she worked on, with the cards filed in date order. She believed in shoeing at six-week intervals, eight at the most, unless the animal threw a shoe. Good records were something else Hoot had insisted on, and another thing the Lone Spur’s former farrier apparently hadn’t felt was important. She was virtually working blind on these animals.
Gil trotted up just as Liz fired her forge. “Starting lunch?”
She slipped on her apron and gloves. “It’s barely nine-thirty. Don’t tell me your breakfast has worn off already?”
His gaze slid from its inspection of her trim figure to where his sons were energetically throwing a football. “I’d barely poured my coffee when our breakfast conversation turned to bats. Food was forgotten.” He glanced at Melody, who played quietly in the pickup’s cab with a family of plastic dolls. “Is she always so placid?”
Liz looked up from gathering her nippers, blade and rasp. Laughter bubbled spontaneously. “Rarely. She’s trying to impress me so she can go catch crawdads later. Beneath that sweet exterior lies a total tomboy. You’ll see.”
Gil adjusted his hat. “That’s good. Maybe my sons’ll learn some respect. They seem to equate female with inferior.”
“Imagine that,” Liz said dryly. Then before he could take exception, she turned and made her way back to Sand Digger. Thanks to her sixth-sense antennae that were attuned to Spencer, Liz knew the moment he dismounted and followed her. Ignoring him, she arranged her tools carefully, then walked Sand Digger in a circle to check his gait. She reminded herself that a lot of owners preferred to watch their horses being shod. But for some reason it grated on her nerves to have Gil Spencer hunkered down beneath the tree, relaxed as you please. Evidently he hadn’t spied on his other farriers. If he had, his animals might be in better shape. Sand Digger favored his right front foot. On closer inspection, Liz discovered that the last nails had been driven in crookedly.
“Something wrong?” Noticing her
“Yes. Corbett’s rodeo buddies wanted him buried beneath that chute. I was relieved when the funeral home refused.” Brushing a sudden tear from her eye, Liz hurriedly pressed a hand to Melody’s shoulder. “Come along,” she urged softly, “I have work to do. Run and tell the boys you’ll see them later.”
Gil watched the woman gather her tools and stride toward the horses to be shod. Tears? At this late date? He couldn’t say why it annoyed him to see proof that she grieved for her husband, that she’d loved him.
It more than annoyed him, it made him damned uncomfortable. Because Lizbeth Robbins didn’t seem to fit his image of rodeos and their hangers-on.
And, thanks to his wife, he knew plenty about those.
CHAPTER FOUR
A FTER L IZ FINISHED checking the hooves of all three horses, she started with the one that was hardest to fit. Rafe had told her cold-shoeing was the only method the previous farrier used. It was certainly cheaper to use ready-mades, but Liz had been taught by an old-timer who believed that a foot shod properly and at regular intervals would remain sound for the life of a horse. Forming a shoe to fit exactly corrected a multitude of problems and extended the animal’s work life.
Liz slipped a lariat over the first horse and led him to a big oak tree. Its spreading branches provided shade and a relatively clean work space. From the notations Rafe had made on her clipboard—indicating each animal’s identifying features and markings—she determined that this horse was called Sand Digger. Back at her pickup, Liz wrote his name on a three-by-five card, dated it and briefly listed what she intended to do. Then she placed the card in a recipe box, which would eventually include every horse she worked on, with the cards filed in date order. She believed in shoeing at six-week intervals, eight at the most, unless the animal threw a shoe. Good records were something else Hoot had insisted on, and another thing the Lone Spur’s former farrier apparently hadn’t felt was important. She was virtually working blind on these animals.
Gil trotted up just as Liz fired her forge. “Starting lunch?”
She slipped on her apron and gloves. “It’s barely nine-thirty. Don’t tell me your breakfast has worn off already?”
His gaze slid from its inspection of her trim figure to where his sons were energetically throwing a football. “I’d barely poured my coffee when our breakfast conversation turned to bats. Food was forgotten.” He glanced at Melody, who played quietly in the pickup’s cab with a family of plastic dolls. “Is she always so placid?”
Liz looked up from gathering her nippers, blade and rasp. Laughter bubbled spontaneously. “Rarely. She’s trying to impress me so she can go catch crawdads later. Beneath that sweet exterior lies a total tomboy. You’ll see.”
Gil adjusted his hat. “That’s good. Maybe my sons’ll learn some respect. They seem to equate female with inferior.”
“Imagine that,” Liz said dryly. Then before he could take exception, she turned and made her way back to Sand Digger. Thanks to her sixth-sense antennae that were attuned to Spencer, Liz knew the moment he dismounted and followed her. Ignoring him, she arranged her tools carefully, then walked Sand Digger in a circle to check his gait. She reminded herself that a lot of owners preferred to watch their horses being shod. But for some reason it grated on her nerves to have Gil Spencer hunkered down beneath the tree, relaxed as you please. Evidently he hadn’t spied on his other farriers. If he had, his animals might be in better shape. Sand Digger favored his right front foot. On closer inspection, Liz discovered that the last nails had been driven in crookedly.
“Something wrong?” Noticing her
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