Trouble at Lone Spur. Roz Fox Denny
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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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