Trouble At Lone Spur by Roz Denny Fox Page A

chicken salad halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t mean to imply that she died,” he said curtly, “or that I missed her.”
    Startled by his bluntness, Liz flushed. For a moment neither spoke. What was there to say?
    He finished swallowing that bite and then sampled a piece of bread. “Mmm. No wonder Rusty hangs out here. I trust you’ll let me know if he makes a pest of himself.”
    Still disturbed by his callous dismissal of someone who’d borne him two children, Liz just stared at him.
    He picked up the napkin that lay beside his plate and wiped his mouth. “Is that better? Did I have salad spread from ear to ear? Or bread crumbs?”
    “Neither. Mr. Spencer,” Liz began tentatively. “Rusty—in fact, both boys—exhibit classic behavior suggesting they miss their mother very much. I can see why, if you bite their heads off when they innocently mention her. Regardless of how you feel, they need to know they weren’t abandoned. You should try ironing out your differences with their mother, at least for the boys’ sake.”
    Gil looked from her to his barely touched plate of food. He folded the napkin as carefully as a road map and laid it precisely where he’d found it. “If I wanted a sermon with supper, I’d have gone into town to the Salvation Army.” He started to rise.
    Liz motioned him back to his seat. “Finish. I’m not usually given to messing in other people’s lives. It’s just that I thought I recognized the symptoms in the boys, having gone through all the steps with Melody even though Corbett died before she was born.” Sighing, Liz picked up her cup of hot chocolate. “I think I’ve read every child-psychology book written on the stages of grief. Maybe I was misreading your kids’ behavior. I guess a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.” She ended with a deprecating shrug.
    Tension arced between them for several moments. Then Gil settled back in the chair and toyed with his salad. “My divorce wasn’t what you’d call amicable. Sounds as if your marriage was good. Has he been gone long?”
    “Gone?” She wrapped her hands too tightly around the mug. “You make it sound as if he’s visiting Houston or Kansas City. Corbett’s been gone six years, four months and twenty-two days. And our parting wasn’t amicable, either. It was courtesy of a bull called Sudden Death.” Without lifting her eyes, she let her story spill out—including the part about her recurring nightmares of finding herself in the chute, and how the fear manifested itself in debilitating claustrophobia. By the time she finished, her knuckles were white.
    Gil leaned forward and gently parted her fingers. Rising, he dumped her cold cocoa down the drain. When he poured her another cupful from the thermos, he brought it back to the table. “Drink this,” he said quietly.
    Dazed, she met his eyes. Up close the hazel took on many hues. Chestnut, bronze and saffron, in addition to flashes of green.
    “Lizbeth.” He said her name with a rough embarrassed catch. “If you expect a man to eat, don’t stare.” Picking up his fork, he deliberately attacked the salad.
    The way he’d said her name sent a chorus of vibrations along her limbs. Liz crossed her arms and massaged the soft flannel of her gown’s long sleeves. “I didn’t mean to stare. Has anyone ever told you that your eyes are a collage of colors?” she asked dreamily. “Probably not,” she muttered when he choked on a bite.
    She leapt up and thumped him on the back. “Hey, sorry for making you listen to all my woes.”
    Gil pushed his now empty plate aside and stood. “Frustration, grief—they gotta go somewhere.” He took her hand, dropped it at once and reached quickly for the knob to the back door. “I break horses. A lot of horses. And if that doesn’t do it, I set fence posts until I’m numb.”
    She trailed him to the door, a frown wrinkling her brow. “Yes, but I pound the daylights out of a ton of iron. Mr. Spencer,” she