said, feeling they’d circled back to an employer-employee standing. “I wouldn’t want my story getting out. It’s important for the wranglers to see me as a professional. As a farrier and not as a woman.”
“Everybody who works on the Lone Spur calls me Gil.”
Shivering in the doorway, Liz looked down at the toes of her fuzzy slippers. A stab of conscience had her darting a furtive glance toward the barns and corrals. She doubted any of the hands were lurking there at this hour, but what would the men think if one of them did see her saying good-night to their boss in her nightgown?
“It’s very late, Mr. Spencer, ” she muttered, quickly withdrawing. “Good night.”
“Gil,” he said again as the door closed in his face. And he stood there even when he’d heard the lock engage. Damn, he thought. Talk about damaging tales—what would happen if Rafe or the doc saw him leaving Lizbeth Robbins’s place this late at night? Whirling, Gil peered at the foaling barn where a light still burned. Considering how difficult Lady Belle’s delivery had been, something could have gone wrong with her or the weaker foal—something that might have sent Rafe in search of him at the house. And if the foreman hadn’t found him in his bed, what then?
Double damn! Gil had known from the minute he laid eyes on her that Lizbeth Robbins was going to cause trouble at the Lone Spur. He chanted the reminder like a litany as he circumvented the silent bunkhouse and rechecked the foaling barn. But Lady Belle and her babies were alone, all of them fine. Phew. Gil breathed easier. He didn’t ever want the men whispering, pitying him again, the way they had when Ginger took off with Avery Amistad.
Nice as tonight’s interlude had been, Gil wasn’t one to fool himself—he’d just eaten his last midnight snack with the Lone Spur’s farrier. Trudging up the two flights of stairs to his bed, he did everything humanly possible to comply with her wishes, to think of her as a professional, not a woman. It’d be easier if he didn’t keep hearing the lonesome wail of her guitar, or if the way she looked in that voluminous white nightgown would quit playing behind his closed eyelids.
Gilman Spencer had made at least one decision by the time the morning sun blazed through his east window. He was going to stay the hell away from his farrier, by damn, at least until May. By then, he’d be sure to have her replacement hired. When he rose, bleary-eyed, the first thing he did was draw a big black X through October thirty-first on his wall calendar. This would mark the beginning of a new regimen, with the chief task of avoiding Lizbeth Robbins. Day by day he’d get through, just as he had following the breakup with Ginger.
True to his word, he made it to the end of day one without laying eyes on Lizbeth. He knocked off early to shower and get ready to take the boys to the Halloween play. Gil’s eyes still burned from lack of sleep. He’d sooner fight a bobcat than socialize tonight. All his friends from the neighboring ranches would be there, andGil expected they’d rag on him about his latest hire. What if they badgered him to introduce her? Scowling, he dropped in on the twins to hurry them along.
“Dustin!” he exclaimed, aghast. “You can’t wear that shirt. It’s about two sizes too small. And the pants are miles too short.”
“I wore ‘em last year. It’s the only black stuff I got. I can’t be one of the headless horsemen less’n I got on a black shirt and pants.” He ended on a wail of desperation.
Gil stood in the doorway, hands bracketing his hips. “Did you just find this out today?”
Rusty stuck his head out from behind the closet door. “We got our parts a long time ago, Dad. He knew.”
“Shut up,” Dustin ordered. “I told Ben more’n a week ago.”
“So, Russell?” Gil faced his second son, trying to hide his mounting frustration. “What do you have to wear?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Everybody who works on the Lone Spur calls me Gil.”
Shivering in the doorway, Liz looked down at the toes of her fuzzy slippers. A stab of conscience had her darting a furtive glance toward the barns and corrals. She doubted any of the hands were lurking there at this hour, but what would the men think if one of them did see her saying good-night to their boss in her nightgown?
“It’s very late, Mr. Spencer, ” she muttered, quickly withdrawing. “Good night.”
“Gil,” he said again as the door closed in his face. And he stood there even when he’d heard the lock engage. Damn, he thought. Talk about damaging tales—what would happen if Rafe or the doc saw him leaving Lizbeth Robbins’s place this late at night? Whirling, Gil peered at the foaling barn where a light still burned. Considering how difficult Lady Belle’s delivery had been, something could have gone wrong with her or the weaker foal—something that might have sent Rafe in search of him at the house. And if the foreman hadn’t found him in his bed, what then?
Double damn! Gil had known from the minute he laid eyes on her that Lizbeth Robbins was going to cause trouble at the Lone Spur. He chanted the reminder like a litany as he circumvented the silent bunkhouse and rechecked the foaling barn. But Lady Belle and her babies were alone, all of them fine. Phew. Gil breathed easier. He didn’t ever want the men whispering, pitying him again, the way they had when Ginger took off with Avery Amistad.
Nice as tonight’s interlude had been, Gil wasn’t one to fool himself—he’d just eaten his last midnight snack with the Lone Spur’s farrier. Trudging up the two flights of stairs to his bed, he did everything humanly possible to comply with her wishes, to think of her as a professional, not a woman. It’d be easier if he didn’t keep hearing the lonesome wail of her guitar, or if the way she looked in that voluminous white nightgown would quit playing behind his closed eyelids.
Gilman Spencer had made at least one decision by the time the morning sun blazed through his east window. He was going to stay the hell away from his farrier, by damn, at least until May. By then, he’d be sure to have her replacement hired. When he rose, bleary-eyed, the first thing he did was draw a big black X through October thirty-first on his wall calendar. This would mark the beginning of a new regimen, with the chief task of avoiding Lizbeth Robbins. Day by day he’d get through, just as he had following the breakup with Ginger.
True to his word, he made it to the end of day one without laying eyes on Lizbeth. He knocked off early to shower and get ready to take the boys to the Halloween play. Gil’s eyes still burned from lack of sleep. He’d sooner fight a bobcat than socialize tonight. All his friends from the neighboring ranches would be there, andGil expected they’d rag on him about his latest hire. What if they badgered him to introduce her? Scowling, he dropped in on the twins to hurry them along.
“Dustin!” he exclaimed, aghast. “You can’t wear that shirt. It’s about two sizes too small. And the pants are miles too short.”
“I wore ‘em last year. It’s the only black stuff I got. I can’t be one of the headless horsemen less’n I got on a black shirt and pants.” He ended on a wail of desperation.
Gil stood in the doorway, hands bracketing his hips. “Did you just find this out today?”
Rusty stuck his head out from behind the closet door. “We got our parts a long time ago, Dad. He knew.”
“Shut up,” Dustin ordered. “I told Ben more’n a week ago.”
“So, Russell?” Gil faced his second son, trying to hide his mounting frustration. “What do you have to wear?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
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