Roz Fox - Trouble at Lone Spur

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Excerpt “Rusty and Dusty don’t got no mom and I don’t got no dad.” Melody took a deep breath. “So, Mom—we could be a family!” “Oh, no!” Lizbeth gasped. “Melody, baby, you can’t just pick up stray people like you do kittens and make them part of your family.” “Why not?” A tear caught in thick lashes, then trickled down a round cheek. “Well, because…because…” Liz sighed. “Because you can’t. And whatever you do, promise me you’ll never bring up this subject with Mr. Spencer or his sons.” “But how will they ever think of it on their own? They’re boys and—” “ Never, Melody. Is that understood?” “O-kay. But will you make enough sandwiches for them? And take the rest of the cupcakes. Please, Mom.” “Melody Lorraine. I can see the wheels turning. You will not lure the Spencers with food. Where on earth are you getting this nonsense? Certainly not from me.” Liz threw up her hands. “I want to make sure you know I’m dead serious about this, Mel.” “All right. But jeez!” Melody slid off her pony and plunked down on the porch steps, chin in hand, to wait for the Spencers.

Dear Reader Dear Reader, Trouble at Lone Spur is a composite of several story ideas that finally jelled into one. I’ve wanted to set a story in the wide-open spaces of west Texas ever since I discovered that this sometimes harsh, arid land casts a lasting spell. And so do the men who work it! Cowboys—who can resist ‘em? Gil came to me in a flash. A bone-weary rancher who’d inherited a run-down ranch called the Lone Spur. A man left to raise his unruly twin sons alone. I knew those twins; I baby-sat them in another life. Believe me, Gil needed a strong helpmate! I found Lizbeth in my bottom drawer, along with an article I’d clipped from Western Horseman about a female farrier. The article was sketchy, my notes on Lizbeth brief. She was pretty and petite and she was married to a grand national bull-riding champion. A nice guy who was also a good-looking hunk. In my original version of Liz, she and this husband of hers had a sweet young daughter. Wow, talk about problems. Gil needs Lizbeth desperately, and she already has a man in her life! Plus trouble of her own. Stapled to Lizbeth’s file were clippings and news stories about children who’d fallen in abandoned wells. More specifically, I’d played around with the idea of what would happen to Lizbeth’s marriage if her daughter tumbled into a well while she was off shoeing horses. But I couldn’t ask Gil to wait around for her to work through all that. So…I made Liz a widow. Let the trouble at Lone Spur begin! As you’ll see, a finished book rarely ends up the way it starts. For all readers who, over the past few years, have written and asked how I come up with story ideas—I give you Trouble at Lone Spur. My secret is out, but I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll stop writing to me. Roz Denny Fox P.O. Box 17480-101 Tucson, Arizona 85701

Title Page Trouble at Lone Spur Roz Denny Fox www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication Thanks to my former critique partners in San Angelo, Texas—Ken, Jan, Barbara, Janet and Linda—for helping me fine-tune Gil and Lizbeth’s story. Mary, thanks for all the horsey info. Humble thanks to the patient farrier who answered endless questions about shoeing horses. He prefers to remain anonymous—a macho thing, I guess. And finally, thanks to Ken Hoogson for sharing his first-hand experience with mine and well rescues.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

Melody took a deep breath. “So, Mom—we could be a family!”

“Oh, no!” Lizbeth gasped. “Melody, baby, you can’t just pick up stray people like you do kittens and make them part of your family.”

“Why not?” A tear caught in thick lashes, then trickled down a round cheek.

“Well, because…because…” Liz sighed. “Because you can’t. And whatever you do, promise me you’ll never bring up this subject with Mr. Spencer or his sons.”

“But how will they ever think of it on their own? They’re boys and—”

“ Never, Melody. Is that understood?”

“O-kay. But will you make enough sandwiches for them? And take the rest of the cupcakes. Please, Mom.”

“Melody Lorraine. I can see the wheels turning. You will not lure the Spencers with food. Where on earth are you getting this nonsense? Certainly not from me.” Liz threw up her hands. “I want to make sure you know I’m dead serious about this, Mel.”

“All right. But jeez!” Melody slid off her pony and plunked down on the porch steps, chin in hand, to wait for the Spencers.

Dear Reader,

Trouble at Lone Spur is a composite of several story ideas that finally jelled into one. I’ve wanted to set a story in the wide-open spaces of west Texas ever since I discovered that this sometimes harsh, arid land casts a lasting spell. And so do the men who work it! Cowboys—who can resist ‘em?

Gil came to me in a flash. A bone-weary rancher who’d inherited a run-down ranch called the Lone Spur. A man left to raise his unruly twin sons alone. I knew those twins; I baby-sat them in another life. Believe me, Gil needed a strong helpmate!

I found Lizbeth in my bottom drawer, along with an article I’d clipped from Western Horseman about a female farrier. The article was sketchy, my notes on Lizbeth brief. She was pretty and petite and she was married to a grand national bull-riding champion. A nice guy who was also a good-looking hunk. In my original version of Liz, she and this husband of hers had a sweet young daughter. Wow, talk about problems. Gil needs Lizbeth desperately, and she already has a man in her life! Plus trouble of her own. Stapled to Lizbeth’s file were clippings and news stories about children who’d fallen in abandoned wells. More specifically, I’d played around with the idea of what would happen to Lizbeth’s marriage if her daughter tumbled into a well while she was off shoeing horses. But I couldn’t ask Gil to wait around for her to work through all that. So…I made Liz a widow. Let the trouble at Lone Spur begin!

As you’ll see, a finished book rarely ends up the way it starts. For all readers who, over the past few years, have written and asked how I come up with story ideas—I give you Trouble at Lone Spur. My secret is out, but I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll stop writing to me.

Roz Denny Fox

P.O. Box 17480-101

Tucson, Arizona 85701

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thanks to my former critique partners in San Angelo, Texas—Ken, Jan, Barbara, Janet and Linda—for helping me fine-tune Gil and Lizbeth’s story. Mary, thanks for all the horsey info. Humble thanks to the patient farrier who answered endless questions about shoeing horses. He prefers to remain anonymous—a macho thing, I guess.

And finally, thanks to Ken Hoogson for sharing his first-hand experience with mine and well rescues.

IN THE TWO WEEKS since Lizbeth Robbins had hired on as farrier at Gilman Spencer’s ranch, she hadn’t laid eyes on the man. The Lone Spur, situated in a sparsely populated corner of Crockett County, Texas, was a quarterhorse operation—and badly in need of her services. But if Spencer’s name hadn’t appeared on the sign at the entry gate, she might well have believed that her elusive boss was a phantom. Not that Liz cared whether she ever met the Lone Spur’s head honcho. She’d already formed her opinions.

From all she’d gleaned listening to Rafe Padilla, the ranch foreman, it sounded as if Spencer was a hardheaded perfectionist who didn’t give second chances. She suspected he was ill-mannered, to boot. That notion had come to Liz through personal dealings with his ornery-assin nine-year-old twin sons. Last night’s debacle cinched it.

While today she could laugh about the incident, it hadn’t seemed funny then. She’d been in her grubbiest clothes, hanging stubborn wallpaper in her minuscule bathroom, when all at once, in waltzed this cowboy dandy, a total stranger, claiming he’d come for the candlelit dinner Liz had promised in the note she’d sent him.

Of course, Melody shouldn’t have let a stranger in the house. But apparently her six-year-old daughter was dazzled by the Chaps cologne that rose around the cowboy like a cloud. Darned stuff made Liz sneeze. The Lone Spur’s biggest Don Juan wasn’t happy when she’d ushered him out, suggesting someone had played a trick on him.

Turned out the trick was on her. Liz knew it the moment Rusty and Dusty Spencer tumbled off her porch in sidesplitting giggles. Cowboy Macy Rydell got the message then, too. Even though he should have figured it out from the crudely written note—on wide-ruled tablet paper, no less.

Liz caught the twins and threatened to tell their dad. It didn’t faze the little punks. She was normally eventempered with kids, but this prank had been one too many in a string of antics those miniature con artists had pulled. Obviously trying to run her off the ranch. But Liz needed this job. Gilman Spencer’s twins would find out she didn’t run easily. No siree-bob!

Liz kicked dirt from her low-heeled Ropers and climbed two rungs up on the corral fence to study the magnificent blood-bay stallion three wranglers had just brought in. She doubted it took three men to handle the animal, but Spencer’s hands had been riding in off the range all week to get a look at her. Liz found that amusing. Women must be in short supply on the Lone Spur.

“Aren’t you a beauty?” she breathed, her eyes leaving the horse only long enough to locate his name on the clipboard she carried. This was Night Fire, the registered stud Spencer bred with his sand-colored mares to sire the beautiful buckskin quarter horses that made the Lone Spur a power in the breeding industry.

Liz put a check beside the stallion’s name. She smiled as her gaze skipped back to admire his long legs and deep chest. “Ah, yes. Night Fire. The name suits you. I’d guess you’re a hot lover.”

As if concurring with her assessment of his prowess, the horse reared and pawed the air. Liz read the overt challenge in his sable eyes, but she didn’t rush to meet it. Instead, she laid the clipboard aside and climbed atop the fence—to let the stallion grow comfortable with her presence and her smell.

She wouldn’t actually shoe the stud, only trim his hooves and check for disease. According to the ranch foreman, Night Fire had been favoring his left hind foot—probably an indication that the horn had grown rough and uncomfortable.

Liz snapped off a piece of grass to chew. She loved the way the morning sun caught fire in the stallion’s crimson coat. It was easy to see why his offspring were in constant demand.

First day here, she’d heard rumors that her predecessor had been fired over this animal. Liz didn’t intend to make mistakes with him—or any of the others. This job was her chance to quit trailing the rodeo from one end of the Southwest to the other. Her chance to provide Melody with roots. Nibbling thoughtfully on the straw, Liz recalled a time when she hadn’t minded the rodeo circuit. When love was young and Corbett was alive.