The Countess and the Cowboy

From the train Eve had seen buffalo herds and wide-eyed pronghorn antelope that could outrace the wind. And she’d heard tales of the predators that prowled the forest shadows—wolves, bears and the fierce golden cat of many names: puma, cougar, catamount, panther, mountain lion.

But she’d come to believe that the most savage creatures in the untamed frontier of this country were the men. It was as if the fight for survival had beaten all the civility out of them. They were like snarling beasts, jumpy and alert, ready to reach for a weapon at the slightest provocation. When they met they sized each other up like bristling hounds, measuring size and speed, testing their power.

Foolish posturing, that’s all it was.

Her gaze returned to Lonigan. He’d finished tending to the wounded guard and was helping lift the stage off its broken wheel, raising the axle inch by inch while the aging driver braced it up with rocks. It was hard work. His leather vest and holstered pistol lay in the grass at the roadside. His shirt was dripping with sweat. The faded fabric clung like a second skin to his muscular body—not an unpleasant sight, Eve conceded. His eyes, she now recalled, were like sharp gray flint, deepening in hue around their black centers. If he were to submit to a bath, a barber and a suit of decent clothes, he could be quite attractive. Yet maybe it was better that he stayed as he was. His appearance now made no effort to hide the harshness of his true nature.

Lonigan was no different from other men she’d observed. At best, he was arrogant and ill-mannered. Short of that, he could be a thief or at least a friend of thieves. Worse, if anything, he was Irish. She would do nothing to rile him for now. Until their journey ended, she was uncomfortably at his mercy. However, once the stage reached Lodgepole and she was safely ensconced with her sister’s family, she would turn the matter of the ring over to Roderick and have nothing more to do with him.

* * *

With the spare wheel in place, the stage lumbered the last few miles toward Lodgepole. Clint had given the wounded guard his seat inside. Riding shotgun with the driver, he scanned the brushy hills. At any minute, he’d expected to see Sheriff Harv Womack and his deputies come galloping into sight, but it hadn’t happened. Maybe the rumor about the cash shipment hadn’t been a trap, after all. Or maybe Clint was just jumping at shadows. The truth might have to wait till he caught up with Newt and Gideon.

“Did you have any plans to carry cash?” he asked the driver. “I’m just wondering where those two galoots got the idea there’d be a strongbox.”

The driver spat a stream of tobacco off the side of the stage. “Not from me. If I’d been carryin’ a strongbox, I would’ve had a second guard up here. Lucky for us nobody got hurt worse’n that hen scratch on Zeke’s arm.”

“Are you planning to report the holdup?”

He shook his head. “I’ll let the sheriff know if I see him—or you can tell him yourself if you want to. But it’s not worth takin’ time to file a report. We’re runnin’ late as it is. And them two kids didn’t strike me as hardened criminals. I don’t expect they’ll bother us again.”

Clint’s fears eased some, but Newt and Gideon weren’t out of the woods yet. Damn it, he should’ve asked somebody to ride herd on those boys. They’d earned the right to be part of his operation—a handful of small ranchers who’d banded together to protect each other and their neighbors from the cattle barons who wanted their land. But the brothers were always pushing the limits. If they got themselves caught thieving and were scared enough to name names to avoid a noose, all hell could break loose.

The young fools were well-known and easy to recognize. Now four people besides Clint had seen them holding up the stage. The driver and guard were from Casper. They could describe the robbers but didn’t likely know them. Mrs. Simpkins knew the brothers, but she’d been frightened out of her wits. Clint could only hope she hadn’t guessed who they were. At least she hadn’t shown any signs of recognizing them. As for the countess...

The image of that Madonna-like face glimmered like a phantom in his mind. Yes, she was the dangerous one. She’d lost a priceless heirloom and she was determined to get it back at any cost. Worse, she’d have the ear of Roderick Hanford, the most powerful and ruthless rancher in the county.

Clint cursed his own shortsightedness. He’d only wanted to get Newt and Gideon out of harm’s way. But he’d stepped in it this time, up to his well-meaning chin.

This couldn’t wait. He had to find the boys and get that damned ring back.

* * *

The driver had let Lonigan off at the livery stable on the edge of town. As the coach rolled into Lodgepole, Eve raised the edge of the canvas cover for a look at her new home.

She stifled a groan.

Lodgepole’s main street was a long strip of dirt. Ugly clapboard buildings, most of them wanting paint, lined both sides, fronted by a sagging boardwalk. Eve recognized a saloon, a general store, a bank of sorts and a gaudy-looking structure that might have been a brothel. A farm wagon, drawn by a plodding, mismatched team, rolled down the opposite side of the street. A horse tied outside the saloon raised its tail and dropped a steaming pile of manure in the dust.

Tucked between the general store and the bank was a neat little shop with a Closed sign in the window. That would be Mrs. Simpkins’s bakery. At least it had curtains and a flowerpot on the sill. As for the rest of the town...

But never mind, Eve lectured herself. Soon she would be with Margaret and the children. That was the only thing that mattered.

Though they’d been apart for nearly eleven years, the two sisters had remained close. They’d written to each other every few weeks, sharing secrets, sorrows and small victories. Anyplace with Margaret would be home. And Eve would so enjoy the children—Thomas, who was eight, Rose, who was six, and the new baby. It would be almost as good as having children of her own.

True, she’d never cared for Margaret’s husband, Roderick, whom she’d known since childhood. The second son of a neighboring farmer, he’d always been something of a braggart and a bully. But that hadn’t kept Margaret from marrying him and following him to the wilds of America. Eve had never tried to mask her dislike for her brother-in-law. But at least he’d agreed to take her in. For her sister’s sake, and for harmony in the household, she would make every effort to tolerate the man.

The stage was slowing down. Eve’s pulse raced with anticipation as it pulled up to the covered porch of a two-story building that appeared to be a hotel. She glimpsed three figures on the porch—a tall man and two children.

It had to be Roderick. Eve hadn’t seen him in more than a decade, but she’d know that gaunt scarecrow figure anywhere. There was no sign of his wife. Did that mean Margaret had already given birth? Was she home with the baby?

Mrs. Simpkins motioned her toward the door. “Go ahead and get out first, my dear. You’ve come such a long way. You must be exhausted.”

With a murmur of thanks, Eve swept back her veil, unlatched the door and stepped out onto the boardwalk.

It was indeed Roderick on the porch with the children—such beautiful children. Thomas was dark and solemn like his maternal grandfather. And Rose was like her name, a dainty little fair-haired flower. Wondering what she should say first, Eve hurried toward them.

Their stricken faces stopped her cold.

Eve’s hand crept to her throat. Even before she heard it, she guessed the truth.

Roderick broke the silence. “It’s good you’ve come, Eve. Margaret died in childbirth ten days ago.”

“And the baby?” Her question emerged as a choked whisper.

Roderick shook his head. “The baby, too.”

Chapter Two

“You mule-headed bunglers! Don’t you know what could’ve happened if you’d been caught?” Clint had found the Potter brothers hiding in his barn. He could only hope his tongue-lashing would scare some sense into them. “What in hell’s name did you think you were doing, holding up that stage?”

“We heard tell there was money on it.” Newt cringed against the side of the milking stall. “Money for hired guns, to drive us off our land. Don’t be mad, Clint. We’d’ve told you but you wasn’t here. We had to do somethin’.”

“Where did you hear about the money? Who told you?”

“Smitty passed it on,” Gideon replied. “Said some of Hanford’s men was talkin’ about it at the bar.”

Clint scowled, weighing what he’d heard. Smitty, the one-legged bartender at the Red Dog Saloon, had always been a reliable source. If he said he’d heard about the money, it was likely true.

Had the cattlemen discovered that Smitty was passing information to the small ranchers? Could they have fed him a lie to set a trap?

The failure of the sheriff’s men to appear and spring that trap would argue against it.

So what if the information about the money had been true? What if the cash had been on board the stage, after all—not in a strongbox, but hidden on one of the passengers?

Which one? He could probably rule out Etta Simpkins, who was little more than a harmless chatterbox. That left the mysterious beauty draped from head to toe in sweltering black silk.

What had the countess been wearing under those widow’s weeds? He’d bet the farm it wasn’t just lace-trimmed petticoats and silk drawers—unless she’d hidden the stash in her trunk.

“That ring you took—where is it?” he demanded.

Newt fished the ruby ring out of his pocket, spat on the stone and rubbed it on his shirt. “Purty thing. Looks like it might be worth a piece. How much d’you reckon we could get for it?”

“Here in Lodgepole, all you’d get is a necktie party from Roderick Hanford. That widow on the stage was Hanford’s sister-in-law. The ring’s hers.”

“The countess?” Apparently Gideon had heard the rumors. “Didn’t count on her bein’ such a looker. What were you doin’ with her ring?”

Clint hooked the ring with his forefinger and dropped it into his vest pocket. “I took it for safekeeping after the shooting started. When I gave it up to get rid of you boys, she was madder than a wet wildcat. If she doesn’t get it back, she’ll have our hides nailed to Hanford’s barn.”

“So how d’you figure on gettin’ it to her? It’s not like you can just march up Hanford’s front steps and knock on the door.”

“That’s my problem. Your problem is staying out of jail. Lie low while I scout around and rustle you up some supplies so you can go hide out until this blows over. As soon as it’s dark you can head up to that old herder’s cabin below the peaks. You’re not to show your faces around here till I send word that it’s safe, hear?”

“What about our place?” Newt whined. “What about our stock?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll see to things.” At that, the brothers subsided, looking like nothing so much as scolded schoolboys. Clint abandoned the rest of his lecture. Newt and Gideon weren’t young enough to be his sons, but most of the time he felt like their father.

Warning them once more to stay hidden and quiet, Clint left the barn and made a slow circuit of his property. There was no sign of trouble, but a man couldn’t be too careful. The countess, or even Etta Simpkins, could have described the stage robbers to Sheriff Womack in enough detail to identify the boys. The sheriff, or maybe some of Hanford’s rowdies, could be watching on the chance that the Potter brothers might show up. Clint would need to behave as if nothing was amiss.

A neighbor’s boy had been minding his place while he was in Cheyenne. Everything appeared fine, including the Herefords he grazed in an upper pasture; but Clint went through the motions of checking the hen coop, and the paddock where the milk cow and the horses grazed. His eyes swept the scrub-dotted foothills that rose behind the ranch, alert for the slightest movement or the flicker of reflected light on a gun barrel. Nothing. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t being watched.

He passed through the apple orchard he’d planted the year his wife died. The trees were still too young to bear fruit, but they were tall enough to shelter her grave. Maybe next spring they would shower the sad little mound of earth with soft white petals.

Clint paused, gazing down at the hand-chiseled marker. Corrie had died defending her home from the band of raiders that had raped her and burned the house and barn. At the time, she’d been seven months pregnant with his child.

Clint had been in town that night, summoned there by Roderick Hanford for a supposed meeting between the small ranchers and the members of the Cattlemen’s Association. He’d arrived to find the meeting canceled and Hanford playing faro in the Three-legged Dog. When Hanford looked up at him, something in the man’s cold eyes had chilled Clint to the marrow. Wild with dread, he’d galloped home to find his ranch ablaze and his wife’s naked, bloodied body sprawled in the yard.

Despite the solid alibi, Clint had never stopped believing that Hanford was behind the raid. He’d buried Corrie and planted the trees as a promise that he would stay here, rebuild the ranch and seek justice for her murder. The second part of that promise had yet to be kept. But he hadn’t given up.

Now there was a new player in the game—the mysterious beauty who’d be sharing Roderick Hanford’s household. How much did the countess know about her brother-in-law’s activities? How strong were her loyalties? Could she be swayed, even turned?

If she was already carrying money from the Cattlemen’s Association, Clint would have to bet against the odds of winning her over to his side. But desperate times called for desperate measures. If the opportunity presented itself, he would use the woman any way he could.

Walking back toward the house, Clint felt the weight of the ring in his vest pocket. The setting sun cast his lengthening shadow across the ground—still his own ground, despite the cattlemen’s attempts to drive him away.

He paused to watch the sky fade from flame to the deep indigo hue of the countess’s eyes. Soon it would be dark. He would see Newt and Gideon safely on the trail to the mountain hideout. Then, once things had settled down for the night, he’d drop by the Three-legged Dog to have a drink and catch up on the news. After that it might be time for a visit to the Hanford ranch.

* * *

Dinner that evening was a dismal affair. Alice, the aging cook, had gone to the trouble of making a nice meal. But the children had barely picked at their roast beef and potatoes. Eve had made an effort to eat, but could get only a few morsels down a throat swollen with unshed tears.

Margaret, her gentle, loving sister, was dead and the baby with her. The shock was too much for Eve to grasp.

Only Roderick seemed to have much appetite. He ate with relish, sopping his bread in the gravy and stuffing it into his mouth. Back in England, his lack of a gentleman’s manners had been a handicap that had kept him from gaining acceptance in high society. Here, in the wild American West, the rules were different and Roderick was in his element.

Eve’s gaze roamed the cavernous dining room with its high, beamed ceiling and deer-antler chandelier. Built of massive rough-hewn logs, the house was large enough to be impressive but looked as if it had been hastily thrown together with no regard for design or taste. She’d expected a welcoming warmth from her sister’s home, not decorations that seemed designed to frighten or intimidate guests. The walls around the long table were adorned with mounted animal heads—buffalo, elk, deer, pronghorn antelope, a half-grown black bear and a snarling cougar with yellowed fangs as long as Eve’s little finger. Its glass eyes stared down at her, a strange sadness in their empty depths. Or maybe the sadness she sensed was her own.

“I see you’re admiring my trophy collection.” Roderick had cleaned his plate and was watching her from under his thick, black brows. He was handsome in a long-jawed sort of way, but Eve had never found her brother-in-law attractive. “I treed that cat with the pack of hounds I keep out back,” he said. “Got him with one shot straight through the heart.”

“He must’ve been a beautiful animal in life.” Eve, who was fond of cats, had no desire to hear about Roderick’s hunting exploits and quickly changed the subject. “Who’s looking after the children?” she asked.

“Alice has been seeing to their needs,” Roderick answered. “But she’s getting old and has all she can do with the cooking and cleaning. So I’m hoping you’ll make yourself useful, Eve.”

“Of course. That’s why I’ve come. To help.” She glanced across the table at her sister’s children. The two sat in silence, their eyes downcast. This was far from the happy welcome she’d expected. But Thomas and Rose would need a great deal of mothering, and she was here to give it to them as well as she was able.

Roderick was leaning back in his chair, openly studying her. Not that she was any treat for the eye tonight. The news of Margaret’s death had left her too stunned to deal with changing her dusty clothes or brushing out her sweat-dampened hair. As far as she was concerned, the last thing that mattered tonight was the way she looked.

“How was your trip, Eve?” he asked. “You haven’t told us much about it.”

The very question wearied her. She should probably tell him about the holdup and the loss of her ring, but her sister’s death had shrunk those events to trivialities. Maybe tomorrow she would have the strength and patience to deal with them. But not tonight.

Eve rose from her chair. “The trip was long, and I’m exhausted. If you’ll excuse me, Roderick, I’ll take the children upstairs and help them to bed. Then I intend to get some rest myself. Please thank Alice for the lovely dinner.”

He rose with her. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“Tomorrow.” Her smile was forced. “We’ll talk then. Come and show me to your rooms, children.”

Rose and Thomas took her outstretched hands and led her up the stairs. They shared adjoining nurseries down the hall from the room where Eve’s luggage had been taken. Eve had felt nothing of her sister’s presence downstairs, where the decor was dark, heavy and oppressively masculine. But the children’s rooms spoke of Margaret—the bright chintz coverlets and curtains, the braided rugs, the fairy-tale pictures on the walls. It was as if here, with her little ones, Margaret’s true nature had been allowed to blossom. But the rest of the house had clearly been ruled by Roderick.

Margaret’s letters had never held a word of complaint against her husband. But how could a woman as sweet and gentle as her sister be happy in this house, and with such a man?

He’d probably read and approved every word she wrote.

Tonight the children were meek and quiet—too quiet. By the light of a flickering candle, Eve got them into their nightclothes, washed their faces and saw that they brushed their teeth. After mumbled prayers, they crawled into their beds and lay still. Poor, wounded little things, their stoicism made her want to weep. She already loved them.

Eve’s own spacious room bore Margaret’s touch, as well—the soft, flowered coverlet on the bed, the scattered cushions, the pretty little folding secretary against one wall and the upholstered bench by one window. Tears welled in Eve’s eyes as she realized her sister had prepared this room just for her, likely within weeks of her death.

Eve used the candle to light the bedside lamp. Her trunk and her other bags sat in the middle of the floor where Roderick’s hired men had left them. Back in England she’d have had a lady’s maid to unpack her clothes and help ready her for bed. But that life was behind her now, and she was quite capable of doing for herself.

The room was stifling from the day’s trapped heat. By the time she’d unpacked half her trunk, her face was damp with sweat. Crossing to the windows, she pulled back the drapes, unlatched the sashes and opened them wide. A draft of coolness swept over her face.

She closed her eyes, filling her lungs with the fresh Wyoming air—as cool in its way as English mist, but drier and sharper, with a light bouquet of pine needles, sagebrush, wood smoke and cattle. Her fingers plucked the pins from her tight bun, letting her hair fall loose as she leaned over the sill.

Heaven.

Savoring the soft breeze, she unbuttoned the high collar of her dress, opening it all the way down to her corset. She’d been miserable all day, so hot... What a blessed relief to feel cool air against her skin!

The moon was rising over the plain, waxing but not yet full. A distant speck of light glowed through the high window of the bunkhouse. Horses stirred and snorted in the corral. None of it was what she was used to—but it was all beautiful, in its way.

She would make the best of what she’d found here, Eve vowed. It wouldn’t be easy, but somehow she would learn to tolerate Roderick, nurture her sister’s motherless children and find her own small pleasures. Maybe one day she would even come to think of this strange, wild place as home.

But tonight she felt as lost and alone as a wanderer among the stars.

* * *

Clint swore under his breath as the countess leaned over the upstairs windowsill. Backlit by the lamp, with her bodice open and her hair streaming like ebony silk, she was a sight to heat the blood of any man—and Roderick Hanford’s blood could be simmering already. Clint had heard in the saloon that Hanford’s wife had died. No doubt the man would be looking for a replacement to warm his bed. Who better than the beautiful, widowed sister-in-law who’d come to look after his children? The fact that she was damn near royalty wouldn’t hurt her chances of becoming the next Mrs. Roderick Hanford, either. If the bastard married her, Clint wouldn’t put it past the pretentious ass to take on her title.

But he hadn’t risked danger to ogle the woman or make guesses about her relationship with her brother-in-law, he reminded himself. He hadn’t even come to return her ring, though that was the reason he’d give, if she asked. In truth, he’d come to take stock of her situation, maybe even to warn her if he got the chance. He could always put the ring in the mail or wrap it in his bandanna and toss it onto the porch. But then he’d have no excuse to contact the countess—a contact that, if luck was in the cards, might prove useful.

Not that luck had ever shown him much favor.

Checking the shadows, he slipped around the side of the house. The ranch was a perilous place for a man like him. A hundred yards beyond the house, Roderick Hanford kept a kennel of hunting dogs, trained to be as vicious as possible. The scent of a stranger would set off a hellish baying. At a signal from the house, their handler—the master of hounds, Hanford called him—would turn the beasts loose to run down the intruder and tear him to pieces. That very thing had happened to a young cousin of the Potter brothers who’d been caught on Hanford’s property. The next morning they’d found his mauled body, or what was left of it, where a night rider had flung it on their porch.

Tonight Clint was downwind from the dogs. But the wind could change, and he was hair-trigger wary. His pistol was loaded, his horse tethered within sprinting distance. He was ready to leave at a moment’s notice...but he hated the thought of going without doing what he’d come for—speaking with the countess.

So what now? The countess had left the window, but he glimpsed signs of her moving about in the lamp-lit room. The other windows in the house had gone dark. She appeared to be the only one still up and stirring. Should he toss a pebble at her pane on the chance that she’d hear? If he showed himself and held up the ring, would she come down to the porch and get it? Would she listen to what he had to say? Or would loyalty to her sister’s family compel her to raise an alarm?

Clint forced himself to exhale, feeling the tension in every nerve. He would allow a little more time for the household to settle down, he resolved. Then he could decide whether to act or to leave.