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A Daddy For Her Triplets
“Oh, Olivia, dear. I’m so sorry,” Libby said, pulling her into a bear hug. “You’re thinking of your Luke, aren’t you? Well, of course you are. Clint and I are being completely insensitive, aren’t we?”
Olivia’s shoulders shook. Was she crying? Please—anything but that. Clint did not do well with a woman’s tears.
Libby’s gaze pleaded with him from over Olivia’s shoulder. But for what? What did she want him to do? Press forward? Back off? He didn’t know what to do with Olivia’s tears. He didn’t even know what they were talking about.
Olivia stepped back and swiped her suspiciously wet cheeks with the palms of her hands.
“It’s nothing against you,” she said, motioning to Clint. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful trail guide. It’s just that—” Her sentence broke off as she looked at her boys. “Guys, why don’t you go grab another cookie, huh?”
The boys squealed and took off toward the dessert table.
Clint silently waited for an explanation.
“I’m sure you remember that my husband passed away a couple of years ago. What you may not know is that he died in a freak rock climbing accident. They said one of his clamps gave way. And he was an expert. The triplets are not. I can’t risk my boys getting hurt up there. They’re completely inexperienced—and they’re a handful during the best of times. One or another of them could easily slip away from you. Trust me, it happens all the time.”
Clint nodded. “I get where you’re coming from, but I assure you—they’re totally safe with me. I won’t let anything happen to them. Not on my watch.”
Not like Clint’s own father, who’d brought him up to the mountains and then just walked away. No. Nothing like that.
“I believe you,” Olivia assured him. He didn’t know whether she meant it or not, but her words were a balm to his bruised ego. “I just can’t let them go with you. It’s about me, not you.”
That was that, then. It kind of sounded like a breakup line, but he would take what he could get. He thought that was the end of the subject, and he couldn’t help but feel a little bit relieved. Going their separate ways—that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? What they’d talked about? Agreed on?
Yet a small part of him wanted to prove to her that he was responsible, capable of leading her sons on a successful day trip. That they’d have fun and learn everything he had to teach them.
“I have a splendid idea,” Libby said, jovially squeezing Olivia’s shoulder.
Olivia smiled, but it was shaky at best. Her chin was still quivering.
“Why don’t you go with them? It would do you good to get out and get a little fresh air, and that way you’ll be right there to take care of the triplets and see that they don’t come to any harm.”
Clint’s gaze widened. Come to any harm? Surely Libby didn’t believe he couldn’t handle three kids for one day.
“Isn’t that a good idea, Clint, darling? Olivia accompanying you on the day trip?”
No. It was not a good idea. In fact, it was the worst idea he’d ever heard. What was he going to do with Olivia on the beginner’s challenge? By default it would be targeted at six-year-olds. Surely she wouldn’t be interested in a children’s wilderness safety course.
And to top it off, he knew he’d get distracted. By her sparkling blue eyes. By the beautiful, full curve of her lips. By the rich oriental scent of her perfume. Everything he’d discovered about her when they were dancing.
He wasn’t marriage material, but he was a man, and he couldn’t help but be attracted to a pretty woman. Olivia was definitely that and then some.
This whole thing was a disaster in the making.
“Maybe Olivia is right,” he suggested, running a hand across the stubble on his jaw. “She’s not ready to venture out yet. And the boys are still young. There’s plenty of time for them to learn mountain skills.”
“But we want to go now, Mr. Clint!”
He hadn’t even seen the kids return, but there they were, and their expressions punched Clint right in the gut. He’d never seen such downcast features, complete with quivering lips and the onset of tears. These boys really wanted to spend time in the mountains. He got that. He felt the same way.
“Well...” he hedged. “What do you think, Olivia? We can take it as easy as you and the boys need to. It doesn’t have to be a big production. We don’t have to do the official beginner’s challenge. I can tailor it to whatever your needs are. It might even be kind of fun.”
Sure, if “fun” meant wrangling three overexcited youngsters for an entire day. He didn’t think that qualified as a good time.
Olivia sighed and rubbed her fingers on the tense muscles at the nape of her neck. “I just don’t know.”
“You can trust Clint,” Libby said, curling a hand in the crook of his elbow and patting his biceps.
“No, I know. Clint is the expert. So what exactly does this day trip entail?”
She was cracking, not that he could blame her. How could she not give in, with Libby’s gentle persuasion? In his experience, Libby could pretty much talk anyone into anything, himself included.
This whole taking-the-Barlows-on-a-day-trip thing being a case in point.
“We can take horses up Pine Meadow Trail. It’s an easy ride and there are several places to stop and enjoy nature.”
“It’s just for a few hours, right?”
“Sure. Whatever you want. Give the boys a little taste of the mountains. Have a picnic.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip and he couldn’t look away. See? She was already distracting him, and they hadn’t even started the beginner’s challenge yet.
“Okay. But if we’re doing this, I insist on bringing the picnic.”
“I’m all for that,” Clint agreed. “I can’t cook a lick. Grab a package of hot dogs and we can roast them with a stick over a fire.”
“And marshmallows?” Her eyes glinted, the first sign of interest she’d shown.
He chuckled and nodded. “Absolutely. Marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers. What is a picnic in the mountains without s’mores?”
He pulled out his cell phone and opened his calendar. “I’ve got next Saturday available, or—”
His sentence was interrupted by a shouted exclamation and the murmur of the crowd.
“It’s Robin Hood. He’s here!”
Chapter Three
An icy finger of alarm skittered down Olivia’s spine.
Robin Hood—the name of the thief who’d been casing Little Horn, rustling cattle and stealing supplies, only to turn around and fence them, making gifts to some of the less-fortunate, struggling ranchers in the area.
Hence the Robin Hood moniker—stealing from the rich to give to the poor.
He was here? At the Valentine Roundup?
He probably got a kick out of mingling with everyone, with no one the wiser as to his secret identity. It sounded cartoonish, except that it was not. It was frightening, especially to someone like Olivia.
With her tiny, struggling quarter horse ranch, she definitely fell into the latter category. She suspected Robin Hood would take one look at her and feel sorry for her, but that didn’t stop her from worrying that she might be robbed next.
Who knew what the criminal was thinking—what he really wanted? His behavior was erratic at best and no one really knew what he was ultimately after. She couldn’t afford to lose even a single horse in her already dwindling herd, never mind the trivial amount of equipment she owned.
But as much as the thought of losing any of her costly breeding stock horrified her, what concerned her the most was that the thief posed a possible threat to her children, however indirectly.
It was well-known in Little Horn that she was a widow. That made her vulnerable. An easy target. The thought that her triplets might not be safe on her own land frightened her more than she was willing to admit. She could hardly keep her squirrelly boys locked inside all day. They practically lived outside, running and playing and riding and wrestling. What if her triplets accidentally stumbled across Robin Hood when the thief was in the act of stealing something?
So far the guy hadn’t been violent. He’d covered his tracks well. No one had had more than a glimpse of him, and as far as Olivia knew, Sheriff Lucy Benson hadn’t had much success following whatever leads she had on him, nor had the Rustling Investigation Team that had been set up by the league for that purpose.
But a criminal was a criminal and in Olivia’s mind, that made him dangerous. He had to know if he got caught he would be going to prison for his crimes. Put him in a corner and she was fearful that he’d come out biting.
Clint took her elbow and braced his palm against the small of her back. “Are you okay, Liv? You just turned white as a sheet.”
She stared up at him, momentarily speechless. She didn’t know whether she was more surprised by the fact that he was acting so compassionate toward her, or that he’d just used an unfamiliar nickname with her. No one in Little Horn called her Liv.
She shook her head. “It’s Olivia,” she corrected. “And I’m fine.”
His brow lowered. “You’re not fine. Let’s get you seated on a chair and I’ll go find you a bottle of water.”
“No, really. You don’t have to do that.” What did he think? That she was Scarlett O’Hara, ready to pass out at the very thought of a crisis? Olivia had a lot more strength than he was giving her credit for. “I don’t know about you, but I want to hear what’s happening over there.”
She gestured toward the Sweetheart Wall, where folks in the community appeared to be gathering—specifically, board members of the Lone Star Cowboy League and a small group of men and women who were unofficially investigating the crimes. They’d dubbed themselves “the posse.” The name amused Olivia, though she knew Little Horn’s sheriff, Lucy Benson, wasn’t too happy to have inexperienced townspeople practically deputizing themselves.
“Fine,” Clint said, following the direction of her gaze. “Have it your way. We’ll find you a seat over there. But I’m still getting you a bottle of water.” She thought she might have heard him mutter the words stubborn woman under his breath.
She considered herself entirely self-sufficient and it galled her to think he might be even the tiniest bit on target, but at least internally, she had to admit she was feeling a little light-headed—from the rush of adrenaline surging through her and concern for her farm. It had absolutely nothing to do with the man who wrapped his muscular arms around her as he guided her across the room, assuring himself as much as her that she didn’t waver when she walked.
When they reached the Sweetheart Wall, she decided to ignore his dictatorial attitude in favor of a chair. Her own decision, not his. He had the bedside manner of an ogre, but she sensed that he meant well.
He led her to one of the nearest chairs, which were set up in a line against the wall near where everyone was gathered, mostly for use by elderly women and wallflowers. And widows, she supposed.
Clint waited until Olivia was seated before shifting to the side so he could take a glance at the missive that was causing all the commotion. He frowned and threaded his fingers through the hair curling around his collar. She’d been around him only for an hour but she already recognized the action as one he used when he was frustrated. Something he read had disturbed him.
“What is it?” The muscles in her shoulders and neck contracted painfully as she awaited his response. She held her breath.
“Robin Hood. He left a message on the wall in the guise of a valentine card.”
“What’s it say? Is it a threat?”
Clint swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Kind of, although it’s not the sort of thing I would expect from a real criminal.”
He cleared his throat and read:
“To all struggling ranchers: Funny how the Lone Star Cowboy League spends tons of money putting on a fancy event for themselves but doesn’t seem to have enough to help those who are really in need.
“Jerks. Whatever. If they won’t help, we will.”
“That doesn’t bode well for members of the Cowboy League.” Olivia frowned.
“For any of us, really,” Clint agreed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “I don’t like the sound of it. I’m not a member of the league, but the Everharts are. I’m not convinced my presence on their land is enough to keep the Everharts from becoming a target. They don’t have a large ranch, but it’s relatively prosperous, and other comparable ranches have been hit. The thief might have started with the richest ranches in town, but they’re working their way down. It’s only a matter of time before they run out of league ranches and start robbing everyone else.”
She reached for Clint’s hand. He scowled at the Sweetheart Wall.
“We’ve got to find this guy,” he growled. “And sooner rather than later.”
“Guys,” Olivia corrected, noting the worry lines creasing his face. He was clearly genuinely concerned about his foster parents. In Olivia’s opinion, how a man treated his folks said a lot about him. That Libby and James were Clint’s foster parents and not his biological ones made it even more touching.
“What?” He arched his blond eyebrows.
“The note says we’ll help. Plural. Do you see what I’m saying? Clint, there’s more than one thief out there.” Her logical deduction did not make her feel any better. More thieves meant more opportunities for crimes to be committed. “Did the handwriting look familiar to you?”
The corner of Clint’s jaw ticked. “Afraid not. It’s typewritten.”
Carson Thorn, the president of the Cowboy League, pressed his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly over the uproar of the crowd. Folks immediately stopped talking and turned their attention to him.
“Can I get the remainder of the members of the league board and the investigation team over here? The rest of you can go back to the party and enjoy yourselves.” He gestured for the band to strike up another tune. “No sense having this low-down criminal ruin the day for everyone. Don’t worry, folks. The board and the sheriff’s department are on it.”
“And the posse,” added thirty-something Amanda Jones with a frown.
Olivia chuckled under her breath at the name the group had given themselves. Right out of an old Western movie, where the sheriff “deputized” the good guys and they rode in to save the day.
In a sense, she supposed, the Lone Star Cowboy League was the good guys, providing much-needed support and services to struggling ranches around the area. They’d even developed special programs for the youth.
Her great-grandmother Lula May had been the only female founding member of the Little Horn chapter of the Lone Star Cowboy League, but Olivia hadn’t been asked to join the investigatory group, possibly because her ranch was inconsequential compared to the ones that had been robbed, not to mention that she was a widow busy raising three young boys. She was struggling just to keep her twenty acres above water and even if she wanted to, which she didn’t, she didn’t have time to put into chasing local thieves.
Clint had just said he wasn’t a member of the league, so he personally had no more at stake in catching the thieves than she did, but when their gazes locked and he arched a golden eyebrow, she knew he was thinking the same thing she was. They both wanted to know what was going on—firsthand.
The intentions of the thieves’ movements were shifting, and it was anybody’s guess where they were going next.
Clint reached for Olivia’s hand and drew her to her feet, tucking her arm into the crook of his elbow. He glanced down, concern evident in his eyes. Maybe he still thought she was ready to swoon like an actress in an old-time film, but she was made of sterner stuff than that.
She smiled up at him. He nodded briefly and stepped into the rapidly forming group as if he belonged there. As if they belonged there.
“I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” Byron McKay growled. “Lucy, when are you going to do your job and bring this thief to justice? I want him behind bars and prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”
Byron, middle-aged and portly, was the vice president of the league and by far the richest land owner in the county. He was also the one who complained the loudest. Olivia supposed she couldn’t completely blame him. He was the only rancher in the area to have been hit twice. Even so, his annoying blustering wasn’t helping matters. Folks needed to remain calm and levelheaded if they were going to get anywhere with this.
“Thieves.” Clint spoke up, his voice strong and steady. “Olivia was the one who first noticed this. Look here,” he said, pointing to the typewritten missive. “These guys wrote ‘we will,’ not ‘I will.’ It appears we’re looking for more than one criminal here.”
She tightened her grip on Clint’s forearm and he laid his hand over hers. As if one thief wasn’t bad enough.
“There’s something else in the wording of the letter that strikes me,” Lucy said thoughtfully, curling her short blond hair behind her ears and peering at the thieves’ card through her fringe of bangs. “The way it’s written sounds...juvenile. Like teenagers. It’s possible our profile is off and we need to adjust the age range of our thieves.”
“I don’t care how young they are,” Byron bellowed, snorting like an angry bull. “Juvenile delinquents or hardened criminals. What difference does it make? It’s your job to catch them and put them away for good.”
Carson held up a hand. “We all want them caught, Byron. As you well know, we’ve got every rancher in town on high alert. Most of us have installed security cameras, and our wranglers are on the lookout for anything suspicious. Everyone is doing the best they can to find the culprits, both officially and off the books.”
“Well, it’s not enough.”
That didn’t seem fair. Olivia frowned. Sheriff Benson was working overtime on the case. She looked so drawn out and tired that Olivia felt sorry for her.
What more could Byron ask than her best effort? But then again, that was the way the McKays operated. Just because they had money they thought they were entitled to everything being handed to them on a platter.
Including, apparently, the Robin Hood—Hoods.
Only this time, it wasn’t quite so simple.
Her gaze shifted to Byron’s teenage fraternal twin sons, Gareth and Winston, expecting them to have the same snooty expressions on their faces as their father did. To her surprise, they looked embarrassed, maybe even a little angry that their dad was spouting off his mouth.
She didn’t blame them. She’d be embarrassed, too, if Byron was her father. The man didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. Hopefully, Byron’s boys would grow up wiser and kinder than their father, taking a better path and becoming cooperative members of the Little Horn community.
To her credit, despite the personal attack on her capabilities as sheriff, Lucy ignored Byron’s raging and focused on the typewritten missive. “It’s too bad the note isn’t handwritten,” she remarked, intensely studying the veiled threat. “Someone might have recognized the print. As it is, I think we’ve made good strides today in further developing our working profile of the thief—er, thieves.”
Carson nodded and folded his arms. “Right. So from the language of the missive, we’re guessing they’re youth. Teenagers, maybe?”
“Or they could be young adults,” Olivia offered, thinking out loud.
Even an extended profile of the thieves was discouraging. She glanced around the room. There were probably close to a hundred teenagers in the room, and if she added everyone under thirty into the mix, that was a lot of people to investigate.
“The Robin Hoods are definitely old enough to drive a truck with a trailer attached and are familiar both with stock and ranch equipment,” Lucy said. “There is no doubt that they grew up in the country, probably on a ranch and most likely in Little Horn. At least one of them is likely a male, since it would require a modicum of strength to move many of the stolen items. Based on everything else we’ve learned, I’d hazard a guess that we’re looking for two or more young men.”
“And one other thing,” Olivia said, her breath catching as the realization dawned on her. The letter. The thieves had walked right into the grange and posted it to the wall and no one had even noticed. They weren’t strangers, then. They were neighbors.
She shuddered. The thieves could be in the room with them at this very moment. She probably knew their parents.
“The note is pinned on the Sweetheart Wall,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the din.
Clint’s brow lowered. “And?”
“And no one is allowed in the banquet hall unless they are a member of the league, or a member’s guest.” She gestured around the room. “Whoever put up this note is not only welcome at league functions, but has the ability to walk among us with no one the wiser. We aren’t seeing them because they don’t look out of place. They’re one of us.”
“So we need to narrow it down to league members,” Lucy concluded. “We need to be especially aware of teens and young adults, although I don’t want to rule out other possibilities at the present time.”
The tone of the room immediately shifted. It was alarming that no one had noticed anyone posting the missive on the wall, because whoever it was was here—and belonged here.
People’s gazes started shifting around the room as they examined and discarded possible culprits. Folks whispered among themselves. Pointed fingers and then shook their heads. Nodded and made quiet accusations.
Lucy held up her hands and turned to the secretary of the Little Horn branch of the Lone Star Cowboy League, a tall, gawky young redhead with an oversize orchid corsage on her wrist.
“Ingrid, I want a list of all league members and their families delivered to the station. We’re closing in on the thieves. I can feel it in my bones.”
“I agree,” Carson said. “I think we’re going to get these guys, especially because they’re probably here tonight. We need to make a plan—question folks to see if anyone noticed a youngster putting a typewritten letter on the Sweetheart Wall—but we should organize our movements. Try not to stir up too much of a scene.”
“Spread out and mingle. Don’t rile people up. Perhaps someone saw something we can use,” Lucy added.
“I hope so,” Clint murmured in Olivia’s ear.
“You’d better find something if you value your job,” Byron said, a great deal louder than was necessary.
Clint met Olivia’s gaze and briefly shook his head at Byron’s nonsense. Then he winked at her and his mouth curled up in an endearing crooked grin that sent her stomach tumbling. “Don’t worry about your sons, Olivia. Byron’s huffing aside, we’re closing in on the thieves. Those Robin Hoods don’t stand a chance now that I’m on board.”
An hour ago she would have thought Clint was the most egotistical, narcissistic man ever if he’d made such a presumptuous statement. But now?
Now she saw a thoughtful, determined man who wouldn’t stop until the thieves were behind bars. He might not be a superhero, but she was glad he was on her side.
* * *
Clint wasn’t a member of the Lone Star Cowboy League, much less the Rustling Investigation Team, but he wanted these thieves caught as much as the next guy. More, even, now that he had Olivia on his arm. Who would have thought one hour with a woman could change his entire perspective?
How could he not be concerned about Olivia? She hadn’t shared much with him, but she was clearly upset by the prospect of being robbed, and who could blame her, a woman alone with three young children? Her quarter horse farm might be one of the smaller and less flourishing ranches in Little Horn, but with no man around to protect them, she and her boys were especially vulnerable, ripe for criminal picking.
The targets the Robin Hoods were pursuing didn’t have much rhyme or reason to them, even with the additional clue of the valentine card. At first they’d gone after the larger ranches and Byron had even been twice robbed. Some folks were pillars of the community. Others, like Byron, likely had made some enemies along the way.