Elizabeth Lane - The Countess and the Cowboy

Clint had seen this tactic too many times not to be wise to what would happen next. His neighbor would take his animals back—and McCutcheon’s men would make no move to stop him. But once they were back in his possession, Yost would be accused of cattle rustling and strung up without a trial. His widow and children would be run off their farm and the cattle barons would move in like vultures to seize the land.

It was up to Clint to find the man and talk some sense into him—tonight, before it was too late. After that, assuming he was successful in talking Yost down, Clint might manage to grab a few hours sleep before his own morning chores and a visit to check on the Potter ranch. Blasted fool boys. Just when things were heating up, and he needed their guns and sharp eyes, they had to go and get in trouble.

Tomorrow, once the chores were done, he’d ride into town and nose around into the investigation on the stagecoach holdup. With luck, he’d be able to learn whether Sheriff Womack was looking for Newt and Gideon. If the coast was clear, it might be safe to bring the boys home.

Clint also needed to look into the rumors of money from the Cattlemen’s Association. If they were true, and hired gun sharks were coming to Lodgepole, he would need to spread the word and come up with a plan.

But what plan? What could immigrant farmers and small ranchers do to protect themselves against seasoned killers? What chance would they have? He needed a way to learn more—how many, where and when they planned to strike.

Smitty in the Three-legged Dog and Etta Simpkins in the bakery might be good for passing on a bit of gossip. But gossip couldn’t take the place of solid information.

For that he needed the countess on his side—and the chance of winning her over was about as good as tying up a wildcat with a piece of string.

* * *

Eve sat at the dining room table helping Thomas with his multiplication tables. Rose sat across from them, practicing lines of alphabet letters in her notebook. The one-room school in Lodgepole was too far for a daily drive, especially in winter, so Margaret had schooled her children at home. She’d done an admirable job, which Eve hoped to continue.

It was only her second day here, but Eve had already made a number of discoveries. One was that Roderick had little interest in his children’s upbringing or the running of his household. Those matters had been left to Margaret—and had now fallen to her. Another discovery was that Alice, the elderly housekeeper, was suffering from rheumatism. She could manage in the kitchen, but tasks like doing laundry and trudging up and down the stairs with mop buckets and chamber pots were becoming too much for the poor woman. Eve had resolved to find her some younger, stronger help, the sooner the better.

After the children’s lessons she would take the buggy into Lodgepole for some needed supplies. And while she was there, she would pay a visit to Etta Simpkins at the bakery. Surely a woman who knew the town so well could recommend a sturdy, trustworthy girl who needed work.

Eve glanced at the children as they labored over their lessons. She would ask Roderick to let her take them into town. Maybe some peppermint sticks from the general store or a couple of small toys would bring a smile to their sad little faces. The three of them might even stop for a picnic on the way home.

As if the very thought of him could summon the man, Roderick strolled into the dining room. He was dressed like the country gentleman he’d never been in England, in jodhpurs, a tweed riding jacket and knee-high calfskin boots polished to a gloss.

“Are you ready, Eve?” he asked. “I wanted to take you out back to meet my hounds this morning.”

A knot tightened in the pit of her stomach. After last night she had no desire to meet Roderick’s baying, snarling dogs face-to-face.

“The children,” she protested. “They’re still doing their lessons.”

He did not spare Rose and Thomas even a glance. “They can finish alone. Bring something that has your scent on it.”

Eve thought of the black silk bombazine she’d worn so long that it was stiff with sweat and dust. She’d had a mind to burn it on arrival, but literally throwing it to the dogs would work just as well. It was too far gone to survive washing, but maybe she could salvage a strip of it as a mourning band to wear for Margaret.

As she hurried upstairs to fetch the gown, the shock of her sister’s death swept over her afresh. Dear, gentle, faithful Margaret. How Eve longed to hear her voice and see her patient smile again. Older by three years, Margaret had always been the solid, sensible sister. Growing up, it was Eve, the impulsive one, who was always finding ways to get into mischief. Yet it was Margaret who’d married a rough-edged adventurer bound for America, and Eve who, to save their father from financial ruin, had dutifully wed the middle-aged Earl of Manderfield.

While he lived, the earl had been the soul of kindness and generosity. Eve had never been in love with him, but he’d earned her gratitude and her lasting devotion, even in the latter years of his life, when her role toward him had been more nursemaid than wife. Margaret, who’d been so giddy with love for Roderick that she’d ignored warnings from friends and family, had paid dearly for following her heart. The thought of her sister enduring this uncivilized country and that pompous brute of a husband for eleven long years was enough to make Eve weep. If only she could have been here to give Margaret some love and support. Now she could only try to do as much for her sister’s children.

In her room, she gathered up her mourning dress and tore out a strip from the inner seam of the skirt for an armband. Rolling the rest of the gown into a wad, she carried it back downstairs. Today she was dressed in sky-blue cotton voile with a dainty white lace collar. The frock was airy and cool. In England, it would have been considered plain and practical, but she sensed that even this might be too fine for Lodgepole. Most of the women she’d seen in town had been clad in faded calicos and sunbonnets. Eve had even seen one woman in overalls. But then, she supposed, her own style of dress would adapt over time until she fit right in.

Roderick was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Let’s go and meet my pets,” he said, offering his arm. Pretending not to see the gesture, Eve swept past him. Maybe he’d only meant to be polite, but if she didn’t set boundaries now she could come to regret it later.

“You look right fetching today,” he said. “Much better than in those widow’s weeds. I hope that means you’re done with mourning your husband and are ready to get on with your life.”

She shot him a stern look over her shoulder. “I’m mourning my sister,” she said. “I saved a strip of black from the skirt to make an armband. I’ll make one for you, too, if you’d like.”

“That would be very kind of you, Eve.” His hand brushed her corseted waist as he ushered her around to the backyard.

The kennel, surrounded by a high wall of rough-sawn logs, was far enough from the house to keep odors from carrying, but close enough for the dogs to scent any strange presence. A grove of scraggly elms provided some shade. The creatures took up a hideous baying as Eve approached with Roderick. At a shrill blast on a whistle, like the one she’d heard last night, the baying subsided to whimpers.

Roderick opened the high wooden gate. Eve shrank back, expecting the dogs to rush out at her, but then saw they were inside a wire enclosure that formed part of the compound. There was also a closed storage shed and what looked to be a crude log cabin.

Standing outside the cabin was a shaggy giant of a man dressed in shapeless brown clothing and wearing a heavy silver police whistle on a leather thong around his neck.