Elizabeth Lane - The Countess and the Cowboy

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.