The Countess and the Cowboy. Elizabeth Lane
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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.”
“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