The Countess and the Cowboy. Elizabeth Lane
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I have business in town today. I was planning to ride, but I can take you and the children in the buggy. We’ll go after lunch.”
Eve sighed in acquiescence. For now she would let him have his way. But she was not Margaret. She was not about to let this man control her life.
* * *
Clint had spent much of the morning looking for Anders Yost, the Dutch immigrant farmer who’d lost his calves to rancher Seth McCutcheon. Yost’s wife, Berta, a tired looking woman with a swollen belly and two small children hanging on to her apron, told him that Yost had gone into town to speak to the sheriff. The expression on her weary face revealed that she knew her husband was wasting his time.
Clint agreed. But since he’d planned on heading into town anyway, and since he needed to dissuade Yost from going after the stolen calves, he swung his horse toward Lodgepole and nudged the leggy buckskin to a gallop.
Leaving the horse at the livery stable, he walked the two blocks to the sheriff’s office. Yost wasn’t there, but Sheriff Harv Womack, gruff and paunchy, admitted he had been earlier.
“I advised him that losing a few calves was better than getting strung up from a tree.” Womack professed a neutral position between cattlemen and sodbusters, and generally avoided any involvement in their quarrels. But Clint suspected where his real loyalties lay, and had never quite trusted the man.
“I meant to tell him the same thing,” Clint said. “Do you think he listened?”
The sheriff shook his balding head. “I’m hoping he thought it over. But he left here swearing he’d get those calves back with or without my help. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”
“If I can find him before he does something stupid.” Clint turned toward the door, then remembered the other reason he’d stopped by. “Any luck tracking down those stage robbers?”
“Nope. Couple of fool kids, from what the driver told me. Apart from winging the guard and running the stage off the road, they didn’t do much harm—but you were there, weren’t you?”
“I was. Like the driver said, a couple of fool kids up to no good. They were more nervous than the passengers. I can’t imagine they’ll try it again.”
“Well, I’ve got better things to do than chase down those young galoots and slap their hands,” the sheriff said. “But if you happen to see them in town and recognize them, let me know.”
“I’ll do that.” Clint turned toward the door again, but the sheriff wasn’t finished.
“Hear tell the countess was on that stage. The driver said she was a looker.”
“She was pretty enough,” Clint hedged. “But not too friendly with us common folk. She didn’t say much.”
“Don’t suppose she’d have anything new to tell me about the robbery.”
“Not unless you just want to get her in here for a look. Sorry, but I need to find Yost.” Clint walked out before Womack could ask him anything else. He was just stepping onto the boardwalk when a black buggy passed him, going up the street. Roderick Hanford held the reins, his expression as smug as a self-satisfied cat’s. Seated beside him, looking fresh as a lily in a blue dress and chic little straw bonnet, was the countess.
Eve.
Hanford pulled up long enough to let an elderly man with a cane hobble across the street in front of the horses. By chance, the countess glanced to her right and caught sight of Clint. For an instant their gazes locked. Her sky-colored eyes widened, holding his. Ignoring the electric jolt that ripped through his body, Clint raised his hand to the brim of his Stetson, tipped his hat and turned away. But as the buggy moved on up the street, with Hanford’s children in the rear, Clint’s gaze lingered on her rigid back and elegant head.
Had she told Hanford about last night’s encounter? Clint hadn’t been able to read anything in the look she gave him, but the only safe assumption was that she had. If the countess wasn’t with him in his battle with the big ranchers—and she’d made that much clear last night—then she was against him. One of the enemy.
But right now he had other problems on his mind—like finding Anders Yost and checking out the alleged money shipment from the Cattlemen’s Association. Etta Simpkins at the bakery was always good for a bit of town gossip. Maybe she had something to pass on.
The buggy had pulled up in front of the hotel. Hanford climbed out, helped the countess to the boardwalk and boosted his children out of the back. Walking away, they looked like any happy, prosperous family—a snappily attired man, a stunning woman and two pretty youngsters dressed for an outing.
If Corrie and our baby had lived... But this was no time for thoughts of what might have been. Tearing his gaze away, Clint turned and headed for the saloon. He had to find Yost before the man made a fatal mistake.
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