Читать книгу A Daddy For Her Triplets - Deb Kastner - Страница 12
ОглавлениеAn 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.
Now the thieves were sometimes reversing their behavior, leaving gifts for those they considered needy instead of robbing. At best it was hit or miss and not typical criminal behavior at all, the medieval Robin Hood notwithstanding.
James and Libby, on whose property he lived, were also possible targets. Their ranch was also small but unlike Olivia’s meager holdings, the Everharts were relatively prosperous. It was hard to say whether the thieves would think it was worth their time to target their ranch. Clint lived in a small cabin on the land. He didn’t have any enemies that he knew about and he tried to be a good person, but he wasn’t well-known in town. For all he knew, the Robin Hoods would use him as an excuse to rob the Everharts. Then again, his presence might be enough to deter any criminal activity.
Those thieves better hope they never had to mess with him, because he wasn’t kidding around.
But what about the times he was away from the ranch? He spent many nights out in the Deep Gulch Mountains working as a trail guide and in search and rescue. He couldn’t be everywhere at once.
And now he had Olivia and her boys to consider. What was he going to do about them? Odd that the Barlows hadn’t even been on his radar before this evening, but if he’d learned one thing in his years as a foster child, it was that life could change in the blink of an eye.
As of now, he would do whatever he had to in order to get these thieves behind bars. On that one subject, he agreed with mouthy, arrogant Byron McKay, although Clint was willing to pitch in to catch the thieves and Byron expected everyone else to do the work for him. Entitlement was his middle name.
The man didn’t know when to hold his peace. Even his kids were clearly tired of his ranting. Both Gareth and Winston looked as if they’d rather be anywhere but standing by their father. Gareth kept glancing at a small group of teenage girls who were giggling and gossiping. Winston just stared at his feet.
Clint’s gaze zoomed in on the young men. In some ways they fit the profile of the thieves. They were male teenagers who knew their way around a ranch.
He considered bringing that point up to Lucy but then quickly discounted the notion as not worth mentioning. The McKays’ ranch had already been robbed twice. It wasn’t as if Byron’s own sons would rob their father. Anyway, they were both too high in the instep to get their hands dirty.
There were so many teenage boys running around here that it would be impossible to narrow the field without interviewing each and every one of them, and even then, they might come up with nothing. Most of these young men had been born on ranches and worked cattle with their parents.
Jed Parker and Chris Cutter were fooling around with the sound equipment. It looked as if they might be sneakily rigging it up to play some of their music and taking over from the band. They could very well be the thieves the town was looking for.
Clint sighed. It seemed everyone was a suspect.
“What if they’re right?” Carson asked, his expression grim. He leaned against the Sweetheart Wall and gestured at the missive. “About the Cowboy League, I mean. Are we doing enough to help struggling ranchers around here? We’ve got a few programs going, but we also throw events like the Valentine Roundup. Do you think anyone else in the area feels slighted besides these young men?”
“I know how much the league helped me after Luke’s death,” Olivia said, her voice both strong and thoughtful. Whatever her fears, she wasn’t going to voice them to the team. Clint respected that. “If I recall correctly, y’all came out and helped me mend fences. And then several of you painted the barn for me one weekend.”
She brushed a dark strand of hair behind her ear and continued. “I’m not the only one who has benefited from the league. Don’t forget the programs and scholarships we offer to the young people. Future Ranchers, for one. The Stillwaters have done a lot with the teenagers in that program. Think about all the students we’ve helped over the years, and there’s far more to that than monetary value. They feel our backing, the love and support the league members offer them.”
The small group erupted in murmurs of agreement. Clint was impressed. The small-statured quarter horse breeder had turned out to be an impressive orator. Who would have thought?
“Tyler Grainger, for example. He was able to go to school and become a doctor because of the league. We have a real sense of community in Little Horn. The league was formed to help ranchers look after their own, and that’s exactly what we do. My great-grandma Lula May would be proud.”
As Clint recalled, Lula May was the only female member of the original Cowboy League. That was back when women didn’t usually have much of a say. She must have been one tough lady—much like her great-granddaughter.
“You think other ranchers feel that way? That the league is beneficial?” Carson asked, not sounding completely convinced. “Obviously someone doesn’t.”
“The missing town-limit sign,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “‘Welcome to Little Horn, Texas.’ I get it now. That’s what this is about. The message they’re trying to send. They don’t believe the league supports our community, or maybe they don’t feel like they are being acknowledged in it.”
“I can’t speak for everyone, but I know all my friends and neighbors respect the league,” Olivia assured Carson.
The rancher snorted in derision.
Clint clenched his fists. Somebody needed to give the man a good shaking, and at the moment he’d be happy to be the one to do it. Byron was vice president of the league, but that was just for show and so he could throw his weight around. If he started picking on Olivia, Clint would not apologize for his next actions.
“Folks ought to look after their own and not depend on the league to bail them out.” Byron flung an arm around each of his sons’ shoulders. They squirmed and looked miserable, and who could blame them? “Thanks to my own hard work, my sons will never rely on charity.”
