Читать книгу The Countess and the Cowboy - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 10

Chapter Two

“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 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.

She closed her eyes, filling her lungs with the fresh Wyoming air—as cool in its way as English mist, but drier and sharper, with a light bouquet of pine needles, sagebrush, wood smoke and cattle. Her fingers plucked the pins from her tight bun, letting her hair fall loose as she leaned over the sill.

Heaven.

Savoring the soft breeze, she unbuttoned the high collar of her dress, opening it all the way down to her corset. She’d been miserable all day, so hot... What a blessed relief to feel cool air against her skin!

The moon was rising over the plain, waxing but not yet full. A distant speck of light glowed through the high window of the bunkhouse. Horses stirred and snorted in the corral. None of it was what she was used to—but it was all beautiful, in its way.

She would make the best of what she’d found here, Eve vowed. It wouldn’t be easy, but somehow she would learn to tolerate Roderick, nurture her sister’s motherless children and find her own small pleasures. Maybe one day she would even come to think of this strange, wild place as home.

But tonight she felt as lost and alone as a wanderer among the stars.

* * *

Clint swore under his breath as the countess leaned over the upstairs windowsill. Backlit by the lamp, with her bodice open and her hair streaming like ebony silk, she was a sight to heat the blood of any man—and Roderick Hanford’s blood could be simmering already. Clint had heard in the saloon that Hanford’s wife had died. No doubt the man would be looking for a replacement to warm his bed. Who better than the beautiful, widowed sister-in-law who’d come to look after his children? The fact that she was damn near royalty wouldn’t hurt her chances of becoming the next Mrs. Roderick Hanford, either. If the bastard married her, Clint wouldn’t put it past the pretentious ass to take on her title.

But he hadn’t risked danger to ogle the woman or make guesses about her relationship with her brother-in-law, he reminded himself. He hadn’t even come to return her ring, though that was the reason he’d give, if she asked. In truth, he’d come to take stock of her situation, maybe even to warn her if he got the chance. He could always put the ring in the mail or wrap it in his bandanna and toss it onto the porch. But then he’d have no excuse to contact the countess—a contact that, if luck was in the cards, might prove useful.

Not that luck had ever shown him much favor.

Checking the shadows, he slipped around the side of the house. The ranch was a perilous place for a man like him. A hundred yards beyond the house, Roderick Hanford kept a kennel of hunting dogs, trained to be as vicious as possible. The scent of a stranger would set off a hellish baying. At a signal from the house, their handler—the master of hounds, Hanford called him—would turn the beasts loose to run down the intruder and tear him to pieces. That very thing had happened to a young cousin of the Potter brothers who’d been caught on Hanford’s property. The next morning they’d found his mauled body, or what was left of it, where a night rider had flung it on their porch.

Tonight Clint was downwind from the dogs. But the wind could change, and he was hair-trigger wary. His pistol was loaded, his horse tethered within sprinting distance. He was ready to leave at a moment’s notice...but he hated the thought of going without doing what he’d come for—speaking with the countess.

So what now? The countess had left the window, but he glimpsed signs of her moving about in the lamp-lit room. The other windows in the house had gone dark. She appeared to be the only one still up and stirring. Should he toss a pebble at her pane on the chance that she’d hear? If he showed himself and held up the ring, would she come down to the porch and get it? Would she listen to what he had to say? Or would loyalty to her sister’s family compel her to raise an alarm?

Clint forced himself to exhale, feeling the tension in every nerve. He would allow a little more time for the household to settle down, he resolved. Then he could decide whether to act or to leave.

Ever mindful of the wind and the dogs, he slipped into the shadows to wait.

* * *

Eve had finished unpacking. Her dresses and cloak hung in the wardrobe. Her brushes and toiletries lay on the mirrored dresser. Her underthings were folded into drawers. She still yearned for the books she’d been forced to leave behind at Manderfield—the volumes of poetry, science, history and literature that had sustained her through the years of Arthur’s illness. They’d been hers, an inheritance from her father, who’d died two years after her marriage. But now, by law, in the absence of a will, they belonged to her late husband’s estate. Her stepson’s family had allowed her to take only a bible and a few precious volumes of Shakespeare’s plays. They would have to do.

Eve was tired beyond exhaustion. Common sense told her she should finish undressing and get ready for bed. But something was tugging at her, some deep urge crying to be satisfied. And suddenly she knew what it was.

She had yet to say goodbye to her sister.

Earlier Roderick had mentioned that Margaret and the baby were laid to rest under a large cottonwood that grew a short distance from the house. He’d offered to show her the grave, but Eve had wanted to visit the spot alone. She’d put him off with an excuse and the evening had passed without another chance.

It wasn’t too late to go. The moon was bright, and the tree would make the mound of earth simple enough to find. Maybe some solitude beside her sister’s grave would help her accept the news that still seemed no more than a terrible dream.

She took a moment to button her bodice. Then, leaving the lamp in her room, Eve moved out into the hall. Once her eyes became accustomed to the dark it wasn’t too difficult to make her way down the stairs. Her senses prickled as she stepped out onto the front porch and closed the door behind her. A warning of danger lurking in the darkness? No, she told herself, it was just the strangeness of being in a new place at night. It would pass.

The wind lifted her hair as she descended the front steps and walked out into the yard. There was no lawn, only dry, gravelly earth that crunched beneath her shoes. Margaret had always loved flowers. Had she tried to plant them here, in this inhospitable place?

Eve could see the big cottonwood now, a stone’s throw from the corner of the house. Its trunk was thick and twisted, with upward-reaching limbs as thick as a man’s leg. Clouds of silvery leaves glimmered in the moonlight.

As she neared the tree, Eve felt the prickling sensation again, like cold fingers brushing the back of her neck. She hesitated—but no, she was being silly. And now she was close enough that she could see the narrow mound of fresh earth below the tree. Bracing herself against a rush of emotions, she walked toward it.

* * *

The countess glided like a queen across the yard, hair and skirts fluttering behind her. Clint watched from the shadows, transfixed and puzzled. What the hell was she doing out here alone in the dark?

Hadn’t she been warned about Hanford’s dogs? She was new here. Her scent could set them off just as easily as his.

Whatever her silly reason for coming out alone at night, he couldn’t deny that it suited his needs nicely. Now would be the perfect time to speak to her, without fear of drawing attention from the rest of the house. But caution and curiosity held him back. Where was she going?

He followed her at a short distance, keeping out of sight. On the far side of the big cottonwood, she dropped to her knees. Only as he moved forward did Clint notice the patch of heaped earth littered with the dried remains of flowers.

He was about to step into view when she spoke.

“Forgive me, Margaret, for arriving too late.” Her voice was a choked whisper. “I should have been here for you, at least to hold you in my arms and say goodbye...”

Still in the shadows, Clint hesitated. He was wasting precious time, but this was a private moment and an emotional one. Discretion held him in check.

“I promise you, here on your grave, that I’ll look after your children,” the countess continued. “I’ll care for them as my own, and they’ll never want for love...” A sob cut off the rest of her words. Her shoulders shook as she pressed her hands to her face.

Clint took the ring from his pocket and stepped into sight. “I’m sorry about your sister, Countess,” he said softly.

Her hands dropped from her face. She stared up at him with startled eyes. “You!” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to return this.” He held out the ring to her. “I’m hoping you’ll accept it without asking too many questions.”

“I’ll certainly accept it.” She rose, snatched the ring away from him and thrust it onto her middle finger. “But I have the right to ask as many questions as I choose, and you’d bloody well be prepared to answer them.”

Clint found her mild profanity oddly sensual. She might be an elevated lady, but she was clearly a passionate woman. Though he’d prefer to see that passion directed at something other than ordering him around. It shouldn’t surprise him that the lady was accustomed to giving orders, he reminded himself. Back in England, she’d probably had the servants quaking in their brogans. But she was about to learn that he wasn’t one of her subjects.

“Listen here, Countess—” he began.

“This is America. I’m Mrs. Townsend. Eve.”

The silkiness of the name, emerging between ripe lips, triggered a fleeting fantasy about being Adam. But Clint had come here for a far different reason.

“Well, as I was saying, Eve, you’re new here and you need to understand a few things. First, since I know you’re wondering, the answer is yes, I did know those young stage robbers. They’re just a couple of fool boys. I gave them your ring to get them out of harm’s way. When I caught up with them I demanded it back.”

“Fine.” Her eyes blazed up at him, moonlight reflecting in their azure depths. “So why did you have to sneak up in the night to return it? Why couldn’t you have called at the house during the day like a proper gentleman?”

“Because your brother-in-law would’ve set the dogs on me. He’s my enemy, and the enemy of every decent, honest rancher in this valley.”

It was a bold statement, meant to shock her. And he could see by the startled widening of her eyes that it had. Before she could reply he continued.

“Hanford and his cronies in the Cattlemen’s Association want to drive the farmers and small ranchers off their land and leave the valleys open to graze their cattle. Their hirelings have burned houses and barns, ripped out fences, killed men, women, even children. Their favorite trick is to frame a man for cattle rustling, then string him up on the spot.” He took a step closer, his face inches above hers. “You’ve landed in the middle of a range war, lady. And I’ve heard rumors it’s about to get worse.”

Clint paused for breath. He’d taken a dangerous plunge, revealing himself to a woman in his enemy’s household. But even if she went running to Hanford to share everything later, he hadn’t told her anything Hanford wouldn’t already know. He’d only informed her that she was living with an evil man.

She drew herself up, meeting his gaze with her own steel. “So what’s all this got to do with me?”

“You can close your eyes to what’s happening or you can try to make a difference.”

“Make a difference how? What are you suggesting?” she challenged him.

“In Hanford’s house, you’re bound to see things, hear things. If you’re willing to pass on what you learn, you’ll be helping to save innocent lives.”

“You’re asking me to be a spy.”

“If that’s what you want to call it, yes.”

He heard the sharp intake of her breath before she spoke. “Listen to me, then, Mr. Lonigan. I know Roderick’s no angel. But he’s the father of my sister’s children. Those precious little ones are in my care now. As long as they’re under Roderick’s roof, I’ll do nothing—nothing—that might compromise my ability to protect them. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a note of ferocity in her voice, like the snarl of a tigress defending her cubs. Her stunning eyes glinted with defiance.

“I understand that the children are your priority and you don’t want to get involved,” Clint said. “But if you change your mind—”

“I have no intention of changing my mind. Now please get off this property and leave me alone. You won’t be welcome again.”

“Fine.” Time to back off, Clint told himself. He’d planted a seed. That would have to be enough for now. But there was one more thing he had to know. “Before I leave I’m going to ask you a question,” he said. “And I want an honest answer.”

“Ask it,” she said coldly. “I have nothing to hide.”

“The boys who held up the stage were expecting to find money from the Cattlemen’s Association in Cheyenne. They assumed it would be in a strongbox, but they didn’t find it.”

“Yes, I remember that. Go on.”

“Were you carrying that money—either in your baggage or on your person?”

Her eyes widened. A gasp of indignation lifted her breasts. “Absolutely not,” she snapped. “I don’t know anything about the Cattlemen’s Association or their money, nor do I wish to. My only concern is my sister’s children. Are you satisfied, Mr. Lonigan? Do you believe me?”

“I have no reason not to—” Clint broke off, sensing a sudden change. It was the breeze, he realized, finally identifying the feeling. It had shifted. “Lord, the wind...”

“What?” She stared up at him. “What is it?”

As if in answer, a sudden clamor rose from the kennel beyond the house—a burst of yelps and snarls that rose to a hideous, howling chorus.