Читать книгу The Countess and the Cowboy - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 11

Chapter Three

“Take your hands off me!” Eve sputtered as Clint Lonigan seized her shoulders. His grip was rough enough to hurt as he spun her in the direction of the front porch.

“Run!” he growled. “Get in the house!”

“Why should I? What is it?” She struggled, resisting.

“Hanford’s dogs. They’ve scented us, and they’re sounding the alarm. If he orders them set loose, they’ll tear any stranger apart, including you. Now run, damn it!” He pushed her forward.

A light had flickered on in Roderick’s window. It was moving back and forth, as if signaling. Suddenly the hellish baying grew louder, coming from around the far side of the house.

Eve broke into a sprint. For her, the safety of the front door was mere seconds away. She could no longer see or hear Lonigan, but the dogs would be after him, too. And, unlike her, he’d have no safe place to go.

Tripping over her long skirts, she plunged up the front steps and raced across the porch to the door. Her fingers fumbled with the latch. It held fast. Had it somehow locked behind her when she’d left the house?

As she shrank into the doorway, a half dozen sleek forms came flying around the corner, baying and snarling as they plunged ahead.

Brindled coats flashed in the moonlight as the pack swung away from the house. She wasn’t the one they were after. They were going for Lonigan. He might not be her friend, but that didn’t mean she wanted him mauled to death. She had to stop what was about to happen.

Frantic, she flung herself against the door. “Roderick!” she screamed, shaking the latch and pounding on the heavy oak slab. “Roderick, it’s me! Call them off! Call them off!”

With a sudden give, the latch released and the door swung open. Eve stumbled into the entry, then changed her mind and raced back onto the porch. She couldn’t see Lonigan or the dogs, but the pack’s chilling cry echoed across the moonlit yard.

“Roderick!” she screamed again. “For the love of heaven, call them back!”

For an instant time seemed to stop. Then three blasts of a steel whistle shattered the night. The baying dropped to a subdued chorus of yelps as the dogs wheeled and came loping back into sight. Eve shrank into the doorway as they skirted the corner of the house and vanished in the direction of the kennel.

There was no sign of Clint Lonigan. She could only hope he’d made a clean escape. Friend or enemy—whichever he might be—no man deserved to be ripped apart by those nightmarish creatures.

Knees sagging, she closed the door and slid the bolt into place. Roderick loomed at the top of the stairs, wearing a maroon velvet dressing gown and holding a lantern.

“Eve!” He addressed her as one might lecture a naughty child. “What were you doing outside after dark? Those hounds are trained to guard the property. They could’ve torn you to pieces.”

She willed herself to speak calmly. “I wanted to visit my sister’s grave. I didn’t know about the dogs. You should’ve warned me.”

He didn’t even have the grace to look guilty, though her answer did seem to mollify him to an extent. “I would have, if I’d known you were going to wander around after dark.” He glided down the stairs, pausing two steps short of the landing. “Were you alone out there? I thought I heard voices.”

“I spoke a few fitting words over Margaret’s grave. You may have heard me. I’m guessing the dogs did, too.” It was a half-truth. A flicker of caution kept her from mentioning Clint Lonigan.

“Tomorrow I’ll take you out and introduce you to the pack, let them get to know you. If you can spare an article of clothing, something that carries your scent, bring it along to leave with them.”

“Can I assume the children will be safe around them?”

“Those hounds are like puppies with the children, as they were with Margaret. You might even want to wear one of her dresses when you visit the kennel for the first time. No need to wear mourning in this country. To be sure, there’s plenty of cause for it, but with the dirt and the weather, women say black’s too impractical here.”

“I’m glad of that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going up to bed.”

She started for the stairs, expecting him to move aside and give her room to pass, but he stood fast, offering her the barest space against the wall. “I was hoping—” He broke off, staring down at her hand. “I didn’t see that ring earlier.”

Eve’s pulse skittered. “It was my late husband’s, one of the few things of his I was able to keep.”

“But you weren’t wearing it at supper. It’s very impressive. What’s a bauble like that worth?”

“It’s late, Roderick,” Eve said, cutting him off. “I’ve just had a fright, and I’m exhausted. All I want is to go upstairs and sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Very well. I’ll bid you good-night then, Eve.” He finally moved back against the railing, allowing her room to get by, but barely. His hand brushed the small of her back as she hurried past him.

By the time she reached the landing, Eve felt vaguely ill. She hadn’t counted on this. With the earth barely settled on his wife’s grave, Roderick was already acting as if he owned her. If it weren’t for Margaret’s children, she would pack up and leave on the next stage. But her promise to look after Thomas and Rose would bind her to this house, perhaps for years to come. And anyway, she had nowhere else to go, Eve reminded herself, shoulders slumping. So here she would stay, for better or for worse. She would just have to prepare for a reckoning with the man.

She took a moment to look in on the children. Both were slumbering, but Thomas’s young face was streaked with salt where his tears had dried, and Rose was whimpering in her sleep. Eve adjusted their blankets and brushed a finger kiss across each silken head. These precious little ones would be a long time healing. She would be there for them every step of the way, Eve vowed—regardless of their father’s behavior.

In her room, she bolted the door. Unsteady hands unbuttoned her black dress and let it fall to the rug. As she strained to unfasten her corset, she felt the burn where Clint Lonigan’s strong hands had gripped her shoulders. A glance confirmed that he hadn’t left bruises on her skin. But he’d shoved her toward the house with an urgent force that lingered, if only in her memory. What if he hadn’t been there? What if she’d been caught off guard by Roderick’s killer dogs?

The ruby ring felt cold and heavy on her finger. For now she would put it away in a safe place. Wearing it would only tempt possible thieves and set her apart from her neighbors. But she couldn’t deny she was glad to have it back. Lonigan had risked his life to return it. But that was only half true, Eve reminded herself. The ring had masked the rascal’s real intent—to recruit her as a spy.

She’d been right to refuse Lonigan’s request, of course. Nothing he’d said about Roderick had surprised her. But this range war was neither her doing nor her business. Her only concern was for her sister’s children.

Clint Lonigan had her answer—her final answer. The wise course now would be to turn her back and never speak to him again.

Still, as she walked to the open window to shut out the night chill, her eyes scanned the moonlit yard. Deny it though she might, the question haunted her.

Was he safe?

* * *

Out of the ranch’s earshot, Clint spurred his tall buckskin to a gallop. The night wind cooled the sweat that had beaded on his face. It had been a damned narrow escape. Hanford’s hounds had been so close on his heels that he could smell their foul breath. He’d been about to wheel and draw his pistol when their keeper’s whistle had called them off.

It was the countess’s screams that had saved his life. Since the dogs were chasing him, not her, he could only surmise she’d cried out to save him. It was a comforting thought. She may have refused to spy for him, but at least she’d been sympathetic enough to help him get away.

Or maybe she just couldn’t stand the sight of blood. But no, he doubted she was the missish type. She had too much steel in her for that.

When she’d denied carrying money from the Cattlemen’s Association, those azure eyes of hers could’ve melted stone. But how could he believe her, when logic told him that if anyone on that stage was hiding cash, it would’ve been the bewitching countess?

Eve. Her name was like a whisper of wind. He remembered how she’d looked leaning out the upstairs window, her loose black hair framing her face, her breasts pale half-moons above the lace edging of her camisole. The sight of her had stirred yearnings he hadn’t felt since...

With a muttered curse, Clint forced her image from his mind. He was fighting a war, damn it; and if the countess wasn’t with him, she was against him. As long as Eve lived under Roderick Hanford’s roof and cared for his children, there could be no trusting her.

Right now Clint had other urgent concerns to deal with. One of his neighbors had lost half a dozen spring calves. A Dutch farmer, Yost had spotted the calves with a herd belonging to cattleman and county judge Seth McCutcheon. Yost was determined to get them back, even if he had to steal them.

Clint had seen this tactic too many times not to be wise to what would happen next. His neighbor would take his animals back—and McCutcheon’s men would make no move to stop him. But once they were back in his possession, Yost would be accused of cattle rustling and strung up without a trial. His widow and children would be run off their farm and the cattle barons would move in like vultures to seize the land.

It was up to Clint to find the man and talk some sense into him—tonight, before it was too late. After that, assuming he was successful in talking Yost down, Clint might manage to grab a few hours sleep before his own morning chores and a visit to check on the Potter ranch. Blasted fool boys. Just when things were heating up, and he needed their guns and sharp eyes, they had to go and get in trouble.

Tomorrow, once the chores were done, he’d ride into town and nose around into the investigation on the stagecoach holdup. With luck, he’d be able to learn whether Sheriff Womack was looking for Newt and Gideon. If the coast was clear, it might be safe to bring the boys home.

Clint also needed to look into the rumors of money from the Cattlemen’s Association. If they were true, and hired gun sharks were coming to Lodgepole, he would need to spread the word and come up with a plan.

But what plan? What could immigrant farmers and small ranchers do to protect themselves against seasoned killers? What chance would they have? He needed a way to learn more—how many, where and when they planned to strike.

Smitty in the Three-legged Dog and Etta Simpkins in the bakery might be good for passing on a bit of gossip. But gossip couldn’t take the place of solid information.

For that he needed the countess on his side—and the chance of winning her over was about as good as tying up a wildcat with a piece of string.

* * *

Eve sat at the dining room table helping Thomas with his multiplication tables. Rose sat across from them, practicing lines of alphabet letters in her notebook. The one-room school in Lodgepole was too far for a daily drive, especially in winter, so Margaret had schooled her children at home. She’d done an admirable job, which Eve hoped to continue.

It was only her second day here, but Eve had already made a number of discoveries. One was that Roderick had little interest in his children’s upbringing or the running of his household. Those matters had been left to Margaret—and had now fallen to her. Another discovery was that Alice, the elderly housekeeper, was suffering from rheumatism. She could manage in the kitchen, but tasks like doing laundry and trudging up and down the stairs with mop buckets and chamber pots were becoming too much for the poor woman. Eve had resolved to find her some younger, stronger help, the sooner the better.

After the children’s lessons she would take the buggy into Lodgepole for some needed supplies. And while she was there, she would pay a visit to Etta Simpkins at the bakery. Surely a woman who knew the town so well could recommend a sturdy, trustworthy girl who needed work.

Eve glanced at the children as they labored over their lessons. She would ask Roderick to let her take them into town. Maybe some peppermint sticks from the general store or a couple of small toys would bring a smile to their sad little faces. The three of them might even stop for a picnic on the way home.

As if the very thought of him could summon the man, Roderick strolled into the dining room. He was dressed like the country gentleman he’d never been in England, in jodhpurs, a tweed riding jacket and knee-high calfskin boots polished to a gloss.

“Are you ready, Eve?” he asked. “I wanted to take you out back to meet my hounds this morning.”

A knot tightened in the pit of her stomach. After last night she had no desire to meet Roderick’s baying, snarling dogs face-to-face.

“The children,” she protested. “They’re still doing their lessons.”

He did not spare Rose and Thomas even a glance. “They can finish alone. Bring something that has your scent on it.”

Eve thought of the black silk bombazine she’d worn so long that it was stiff with sweat and dust. She’d had a mind to burn it on arrival, but literally throwing it to the dogs would work just as well. It was too far gone to survive washing, but maybe she could salvage a strip of it as a mourning band to wear for Margaret.

As she hurried upstairs to fetch the gown, the shock of her sister’s death swept over her afresh. Dear, gentle, faithful Margaret. How Eve longed to hear her voice and see her patient smile again. Older by three years, Margaret had always been the solid, sensible sister. Growing up, it was Eve, the impulsive one, who was always finding ways to get into mischief. Yet it was Margaret who’d married a rough-edged adventurer bound for America, and Eve who, to save their father from financial ruin, had dutifully wed the middle-aged Earl of Manderfield.

While he lived, the earl had been the soul of kindness and generosity. Eve had never been in love with him, but he’d earned her gratitude and her lasting devotion, even in the latter years of his life, when her role toward him had been more nursemaid than wife. Margaret, who’d been so giddy with love for Roderick that she’d ignored warnings from friends and family, had paid dearly for following her heart. The thought of her sister enduring this uncivilized country and that pompous brute of a husband for eleven long years was enough to make Eve weep. If only she could have been here to give Margaret some love and support. Now she could only try to do as much for her sister’s children.

In her room, she gathered up her mourning dress and tore out a strip from the inner seam of the skirt for an armband. Rolling the rest of the gown into a wad, she carried it back downstairs. Today she was dressed in sky-blue cotton voile with a dainty white lace collar. The frock was airy and cool. In England, it would have been considered plain and practical, but she sensed that even this might be too fine for Lodgepole. Most of the women she’d seen in town had been clad in faded calicos and sunbonnets. Eve had even seen one woman in overalls. But then, she supposed, her own style of dress would adapt over time until she fit right in.

Roderick was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Let’s go and meet my pets,” he said, offering his arm. Pretending not to see the gesture, Eve swept past him. Maybe he’d only meant to be polite, but if she didn’t set boundaries now she could come to regret it later.

“You look right fetching today,” he said. “Much better than in those widow’s weeds. I hope that means you’re done with mourning your husband and are ready to get on with your life.”

She shot him a stern look over her shoulder. “I’m mourning my sister,” she said. “I saved a strip of black from the skirt to make an armband. I’ll make one for you, too, if you’d like.”

“That would be very kind of you, Eve.” His hand brushed her corseted waist as he ushered her around to the backyard.

The kennel, surrounded by a high wall of rough-sawn logs, was far enough from the house to keep odors from carrying, but close enough for the dogs to scent any strange presence. A grove of scraggly elms provided some shade. The creatures took up a hideous baying as Eve approached with Roderick. At a shrill blast on a whistle, like the one she’d heard last night, the baying subsided to whimpers.

Roderick opened the high wooden gate. Eve shrank back, expecting the dogs to rush out at her, but then saw they were inside a wire enclosure that formed part of the compound. There was also a closed storage shed and what looked to be a crude log cabin.

Standing outside the cabin was a shaggy giant of a man dressed in shapeless brown clothing and wearing a heavy silver police whistle on a leather thong around his neck.

“This is Hans, my master of hounds,” Roderick said. “He hears well enough, but he doesn’t speak. The dogs are trained to respond to the whistle.”

“Hans, I’m pleased to meet you.” Eve gave him a smile, which he returned with a shy nod. Half hidden by locks of matted gray-brown hair, his blue eyes were curiously gentle. Stepping aside, he gave Eve a full view of the dogs.

A shiver passed through her as she remembered the terror of seeing them run loose in the moonlight. There were six of them, all of a kind—huge, brindle-coated creatures with sleek, muscular bodies, long legs and heavy, drooling jaws, but of no definable breed. At the sight of Eve, they began snarling and lunging at the stout wire fence.

Roderick paid no heed. “I crossbred them myself,” he boasted. “The speed of a coursing hound, the strength of a mastiff and the tenacity of a pit bull. They have it all—best game dogs in the country. They’ll take on bear, cougar, wolf, buffalo, any creature you can name, except maybe a skunk.” He chuckled at his own joke. “I’ve been offered a small fortune for them. Seth McCutcheon, for one, would take them off my hands in a minute. But I wouldn’t part with them, or with Hans. They’re much too useful—especially with so much common riffraff moving in on our open range.”

Eve shuddered again, remembering last night. Roderick had bragged that his dogs would take on any prey. Evidently that included humans.

Taking the black silk dress from her, he passed it to Hans, who tossed it over the wire fence into the midst of the pack. There was a flurry of snarling, growling and tearing. Then they began snuffling at the fabric, filling their noses with the unfamiliar scent.

“We can go now.” Roderick guided her toward the gate. “After they’ve spent a day or two with that dress, they’ll be accustomed to your scent. Next time you won’t smell like a stranger to them.”

Next time.

Eve walked beside him in silence, struggling to forget the sight of those drooling jaws. She liked most dogs, even large hounds. But she’d never seen any as terrifying as these. Was their ferocity bred into them or had they been raised with the kind of brutality that drove them to attack?

And what was Hans’s role as Roderick’s “master of hounds”? Evidently he’d been there last night to set the dogs loose and blow a triple blast on his whistle to call them back. Did that odd giant of a man live right there in the compound with the dogs? It seemed that every hour spent here raised new questions—and a string of unpleasant answers.

Eve had been here less than a day and the dark miasma that hung over this place was already seeping into her bones. But never mind that, she was here for Margaret’s children, and here she would stay, doing everything she could to give them love and brighten their lives.

“Alice needs a few things from the store,” she said to Roderick. “I was hoping I could drive the buggy into town and take the children along for a treat.”

“That’s fine. I’ll get one of the hands to drive you.”

“I know how drive a buggy,” Eve said, holding firm. “All I need is someone to hitch up the horse. The road’s good, and it’s not much more than an hour to town. Surely I can manage that.”

Roderick frowned. “This isn’t England, Eve. Wyoming’s a dangerous place. You’ll need a man with a gun along to protect you.”

“My father taught me how to handle a rifle—and a team of horses. Just give me a weapon. I’ll be fine. And so will the children.”

His frown deepened. “Actually 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.