Elizabeth Lane - The Countess and the Cowboy

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.