Elizabeth Lane - The Countess and the Cowboy

“Nice to see you again, Countess.”

For an instant she froze. After what she’d told Clint Lonigan last night, the first response that came to her mind was, How dare you? But people were watching. The last thing she wanted was to make a scene.

“It’s Mrs. Townsend,” she said in a chilly voice. “And it’s nice to see you too, Mr. Lonigan. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some purchases to pay for.” She turned toward the clerk. “I’ll have two peppermint sticks for the children, please.”

“Coming right up, Countess.”

She frowned. “As I just told the gentleman, it’s Mrs. Townsend. This isn’t England and I’m certainly not royalty.”

“But still a very proper lady.” Clint Lonigan’s voice had taken on a teasing tone.

Ignoring him, Eve signed for her purchases, gave each of the children a peppermint stick and reached for her basket. “I’ll be taking my leave of you now, Mr. Lonigan. Good day.”

AUTHOR NOTE AUTHOR NOTE Title Page About the Author Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Epilogue Extract Copyright

As a little girl I loved playing cowgirls and cowboys. My cousins and I would cut willows from the canal bank and ride them like horses, whooping and chasing all over the neighbourhood. In the small mountain town where I grew up we couldn’t get a TV signal until I was in high school. But we didn’t need TV. We had our imaginations—and the movies we looked forward to every weekend.

My favourite movies were Westerns, with great stars like John Wayne, Alan Ladd, Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, and wonderful Maureen O’Hara. And I loved Western books, too. By the time I was thirteen I’d read every Zane Grey book on the shelf at the town library. No wonder that when I became a published author I turned to writing Western romance. For me, writing a Western is like going home.

The Countess and the Cowboy is an old-fashioned, rip-roaring Western with a little spice thrown in. Clint is all cowboy and all man, fighting for the rights of small ranchers against the evil cattle baron who burned his ranch and killed his wife and unborn child. Eve is everything Clint isn’t—a gently reared English lady who wants nothing more than to raise her sister’s children in peace. Instead she finds herself in the middle of a range war, torn between her beloved children on the one side and her irresistible cowboy on the other.

I love hearing from my readers. You can contact me through my website elizabethlaneauthor.com

The Countess and the Cowboy

Elizabeth Lane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELIZABETH LANEhas lived and travelled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website at elizabethlaneauthor.com

For Walter and Sadie, who wake me up laughing.

Contents

Cover

Introduction “Nice to see you again, Countess.” For an instant she froze. After what she’d told Clint Lonigan last night, the first response that came to her mind was, How dare you? But people were watching. The last thing she wanted was to make a scene. “It’s Mrs. Townsend,” she said in a chilly voice. “And it’s nice to see you too, Mr. Lonigan. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some purchases to pay for.” She turned toward the clerk. “I’ll have two peppermint sticks for the children, please.” “Coming right up, Countess.” She frowned. “As I just told the gentleman, it’s Mrs. Townsend. This isn’t England and I’m certainly not royalty.” “But still a very proper lady.” Clint Lonigan’s voice had taken on a teasing tone. Ignoring him, Eve signed for her purchases, gave each of the children a peppermint stick and reached for her basket. “I’ll be taking my leave of you now, Mr. Lonigan. Good day.”

AUTHOR NOTE AUTHOR NOTE AUTHOR NOTE Title Page About the Author Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Epilogue Extract Copyright As a little girl I loved playing cowgirls and cowboys. My cousins and I would cut willows from the canal bank and ride them like horses, whooping and chasing all over the neighbourhood. In the small mountain town where I grew up we couldn’t get a TV signal until I was in high school. But we didn’t need TV. We had our imaginations—and the movies we looked forward to every weekend. My favourite movies were Westerns, with great stars like John Wayne, Alan Ladd, Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, and wonderful Maureen O’Hara. And I loved Western books, too. By the time I was thirteen I’d read every Zane Grey book on the shelf at the town library. No wonder that when I became a published author I turned to writing Western romance. For me, writing a Western is like going home. The Countess and the Cowboy is an old-fashioned, rip-roaring Western with a little spice thrown in. Clint is all cowboy and all man, fighting for the rights of small ranchers against the evil cattle baron who burned his ranch and killed his wife and unborn child. Eve is everything Clint isn’t—a gently reared English lady who wants nothing more than to raise her sister’s children in peace. Instead she finds herself in the middle of a range war, torn between her beloved children on the one side and her irresistible cowboy on the other. I love hearing from my readers. You can contact me through my website elizabethlaneauthor.com

Title Page The Countess and the Cowboy Elizabeth Lane www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author ELIZABETH LANE has lived and travelled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website at elizabethlaneauthor.com

Dedication For Walter and Sadie, who wake me up laughing.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Northern Wyoming, August 1888

The stagecoach, a canvas-covered mud wagon that had seen better days, rattled over the washboard road. The final leg of the run from Casper to Lodgepole was blessedly short, but the horses were already lathered from the afternoon heat. Dust billowed from under the wheels to settle like fine brown velvet on the driver, the guard and the three passengers inside—two women and a man.

Clint Lonigan sat directly across from the veiled woman. Pretending to doze, he studied her through slitted eyes. He’d already guessed who—and what—she was. Ten days ago, when he’d left Lodgepole to sit with a dying friend, the town had been abuzz with the news that an honest-to-God countess, the widow of an English earl, was coming to live with her sister, Margaret Hanford.

Clint had paid scant attention to the gossip. Mrs. Hanford seemed like a nice enough woman, but her husband, Roderick, was the most arrogant, pretentious piece of cow manure in the whole county. Clint wouldn’t have been impressed to hear that Queen Victoria herself planned on dropping by the Hanford ranch for a damned spot of tea.

But here was the countess in the flesh. And now that he’d seen her, damned if he wasn’t intrigued. The Dowager Countess of Manderfield—Hanford had made sure folks knew her full title. No question that this woman was the real thing. Who but an upper-class foreigner would travel on a sweltering day dressed head to toe in widow’s weeds? She had to be sweating like a mule under that heavy black silk.

If the woman’s costume left any question of her status, the engraved signet ring on her left hand erased all doubt. It was heavy gold with a ruby the size of a black-eyed pea. He couldn’t help but marvel that some plug-ugly hadn’t hacked off her finger to steal it.

A widow’s bonnet, black with a dusty silk veil, concealed her hair and face. Apart from her slender frame, Clint couldn’t tell whether she was young or old, plain or pretty. Even her lace-mitted hands gave no clue. The “Dowager” in her title suggested a woman past middle age. But that didn’t make a bean’s worth of difference, because there was one thing Clint knew for sure.

If the countess was planning to move in with Roderick Hanford, she was already one of the enemy.

* * *

Eve Townsend, Dowager Countess of Manderfield, braced her boots against the floor of the coach, shifting on the seat in an attempt to ease her tortured buttocks. She’d lowered her veil against the dust, but there was nothing to be done for the constant jarring.

Or the heat. Eve felt as if her body was being baked in treacle. She’d worn her mourning clothes to prompt some deference on the journey and discourage any strange men who might otherwise accost her. To that extent the costume had worked. But she was not at all certain that the benefits outweighed the unending discomfort. Traveling in black silk bombazine was like sitting in a Turkish bath.

But enough complaints! This was the American West, and Margaret had warned her to expect some rough conditions. The stormy, sickness-fraught ocean voyage, followed by the jostling train ride from New York to the railhead at Casper, had drained Eve in body and spirit. But this was the last leg of a journey that would soon be over. With Margaret and her children she would have a roof over her head and family around her. She could hardly wait to hold Margaret’s baby, due to be born this very month.

“Will your sister’s family be meeting the stage, Countess?” Plump, middle-aged and chatty, Mrs. Etta Simpkins had already introduced herself. She ran a bakery in Lodgepole and appeared to know the business of everyone in town.

“I certainly hope so,” Eve answered politely. “And you needn’t call me Countess. This is America, after all. Mrs. Townsend will do.”

“Very well.” The woman sounded a trifle disappointed. “But don’t count on Margaret being there when you arrive. When I saw her two weeks ago, she was as big around the waist as a fifty-pound pumpkin. I’d wager she’s had that baby by now. From the look of her, it could even be twins.”

“Twins! Goodness, wouldn’t that be wonderful? That’s why I’ve come, you know, to help Margaret with the children.”

It was enough truth for now, Eve reasoned. There was no need to spread the word that, upon her husband’s death, her grown stepson, Albert, had burned his father’s updated will—which would have left her generously provided for—and booted her off the Manderfield estate with little more than her title and her wedding ring. If not for her sister’s invitation, she could be languishing in the poorhouse.

Eve brushed a blowfly off her skirt, its movement drawing her eye to the man who sat on the opposite bench, his knees almost touching hers. At the moment, he appeared to be sleeping. But the glimmer beneath his lowered eyelids told her he was fully alert, like a dozing panther.