The Countess and the Cowboy

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.