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
