Her smile was forced. “We’ll talk then. Come and show me to your rooms, children.”
Rose and Thomas took her outstretched hands and led her up the stairs. They shared adjoining nurseries down the hall from the room where Eve’s luggage had been taken. Eve had felt nothing of her sister’s presence downstairs, where the decor was dark, heavy and oppressively masculine. But the children’s rooms spoke of Margaret—the bright chintz coverlets and curtains, the braided rugs, the fairy-tale pictures on the walls. It was as if here, with her little ones, Margaret’s true nature had been allowed to blossom. But the rest of the house had clearly been ruled by Roderick.
Margaret’s letters had never held a word of complaint against her husband. But how could a woman as sweet and gentle as her sister be happy in this house, and with such a man?
He’d probably read and approved every word she wrote.
Tonight the children were meek and quiet—too quiet. By the light of a flickering candle, Eve got them into their nightclothes, washed their faces and saw that they brushed their teeth. After mumbled prayers, they crawled into their beds and lay still. Poor, wounded little things, their stoicism made her want to weep. She already loved them.
Eve’s own spacious room bore Margaret’s touch, as well—the soft, flowered coverlet on the bed, the scattered cushions, the pretty little folding secretary against one wall and the upholstered bench by one window. Tears welled in Eve’s eyes as she realized her sister had prepared this room just for her, likely within weeks of her death.
Eve used the candle to light the bedside lamp. Her trunk and her other bags sat in the middle of the floor where Roderick’s hired men had left them. Back in England she’d have had a lady’s maid to unpack her clothes and help ready her for bed. But that life was behind her now, and she was quite capable of doing for herself.
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
