The Countess and the Cowboy. Elizabeth Lane

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 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.”

      “I’ll walk you to the street.” He picked up the basket, giving her no choice except to stay with him. The children, sucking on their candy, paid little heed to their conversation.

      “What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?” she hissed as they stepped onto the boardwalk.

      “I’m taking the only chance I may get to ask you if you’ve changed your mind.”

      “I told you, I have no intention of becoming involved in your little war.” She moved away from the store entrance and started down the boardwalk toward the bakery.

      “Little war, is it?” His voice had taken on an edge. “You came into town with Hanford. Where is he now?”

      “In the hotel. He said he had a meeting with some other ranchers.”

      “Did he tell you what the meeting was about?”

      “I didn’t ask. Just business, I suppose.”

      “Their so-called business is burning property and murdering every farmer and small rancher that won’t leave the county.”

      His words triggered a clench in Eve’s stomach. How could anything as awful as what Lonigan was suggesting be true? “I don’t believe you,” she said.

      “Ask your precious brother-in-law on the way home. Not that he’ll tell you the truth.”

      “And what is the truth, as you see it? That my brother-in-law goes skulking about in the night like a thief, personally eliminating anyone who gets in his way?”

      “Of course not. Men like him don’t get their hands dirty. They pay hired thugs to do their killing. But they’re just as guilty as if they’d lit the torches, fired the guns and strung the nooses. If you could do something to stop it and you won’t, you’re guilty, too.”

      “No more of this!” Eve kept her voice low, aware of the curious looks from passersby, not to mention Thomas and Rose just a few steps away. “I told you, I’m here for my sister’s children. My only concern is their welfare. They’ve had enough distress in their lives without my plotting against their father under his very roof. So go away and leave us alone!”

      Clint Lonigan’s mouth hardened into a grim line. After handing her the basket, he took a step away and touched the brim of his hat. “I understand. Have a pleasant day, Countess.” The title sizzled of his tongue, rife with unmistakable contempt. She watched him cross the street to the saloon and go inside without looking back at her. Shrugging off the unsettling encounter, she herded the children on down the street to the bakery.

      Etta Simpkins greeted her with a warm smile. “What a pleasure to see you, Countess! And with those two sweet lambs! What can I do for you?”

      “As I said, just Mrs. Townsend will do.” How would she ever fit in here if people insisted on using that pompous-sounding title? “You have a lovely shop. It’s the only place on the street that looks inviting.”

      “Call it a woman’s touch.” Mrs. Simpkins laughed. “I have some lovely cinnamon buns just out of the oven. And those oatmeal raisin cookies behind the glass were just made last night.”

      “I’ll take a half dozen of each,” Eve said. “Maybe I can persuade Mr. Hanford to stop for a little picnic on the way home. The children would enjoy that.”

      “What a dandy idea. I’ve got some cheese in the cool room out back. Would you like me to make you some sandwiches to take along?”

      “Thank you. Just a few. The children can share.” Eve had initially abandoned the picnic idea when Roderick had insisted on driving them to town. But maybe she could persuade him to take the time. He was the children’s father, after all, and he seemed to have so little interaction with them.

      Mrs. Simpkins bustled out the back, returned with a wedge of cheddar and began cutting off thin slices. Rose and Thomas had finished their candy and were looking at some iced sugar cookies. Eve curbed the impulse to buy them. It wouldn’t do to spoil the children with too many sweets.

      “So how are you getting on with Mr. Hanford?” Mrs. Simpson reached for a loaf of bread and began cutting it for sandwiches.

      “Fine so far.” The question struck Eve as too familiar, but she supposed it was the way of people in this frontier town. Gossip was, if nothing else, a way to combat loneliness.

      “Treating you like a gentleman, is he?”

      “Of course.” Scrambling for a way to change the subject, Eve remembered her other reason for coming here. “Perhaps you can help me out with a suggestion. I’m looking for a strong young girl to help with the heavy work in the house. Alice is good in the kitchen, but with her rheumatism...”

      “Oh, I know what you mean, dearie. The poor old soul can barely get around as it is. I do have a girl in mind. The family she worked for moved away, so she’s looking for employment. Very willing and reliable. Her name is Beth Ann.”

       Dearie?

      Eve drew in a startled breath. She disapproved of the formality of everyone calling her by her title, yet this seemed to go too far in the other direction. But this wasn’t England, she reminded herself. If she wanted to belong, she would have to get used to Americans and their easygoing manners.

      “I’m not sure what kind of salary I should offer her,” she said. “Back in England, servants were tied to the family for generations.”

      “Room, board and three dollars a week should be plenty. If she’s interested, can I just send her out to the ranch?”

      “Certainly. On approval, of course—mine and Mr. Hanford’s. Since she’ll be around the children her language and behavior must be suitable.”

      “She’ll do you fine.” While Eve counted out change, Mrs. Simpkins put the sandwiches, buns and cookies in a paper bag with a napkin. “Have a lovely picnic, dearie!” She waved them out the door.

      Dearie. Eve bit back her instinctive frown and forced herself to smile and wave as she led her charges to the boardwalk.

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