Lady X's Cowboy (9 page)

He did.

The Kennford Gallery was highly honored yesterday by a visit from George Pryce, youngest son of the Earl of Hessay.  Mr. Pryce opened the newest exhibit of several esteemed painters from the Royal Academy, guaranteeing success for these artists.  Mr. Pryce and his venerated family have been patrons of the arts for nearly two hundred years, and it is well-known that the Earl’s late father passed several legislative bills in Parliament in support of arts funding.

“So everyone thinks Pryce is of the first water,” Will said, tossing the paper down. 

“Not only him, but his whole family.  Men like him can trample people like me in a moment.  Exactly like he is doing now.”

“But you’re a lady.”

Her laugh was prickled like a cactus.  “My husband bought his title.  He became a baronet through money, not blood.”

“Unlike Pryce.”  He paced away towards the window and stared at the severely trimmed garden he and Olivia had just left.  Most everything in England seemed broken to the saddle, contained.  Except Olivia.  When he turned to look at her, there was enough fire in her eyes to melt a Dakota winter.

“Precisely.  And one thing about England, Will, is that she loves her noblemen.  David got his wealth through textiles, and my father was a banker.  We’re new money.  Even though people like David and my father have fortunes greater than many of them, the aristocrats will always come first.  Believe me, I know.”  She sank down into a chair and appeared, for the first time, weary.  “When he first began the threats, I tried to go to the authorities, but he’d gotten to them first.  They laughed me out the door.”

He went over and looked again at the paper.  There was a small engraving next to the article which showed a man with full mutton chops and a top hat, someone a touch over-bred for Will’s liking, and a bit smug around the mouth.

“That’s him?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Looks like he could stand for a dose of strap oil.”

She smiled a bit at this.  “How I wish I could give it to him.”

“Somebody ought to.”

“I agree.  But I cannot.  Certainly not alone.  I need to find someone who can.  And I think I know who.”  She stared at him directly.  No, she had no idea how lovely she was, solemn and serious and full of vinegar.  “I need you, Will.”

He blinked and straightened, banging against the heavy wooden table and making the china and silver jangle.  He wished her request was based on a different need, but he knew what she was talking about.  “To fight Pryce?  What the hell can I do?  If you’re new money, I’m new nothin’.  A cowpuncher with holes in his socks.”

“I can mend those holes.  Or buy you new socks.”

“You know what the hell I mean.  I live in the saddle and ain’t got a home.”  He dragged a hand through his hair, rattled.  “I can’t hold a candle to some society dude, not when it comes to fine manners and peacockery.”

“That’s exactly why I need you.”  She rose and stood in front of him.  “I don’t want fine manners or posturing.  You defeated Pryce’s thugs.  You know how to handle yourself.  You can help me protect my brewery.”

“Two fists can’t fight against a powerful man,” he objected. 

“It’s not merely brute strength, but a quality of mind, a will to survival.  And if you have anything, it’s that will.”

He almost smiled at the pun of his name, but he felt himself being drawn underwater.  He began to pace, jarring the crystal in the chandeliers and vibrating the mirrors.  The whole room might fall apart. 

“I can make it worth your while,” she said softly. 

He jerked his head up sharply as he wheeled around.  “I don’t need your money.”

“We already settled that two days ago.”  The tiniest smile touched her mouth.  “I had another payment in mind.”

Chapter Five

Will Coffin stared at her as if she had just suggested she dance naked down Oxford Street, and from the looks of things, he wasn’t entirely averse to the idea.

“Well, ma’am,” he said, his drawl thickening as he rocked back on his heels, “that’s a mighty interestin’ notion, and don’t think I haven’t considered the prospect myself, but, seein’ as how you’re a lady and I’m some tumbleweed rollin’ through town, it might not be so wise.  For your sake,” he added hastily.

And then she understood, and it was her turn to redden and stammer.  “Oh, Lord, no...”   How horrible.  He thought she was offering him her bed, with her in it, in exchange for his help with Pryce.  “That’s not what I meant at all.  I’m sorry if I—”

He held out his hands, as if to push a wall up between them.  A flush crept into his tanned cheeks.  “No, I should apologize for leapin’ to conclusions—”

“I must have made a dreadful impression on you if you thought—”

Their voices overlapped, until her staunch, enforced politeness won out.  “What I meant was, that I would assist you in finding your family,” she explained.  “I do not come from such noble background as George Pryce, but I am well connected.  It would be much easier for you if you allowed me to help in your search.”

He still appeared deeply embarrassed by his assumption but tried to push it aside.  He worked a toe of his boot into the thick oriental rug.  “I doubt you’d know my folks,” he said.  “They could be livin’ in the streets.”

“I might not know them personally, but let me assure you that I have excellent tools at my disposal for locating people.  An English lady with many contacts can succeed where an unknown American cannot,” she added.  “As for that other thing,” she said, forcing herself to continue, “as for last night...”

His attention was fully focused on her now, keen and interested.  He wanted to know what she made of the situation.  She wasn’t a prude, and, yes, she liked the kiss very much. But neither one of them could afford to let spark that existed between them to grow bigger.  It had to be extinguished—for many reasons.

But she would only tell him one reason, for now.

“If you helped me, if you and I collaborated to fight Pryce and find your family,” she said, and she felt grateful that her voice was steadier than her nerves, “we cannot let what happened last night happen again.  It would complicate a working relationship that many would already see as...unusual.”  There: She’d said it.  And it didn’t sound so bad to her ears.

A wry, slightly mocking look came into his eyes as he folded his arms across his broad chest.  “No sparkin’ with the help.”

“Well...no.”  Her bed had remained empty since David’s death, and those five solitary years had been long ones.  She did miss sometimes having a man beside her at night, yet that yearning had been unfocused, transitory.  Will Coffin had reawakened something inside her last night, something bright and living, demanding satisfaction.  It could not be appeased, however— not with him.  It was impossible.

“Yeah, I figured as such.”  His mouth twisted slightly.  “Ranch hands sleep in the bunkhouse, not the big house.  No mixin’ with the boss’s women.”

“In this case,” she reminded him, “
I
am the boss.  And that is precisely why I need you to help with Pryce.”  She wanted to bring the conversation back to a topic she felt more comfortable with, something she could fully understand and sort out.  “I run Greywell’s capably,” she said without conceit, “which came as a surprise to many, including myself.  But I cannot contend with a man like Pryce.”

“So get one of your fancy friends to do it,” he said, slightly cross. 

“They cannot or will not.  They’re afraid of him.  They have too much to lose, and no skills to defend themselves.  But you have talents none of them have: cleverness, adaptability, nonconformity.”  Which was all true. 

He still looked dubious, and for several panicked seconds, she thought he would refuse her outright.  If he did, what would she do?  Surely Pryce’s next move would be even more hostile than the last, and she didn’t know if she could hold out against him. 

“You don’t have to answer right away,” she said, trying to at least stall for time.  She gripped the back of a chair and leaned against it.  “Take a little while, think what I’ve said over.  Maybe in a day or two—”

She did not get the chance to finish her sentence.  Mordon cleared his throat politely in the doorway.

“There is a gentleman from Greywell’s here to see you, madam,” he announced, “and he says his business is quite urgent.”

“Show him in.”

But the visitor did not wait for her butler, instead dashing into the breakfast room with his cap clutched tightly in his hand.  He stood just inside the door.  Olivia recognized him as John Stevenson, one of the brewery’s deliverymen.  He gasped for breath.

“Mr. Stevenson, what is the matter?  Can I get you some water?”

Panting, the man shook his head.  “No...thank you, madam.  But...I...”  He bent over and rested his hands on his thighs, wheezing.

“Easy there, compañero,” Will said, walking around the table and giving Stevenson a few hearty thumps on the back.  “Get your wind and then talk.”

After a few gulps of air, Stevenson managed to straighten.  “There is trouble at Greywell’s, madam.”

“What kind of trouble?”  Already on the alert, she felt herself grow taut with apprehension, gripping the top of the chair tightly.

“The delivery vans and drays can’t get through to the pubs.  Whenever they go, they get turned back.”

“By whom?”

Stevenson shook his head.  “Don’t know, madam.  Men.  Men with clubs.  They threaten the drivers and say they’ll bash their heads in if they try and make the deliveries.  So the vans have been sitting in the yard all morning.”

If she had not been so well-trained in the art of proper comportment, she would have cursed.  And cursed loudly.  “George Pryce, again,” she muttered instead.  She had not been mistaken in her assessment.  The man was now hell-bent on ruining her.

“What’ll we do, madam?” Stevenson asked, imploring.  His cap was almost crushed into a ball in his hands.

She clutched the back of a chair, thinking hard.  There had to be another way to make their deliveries, but how?

“The drivers ought to fight back,” Will said, breaking the silence, “show some gumption.”  Both Olivia and Stevenson looked at him in surprise.

“The men had clubs, sir,” Stevenson answered.

Will rolled his eyes.  “Then give the drivers guns.”

“Guns, sir?” repeated Stevenson blankly.

“Yeah, you know, firearms, equalizers, barkers—guns.”

“This is England, Will,” she explained.  “People only carry guns to hunt.”

His look was level and serious.  “Then maybe it’s time we started huntin’ bullies.”

“You aren’t going to actually
shoot
anyone, are you?” Olivia asked as they rode quickly towards Greywell’s.  She eyed the rifle resting across Will’s legs with a combination of apprehension and curiosity.  The only firearms she was at all familiar with were the polished and engraved hunting rifles her father kept on display in a locked cabinet in his study, but those guns were purely decorative.  Seeing something so deadly and, from the looks of the worn and smooth butt, well-used, was a startling experience.

Will Coffin laughed and shook his head.  “’Course I’m not going to shoot anyone.  I just want to show your delivery men how to make a big show, scare off the thugs.” 

She breathed low in relief.  “I have to admit, I wasn’t particularly eager to replicate that aspect of my dime novels.”

“The way those books talk,” Will said, smiling, “you’d think there weren’t any people left alive out West—all we do is run around and shoot each other.”  The idea made him chuckle.

She wished she could emulate his insouciance about the upcoming conflict, but found it more difficult than she had imagined.  “Don’t you?”

“I use this Winchester for huntin’ and protectin’ cattle against wild animals,” he explained.  “Maybe once or twice I shot it into the air to scare off some rustlers.”

“And what about your pistol?”

“My Colt?  The same.  Most towns don’t even let you wear ’em in the streets.  Sheriffs make you drop ’em off when you come in and pick ’em up when you leave.”  He held open his coat.  He wore no guns or gun belt.  “See?  I’m not even heeled now.” 

“So no showdowns on Main Street?”

He laughed at the note of disappointment in her voice.  “That’s pure fiction, ma’am.”

“And you’ve never shot or killed anyone.”

The merriment in his eyes fled immediately as his laughter died.  “I didn’t say that.” 

“Oh.”  She looked down at her hands, clutched in her lap.  God, what to make of this man!  Everything about him made her feel a bit small, even though she knew that wasn’t his intention.  He didn’t frighten her somehow, but she knew, if he had to, he could become as feral as a wolf.

And she was a lapdog, fed on scraps from the master’s table.  But weren’t all women of her class trained and obedient pets?  Moral, loving and biddable?  As she worked in her brewery, she began to agree with the radical female writers whose works were condemned at tea parties.  She desired more than a favored spot at her master’s feet, whether that master was David or the upper echelons of society.  And she was willing to defend that desire.  But it was getting harder and harder to do so, especially alone.

The carriage went through the iron gates of Greywell’s into the yard, where more than a dozen delivery drays and vans stood waiting.  They were all full of carefully stacked barrels, ready for distribution to the forty pubs licensed to sell Olivia’s beer.  Ordinarily, the sight of so much industry made her chest expand with pride.  But it was well after nine in the morning, long past the time the deliveries should have been made.  If she couldn’t get the beer to the publicans before noon, when many working men took their lunches, it could be disastrous for the long-term success of Greywell’s.  She had to be a reliable supplier; that was a primary rule of business.

And the drivers knew it, too.  They stood next to their wagons, holding the horses’ reins, shifting and uneasy.  She could see the relief on their faces as her carriage pulled into the yard and came to a stop.  She only hoped she could be worthy of their trust.