A Daddy For Her Triplets

She was cracking, not that he could blame her. How could she not give in, with Libby’s gentle persuasion? In his experience, Libby could pretty much talk anyone into anything, himself included.

This whole taking-the-Barlows-on-a-day-trip thing being a case in point.

“We can take horses up Pine Meadow Trail. It’s an easy ride and there are several places to stop and enjoy nature.”

“It’s just for a few hours, right?”

“Sure. Whatever you want. Give the boys a little taste of the mountains. Have a picnic.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip and he couldn’t look away. See? She was already distracting him, and they hadn’t even started the beginner’s challenge yet.

“Okay. But if we’re doing this, I insist on bringing the picnic.”

“I’m all for that,” Clint agreed. “I can’t cook a lick. Grab a package of hot dogs and we can roast them with a stick over a fire.”

“And marshmallows?” Her eyes glinted, the first sign of interest she’d shown.

He chuckled and nodded. “Absolutely. Marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers. What is a picnic in the mountains without s’mores?”

He pulled out his cell phone and opened his calendar. “I’ve got next Saturday available, or—”

His sentence was interrupted by a shouted exclamation and the murmur of the crowd.

“It’s Robin Hood. He’s here!”

Chapter Three (#ulink_b4f25e24-16ac-5248-9c00-e76858afc4f1)

An icy finger of alarm skittered down Olivia’s spine.

Robin Hood—the name of the thief who’d been casing Little Horn, rustling cattle and stealing supplies, only to turn around and fence them, making gifts to some of the less-fortunate, struggling ranchers in the area.

Hence the Robin Hood moniker—stealing from the rich to give to the poor.

He was here? At the Valentine Roundup?

He probably got a kick out of mingling with everyone, with no one the wiser as to his secret identity. It sounded cartoonish, except that it was not. It was frightening, especially to someone like Olivia.

With her tiny, struggling quarter horse ranch, she definitely fell into the latter category. She suspected Robin Hood would take one look at her and feel sorry for her, but that didn’t stop her from worrying that she might be robbed next.

Who knew what the criminal was thinking—what he really wanted? His behavior was erratic at best and no one really knew what he was ultimately after. She couldn’t afford to lose even a single horse in her already dwindling herd, never mind the trivial amount of equipment she owned.

But as much as the thought of losing any of her costly breeding stock horrified her, what concerned her the most was that the thief posed a possible threat to her children, however indirectly.

It was well-known in Little Horn that she was a widow. That made her vulnerable. An easy target. The thought that her triplets might not be safe on her own land frightened her more than she was willing to admit. She could hardly keep her squirrelly boys locked inside all day. They practically lived outside, running and playing and riding and wrestling. What if her triplets accidentally stumbled across Robin Hood when the thief was in the act of stealing something?

So far the guy hadn’t been violent. He’d covered his tracks well. No one had had more than a glimpse of him, and as far as Olivia knew, Sheriff Lucy Benson hadn’t had much success following whatever leads she had on him, nor had the Rustling Investigation Team that had been set up by the league for that purpose.

But a criminal was a criminal and in Olivia’s mind, that made him dangerous. He had to know if he got caught he would be going to prison for his crimes. Put him in a corner and she was fearful that he’d come out biting.

Clint took her elbow and braced his palm against the small of her back. “Are you okay, Liv? You just turned white as a sheet.”

She stared up at him, momentarily speechless. She didn’t know whether she was more surprised by the fact that he was acting so compassionate toward her, or that he’d just used an unfamiliar nickname with her. No one in Little Horn called her Liv.

She shook her head. “It’s Olivia,” she corrected. “And I’m fine.”

His brow lowered. “You’re not fine. Let’s get you seated on a chair and I’ll go find you a bottle of water.”

“No, really. You don’t have to do that.” What did he think? That she was Scarlett O’Hara, ready to pass out at the very thought of a crisis? Olivia had a lot more strength than he was giving her credit for. “I don’t know about you, but I want to hear what’s happening over there.”

She gestured toward the Sweetheart Wall, where folks in the community appeared to be gathering—specifically, board members of the Lone Star Cowboy League and a small group of men and women who were unofficially investigating the crimes. They’d dubbed themselves “the posse.” The name amused Olivia, though she knew Little Horn’s sheriff, Lucy Benson, wasn’t too happy to have inexperienced townspeople practically deputizing themselves.

“Fine,” Clint said, following the direction of her gaze. “Have it your way. We’ll find you a seat over there. But I’m still getting you a bottle of water.” She thought she might have heard him mutter the words stubborn woman under his breath.

She considered herself entirely self-sufficient and it galled her to think he might be even the tiniest bit on target, but at least internally, she had to admit she was feeling a little light-headed—from the rush of adrenaline surging through her and concern for her farm. It had absolutely nothing to do with the man who wrapped his muscular arms around her as he guided her across the room, assuring himself as much as her that she didn’t waver when she walked.

When they reached the Sweetheart Wall, she decided to ignore his dictatorial attitude in favor of a chair. Her own decision, not his. He had the bedside manner of an ogre, but she sensed that he meant well.

He led her to one of the nearest chairs, which were set up in a line against the wall near where everyone was gathered, mostly for use by elderly women and wallflowers. And widows, she supposed.

Clint waited until Olivia was seated before shifting to the side so he could take a glance at the missive that was causing all the commotion. He frowned and threaded his fingers through the hair curling around his collar. She’d been around him only for an hour but she already recognized the action as one he used when he was frustrated. Something he read had disturbed him.

“What is it?” The muscles in her shoulders and neck contracted painfully as she awaited his response. She held her breath.

“Robin Hood. He left a message on the wall in the guise of a valentine card.”

“What’s it say? Is it a threat?”

Clint swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Kind of, although it’s not the sort of thing I would expect from a real criminal.”

He cleared his throat and read:

“To all struggling ranchers: Funny how the Lone Star Cowboy League spends tons of money putting on a fancy event for themselves but doesn’t seem to have enough to help those who are really in need.

“Jerks. Whatever. If they won’t help, we will.”

“That doesn’t bode well for members of the Cowboy League.” Olivia frowned.

“For any of us, really,” Clint agreed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “I don’t like the sound of it. I’m not a member of the league, but the Everharts are. I’m not convinced my presence on their land is enough to keep the Everharts from becoming a target. They don’t have a large ranch, but it’s relatively prosperous, and other comparable ranches have been hit. The thief might have started with the richest ranches in town, but they’re working their way down. It’s only a matter of time before they run out of league ranches and start robbing everyone else.”

She reached for Clint’s hand. He scowled at the Sweetheart Wall.

“We’ve got to find this guy,” he growled. “And sooner rather than later.”

“Guys,” Olivia corrected, noting the worry lines creasing his face. He was clearly genuinely concerned about his foster parents. In Olivia’s opinion, how a man treated his folks said a lot about him. That Libby and James were Clint’s foster parents and not his biological ones made it even more touching.

“What?” He arched his blond eyebrows.

“The note says we’ll help. Plural. Do you see what I’m saying? Clint, there’s more than one thief out there.” Her logical deduction did not make her feel any better. More thieves meant more opportunities for crimes to be committed. “Did the handwriting look familiar to you?”