A Daddy For Her Triplets

The corner of Clint’s jaw ticked. “Afraid not. It’s typewritten.”

Carson Thorn, the president of the Cowboy League, pressed his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly over the uproar of the crowd. Folks immediately stopped talking and turned their attention to him.

“Can I get the remainder of the members of the league board and the investigation team over here? The rest of you can go back to the party and enjoy yourselves.” He gestured for the band to strike up another tune. “No sense having this low-down criminal ruin the day for everyone. Don’t worry, folks. The board and the sheriff’s department are on it.”

“And the posse,” added thirty-something Amanda Jones with a frown.

Olivia chuckled under her breath at the name the group had given themselves. Right out of an old Western movie, where the sheriff “deputized” the good guys and they rode in to save the day.

In a sense, she supposed, the Lone Star Cowboy League was the good guys, providing much-needed support and services to struggling ranches around the area. They’d even developed special programs for the youth.

Her great-grandmother Lula May had been the only female founding member of the Little Horn chapter of the Lone Star Cowboy League, but Olivia hadn’t been asked to join the investigatory group, possibly because her ranch was inconsequential compared to the ones that had been robbed, not to mention that she was a widow busy raising three young boys. She was struggling just to keep her twenty acres above water and even if she wanted to, which she didn’t, she didn’t have time to put into chasing local thieves.

Clint had just said he wasn’t a member of the league, so he personally had no more at stake in catching the thieves than she did, but when their gazes locked and he arched a golden eyebrow, she knew he was thinking the same thing she was. They both wanted to know what was going on—firsthand.

The intentions of the thieves’ movements were shifting, and it was anybody’s guess where they were going next.

Clint reached for Olivia’s hand and drew her to her feet, tucking her arm into the crook of his elbow. He glanced down, concern evident in his eyes. Maybe he still thought she was ready to swoon like an actress in an old-time film, but she was made of sterner stuff than that.

She smiled up at him. He nodded briefly and stepped into the rapidly forming group as if he belonged there. As if they belonged there.

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” Byron McKay growled. “Lucy, when are you going to do your job and bring this thief to justice? I want him behind bars and prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

Byron, middle-aged and portly, was the vice president of the league and by far the richest land owner in the county. He was also the one who complained the loudest. Olivia supposed she couldn’t completely blame him. He was the only rancher in the area to have been hit twice. Even so, his annoying blustering wasn’t helping matters. Folks needed to remain calm and levelheaded if they were going to get anywhere with this.

“Thieves.” Clint spoke up, his voice strong and steady. “Olivia was the one who first noticed this. Look here,” he said, pointing to the typewritten missive. “These guys wrote ‘we will,’ not ‘I will.’ It appears we’re looking for more than one criminal here.”

She tightened her grip on Clint’s forearm and he laid his hand over hers. As if one thief wasn’t bad enough.

“There’s something else in the wording of the letter that strikes me,” Lucy said thoughtfully, curling her short blond hair behind her ears and peering at the thieves’ card through her fringe of bangs. “The way it’s written sounds...juvenile. Like teenagers. It’s possible our profile is off and we need to adjust the age range of our thieves.”

“I don’t care how young they are,” Byron bellowed, snorting like an angry bull. “Juvenile delinquents or hardened criminals. What difference does it make? It’s your job to catch them and put them away for good.”

Carson held up a hand. “We all want them caught, Byron. As you well know, we’ve got every rancher in town on high alert. Most of us have installed security cameras, and our wranglers are on the lookout for anything suspicious. Everyone is doing the best they can to find the culprits, both officially and off the books.”

“Well, it’s not enough.”

That didn’t seem fair. Olivia frowned. Sheriff Benson was working overtime on the case. She looked so drawn out and tired that Olivia felt sorry for her.

What more could Byron ask than her best effort? But then again, that was the way the McKays operated. Just because they had money they thought they were entitled to everything being handed to them on a platter.

Including, apparently, the Robin Hood—Hoods.

Only this time, it wasn’t quite so simple.

Her gaze shifted to Byron’s teenage fraternal twin sons, Gareth and Winston, expecting them to have the same snooty expressions on their faces as their father did. To her surprise, they looked embarrassed, maybe even a little angry that their dad was spouting off his mouth.

She didn’t blame them. She’d be embarrassed, too, if Byron was her father. The man didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. Hopefully, Byron’s boys would grow up wiser and kinder than their father, taking a better path and becoming cooperative members of the Little Horn community.

To her credit, despite the personal attack on her capabilities as sheriff, Lucy ignored Byron’s raging and focused on the typewritten missive. “It’s too bad the note isn’t handwritten,” she remarked, intensely studying the veiled threat. “Someone might have recognized the print. As it is, I think we’ve made good strides today in further developing our working profile of the thief—er, thieves.”

Carson nodded and folded his arms. “Right. So from the language of the missive, we’re guessing they’re youth. Teenagers, maybe?”

“Or they could be young adults,” Olivia offered, thinking out loud.

Even an extended profile of the thieves was discouraging. She glanced around the room. There were probably close to a hundred teenagers in the room, and if she added everyone under thirty into the mix, that was a lot of people to investigate.

“The Robin Hoods are definitely old enough to drive a truck with a trailer attached and are familiar both with stock and ranch equipment,” Lucy said. “There is no doubt that they grew up in the country, probably on a ranch and most likely in Little Horn. At least one of them is likely a male, since it would require a modicum of strength to move many of the stolen items. Based on everything else we’ve learned, I’d hazard a guess that we’re looking for two or more young men.”

“And one other thing,” Olivia said, her breath catching as the realization dawned on her. The letter. The thieves had walked right into the grange and posted it to the wall and no one had even noticed. They weren’t strangers, then. They were neighbors.

She shuddered. The thieves could be in the room with them at this very moment. She probably knew their parents.

“The note is pinned on the Sweetheart Wall,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the din.

Clint’s brow lowered. “And?”

“And no one is allowed in the banquet hall unless they are a member of the league, or a member’s guest.” She gestured around the room. “Whoever put up this note is not only welcome at league functions, but has the ability to walk among us with no one the wiser. We aren’t seeing them because they don’t look out of place. They’re one of us.”

“So we need to narrow it down to league members,” Lucy concluded. “We need to be especially aware of teens and young adults, although I don’t want to rule out other possibilities at the present time.”

The tone of the room immediately shifted. It was alarming that no one had noticed anyone posting the missive on the wall, because whoever it was was here—and belonged here.

People’s gazes started shifting around the room as they examined and discarded possible culprits. Folks whispered among themselves. Pointed fingers and then shook their heads. Nodded and made quiet accusations.

Lucy held up her hands and turned to the secretary of the Little Horn branch of the Lone Star Cowboy League, a tall, gawky young redhead with an oversize orchid corsage on her wrist.

“Ingrid, I want a list of all league members and their families delivered to the station. We’re closing in on the thieves. I can feel it in my bones.”

“I agree,” Carson said. “I think we’re going to get these guys, especially because they’re probably here tonight. We need to make a plan—question folks to see if anyone noticed a youngster putting a typewritten letter on the Sweetheart Wall—but we should organize our movements. Try not to stir up too much of a scene.”

“Spread out and mingle. Don’t rile people up. Perhaps someone saw something we can use,” Lucy added.

“I hope so,” Clint murmured in Olivia’s ear.

“You’d better find something if you value your job,” Byron said, a great deal louder than was necessary.

Clint met Olivia’s gaze and briefly shook his head at Byron’s nonsense. Then he winked at her and his mouth curled up in an endearing crooked grin that sent her stomach tumbling. “Don’t worry about your sons, Olivia. Byron’s huffing aside, we’re closing in on the thieves. Those Robin Hoods don’t stand a chance now that I’m on board.”

An hour ago she would have thought Clint was the most egotistical, narcissistic man ever if he’d made such a presumptuous statement. But now?

Now she saw a thoughtful, determined man who wouldn’t stop until the thieves were behind bars. He might not be a superhero, but she was glad he was on her side.

* * *

Clint wasn’t a member of the Lone Star Cowboy League, much less the Rustling Investigation Team, but he wanted these thieves caught as much as the next guy. More, even, now that he had Olivia on his arm. Who would have thought one hour with a woman could change his entire perspective?

How could he not be concerned about Olivia? She hadn’t shared much with him, but she was clearly upset by the prospect of being robbed, and who could blame her, a woman alone with three young children? Her quarter horse farm might be one of the smaller and less flourishing ranches in Little Horn, but with no man around to protect them, she and her boys were especially vulnerable, ripe for criminal picking.