With the meeting brought to an end, Elaine assumed a strolling pace that brought her to the front of the tent as the valet lifted the netting to guide Boston out. She nodded to him and he politely tipped his hat, making a slight bow at the waist. While he walked away, she paused, aware the Duke of Middleton was alone in his tent, and debated whether she should speak to him as planned.
But the turn of events had stimulated her mind. It seemed much less imperative that the party resume its journey. So she returned to her own private tent and dismissed her maid. Merely as a mental exercise, she began imagining what she would do with a ranch in Montana—where and how money could be made. Most of the beef was sold for shipment to Eastern cattle markets, which put the rancher at the mercy of their prices. How could that be controlled? A rancher could sell directly to the U.S. government.
However, Canada was much closer—and they were building a railroad across the Rockies, she recalled, plus the outposts for the Mounted Police, and all those Indians on reservations to be fed. There was the vague memory of a poor relation working for the Canadian government, a second or third cousin of her late husband, the Earl of Crawford. She had met him briefly on that last, ill-fated tour through the West. He had tried to borrow money. Roddy—no, Roger Dunshill, that was his name. He worked as a purchasing agent.
Elaine laughed at herself. If Judd Boston only knew it, his new partner had valuable connections as well, but she had no intention of bringing the information to the duke’s attention. Why should she make him a fortune? Eventually someone would see the market for cattle in Canada. It was a pity she wouldn’t share in the killing that could be made.
Trying to fund two operations had stretched Judd Boston’s resources thin. With the unlimited letter of credit signed by the Duke of Middleton and bearing his seal, he had all the money he needed. The partnership agreement didn’t concern Boston at all. There were too many legal ways to drain away funds to be bothered about splitting profits.
Patience. It was only a matter of patience, and he’d eventually get everything he wanted. Including those three claims Calder had filed on. The man was so busy building his new mansion, he had forgotten to make the necessary improvements to retain his legal right to the claims.
Aromatic smells were coming from the cooking area, prompting Boston to take out his vest watch and check the time. In another twenty minutes it would be proper for him to present himself at the duke’s tent, so he continued to wander among the wagons in no particular hurry while the sun went down behind him in a blaze of glory. He heard the sound of a carriage approaching the camp and turned to see Bull Giles driving a team of matched sorrels.
Boston waited until the carriage had stopped and the big man had vaulted to the ground before walking over to meet him. Two of the horse handlers came forward to take care of the team. Bull Giles paused to inspect the carriage wheels.
“You here again?” Bull remarked dryly when Boston came up beside him.
“I told you I’d make it worth your while if you kept the duke and his friends in the area for a couple of weeks.” He lifted a bag of coins from his pocket and dropped it into Giles’s hand.
There was a weighing gesture of the hand before he slipped it into a pocket. “It just worked out that way,” Giles insisted.
“To the mutual benefit of both of us,” Boston murmured, and studied the man for a long second. “I don’t understand you.” Usually he could read any man, but Bull Giles didn’t follow any accepted pattern.
“Is there any reason why you should?” the man asked with a trace of derision.
“No, I don’t suppose there is,” Boston admitted with a narrowed look. “But you were here before most of the others. You knew the potential of this country. You could have done the same thing Calder did. Today you could be building a big house just like he is. You have the knowledge and the ability, but you don’t use it. Why?”
Bull shrugged indifferently. “I reckon I don’t have your kind of ambition—or greed.”
“Every man wants something.” Boston wouldn’t buy that. “What do you want?”
“To be left alone.” Bull cast him an impatient glance.
“What’s keeping you here?” Boston answered. “You usually drift on to another place.” His head lifted as he recalled a remark Loman Janes had made. At the time, it hadn’t held any interest for him. “It wouldn’t happen to be Benteen Calder’s wife, would it?”
There was the slightest pause before Giles challenged, “What would I want with another man’s wife?”
But Judd Boston just smiled, his black eyes darkening with a knowing light. “I guess range accidents happen. Young wives can turn into young widows quick out here. Maybe that’s it,” he mused. “Or are you trying to get up the courage to arrange for Calder to meet with an accident?”
“I never did like you much, Boston,” Bull growled.
“Let somebody else do all the work, and you step into his shoes—and his bed. Not a bad plan, Giles,” Boston conceded.
“I never said nothin’ of the sort,” he denied.
“But you’re thinking it.” His smile widened. “It could work.”
“You’ve got an ugly mind.” Bull swung away.
But it gave Judd Boston something to think about. Maybe it could be worked to his advantage, provided Giles did more than just think about it. Women did funny things to men, corrupting some who believed they were honest. It would be interesting to see what happened.
As Bull Giles entered the camp proper, he was seething with rage. He knew Judd Boston looked on the Calder range with envy. There was none better around. But the attempt to use him as a pawn to get Calder out of the picture struck him raw. It was true that he had thought about what would happen to Lorna if Benteen was killed or crippled, but it had only been out of concern for her. It hadn’t been a death wish for Benteen.
A woman like her wouldn’t look twice at a man like him. His steps began to slow as a painful tightness gripped his chest, twisting him up with the deep emotions the thought of her dragged from him. She was so beautiful with those dark eyes and hair as sleek and shiny as those thoroughbreds grazing out there. She had called him friend. That meant something, didn’t it? She must like him. A groan tore from his throat.
He looked around to see if anyone heard that betrayal. Lady Crawford was just stepping out of her tent. With his memory of the meeting with Lorna so vivid in his mind, he immediately recalled that she had said she had met Lady Crawford before. He had promised to mention it to the woman.
Removing his hat, he stepped forward to intercept her. “Excuse me, your ladyship.” He bowed slightly.