by Pam Crooks
Dedicated to:
Doug, Ann Marie, Katie, Kristi and Amy--the loves of my life.
May you always have romance in your heart.
Brief Excerpt
A TANTALIZING TRUCE
Her lips softened in a smile. Reaching out, she trailed a knuckle along his cheek, faintly stubbled with the shadow of a beard.
“In the meantime, shall we call a truce, Boss Man?” she challenged quietly.
He seemed unable to resist touching her in return and took her hand. He drew his palm over her wrist to her elbow.
Sonnie held her breath, transfixed by the sheer tenderness of his caress. He didn’t stop but continued toward her shoulder and onto her back, his work-roughened skin a pleasurable contrast to hers.
His hand splayed, then slid along her shoulder blade, one side and then the other, before ending his journey at the barrier of her corset. He seemed hungry to explore, to learn the feel of her.
Her gaze melded with his. She couldn’t pull herself away, though the intimacy of the moment suggested she should.
He fingered the pink satin ribbons, as if he contemplated undoing them as slowly as he’d undone the back of her dress. His whiskey-shaded eyes, smoldering with the desire he held in check, settled on her lips, and his breathing took on a definite ragged edge.
“Truce, Sonnie,” he whispered.
What readers are saying about Wyoming Wildflower!
“Wyoming Wildflower has a wonderful blend of all the things that make a romance novel: vivid imagery, historic detail, and of course, steamy scenes. The relationship between Sonnie and Lance keeps the reader's heart racing.”
“Pam Crooks has captured the essence of the western romance with true to life situations and laces the love story with just enough spice and building passion.”
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Write a Review
Newsletter
Author’s Note
Prologue
Summer, 1872
The stench of raw sewage permeated the steamy night. Drunken derelicts shuffled past the aging tenement buildings squeezed onto the city block; thugs and thieves, like hordes of cockroaches, lurked in the darkened alleys to wait for more innocent victims.
But Lance Harmon felt safe enough in his tiny room, as safe as any ten-year-old living in New York’s Lower East Side could be. He didn’t like life in the slums much, but at least he had Mother, which made him more fortunate than most. She always protected him.
Well, she used to, anyway.
Mother hadn’t been herself since Father left. Lately the role of caregiver had fallen onto his young shoulders, and he’d accepted the responsibility with a man’s aplomb. He and Mother had only each other. She needed him--needed him more than ever.
He stared upward at the sagging ceiling and listened to the sounds seeping from the thin walls of her bedroom. He couldn’t sleep when she was so restless, and knowing she’d started drinking earlier than usual worried him all the more.
The baby was coming. Though Mother hadn’t said as much, he knew. Her time was past--almost two weeks now--and just thinking about it spawned a troublesome fear deep inside him. He didn’t understand most female things, but anyone could see how small and frail Mother was and how big her belly--
“Lance! Lance!”
He bolted from the flea-bitten mattress and flew to her room. He froze at the sight of her upon the rumpled bed. Perspiration caked her auburn hair to her forehead and neck, and her skin had an awful pallor.
“Mother?” he said hoarsely. “Are you all right?”
“No, I ain’t all right!” she snapped with uncharacteristic sharpness. Her speech, normally refined and cultured, turned coarse and primitive when laced with liquor. “I’m hurtin’. Hurtin’ bad.”
Grimacing, she raised herself up and reached toward the nearly empty bottle on the nightstand, but collapsed backward with a loud moan. Her arms gripped her abdomen, and her legs clawed the covers.
Panic rooted Lance to the floor. He tried to think of something to help her, to make her feel better, and failed.
After what seemed an eternity, her pain appeared to pass. Her bosom heaved as she gulped in air. Her head turned upon the pillow, and she fixed her exhausted gaze upon him.
“Lance,” she said in a whimper. “Lance, honey.”
He moved closer. “Mother, tell me what to do.”
“I need a drink.” She ran her tongue around her lips. “Give me the bottle . . . so’s I can have a drink.”
He hesitated. The cheap wine wasn’t good for her. So many times he’d told her that. Now--especially now--she needed her wits about her.
“Lance!” The sting had returned to her tone. “Get me the bottle!”
He obeyed hastily, knowing he shouldn’t but needing to comfort her any way he could. Her arm lifted slowly, as if she hadn’t the strength for even that, and she grasped the neck of the container. Trickles of wine ran down her cheek and chin when she swallowed.
She made an odd choking noise. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head. The bottle fell from her grip, spilling its contents onto the pillow, and she curled away from him to her side. Again, she clutched her belly; again, she moaned and writhed in agony.
It seemed to Lance this time the pain was never-ending. How much longer could she go on?
Tears smarted his eyes; his pulse pounded in terror. What could he do?
Finally, breathing heavily, she eased back onto the mattress. Her lids drifted closed, fluttered open, then closed once more.
Something wasn’t right, Lance realized. Mother was so tired, so weak. When would the baby come? In minutes? Hours?
When?
He fell to his knees beside her and took her limp hand. His fingers stroked hers feverishly. “Mother? Can you hear me?” Only silence mingled with her raspy breathing. “Mother? I’m going to find someone to help you. I won’t be gone long.”
Her eyes flew open wide. “No!” she shrieked. Her hand grasped his wrist in a burst of strength. “You mustn’t go out there! Sadists . . . everywhere!”
“But Mother--”
“Stay here!”
“Mother, Mr. Hawthorne can help!” Lance had always thought their landlord had taken a fancy to her after Father went away. Often he’d see him smile his crooked little smile at her.
Mother’s face, normally so beautiful, but now so weary, contorted in contempt. Her hand fell away to clasp the bedcovers. “Hawthorne! Oh, God!” Her back arched at the onset of another pain. “His fault! He did this to me!”
Confusion and distress warred within Lance. He rubbed her arm, her shoulder, and blinked furiously at rising tears.
“For the rent, he said,” Mother gasped. A trickle of perspiration snaked down her temple; a strange, demonic gleam flared in her eyes. She seemed to see right through Lance, as if he weren’t there, as if she channeled her hate toward someone he couldn’t see. “You men. You’re all alike, y’know that? Talk fancy about love to a woman, fill her with your disgustin’ seed, then leave her to die with your brat tearing her apart.”
Full-blown terror exploded within Lance. What was she saying? What did she mean?
Her scream rent the room, and he broke into a sob. She struggled for air, for control; her pain-racked body twisted on the mattress.
“Stay away from ‘em, Lance,” she ranted. “Y’hear me? Be strong. I don’t want . . . no son o’ mine hurtin’ a woman like your father or that . . . bastard Hawthorne hurt me.”
“Yes, Mother,” he crie
d, not quite sure what she bade him or what he promised.
“Men are disgustin’.” She blinked at him, as if trying to focus on his image; he watched the rage drain from her. “Where is your father? I need him,” she whispered. “Stay with me, my darling son.”
“Mother.” He tried hard to swallow his panic and remain calm. “You need a doctor. I’ll find you one.”
“Stay with me!” she screeched. “Don’t leave me!”
“All right, Mother. I’ll stay, I’ll stay.”
Her mouth opened. Her body jerked. Her shrieking wail sent wave after wave of shudders down Lance’s spine.
Then, a puddle of deep crimson oozed from her body and soaked into the sheets.
* * *
Dawn broke over the old tenement building. A hazy sun peeked through the faded curtains and warmed the little room grown cold from death.
Lance huddled in the corner, oblivious to the blood on his hands and the stain of tears on his face. His numb, haunted gaze riveted on the two forms, one infantile, the other finally at peace, lying silently on the bed.
He was alone. Completely, totally, irrevocably alone.
Chapter 1
Autumn, 1890
Dearest little sister,
With deep regret I write this to you, for I abhor casting a shadow over the wonderful time you are surely having at university in Europe. However, I fear you would never forgive me should I not let you know the news immediately.
Papa suffered a heart attack this morning. He is still in crisis, and we are most worried about him. The doctor won’t leave his side, nor will the rest of us, for he has not yet gained consciousness.
You must come, Sonnie. Come back home to us.
Papa needs you now.
Barbara
Sonnie Mancuso didn’t have to read the telegram again to know its contents. She could recite every paragraph, every word, from memory.
She’d been strolling through Sr. Peter’s Square in Rome when the message had finally caught up with her. Accompanied by her aunt and two of her cousins, she’d raced through the great piazza back to their hotel; within hours they’d embarked on a steamship back to America. Aunt Josephine’s influence had been invaluable in arranging their harried return home.
With gloved fingers, Sonnie refolded her older sister’s message along lines so creased the edges had begun to tear. Her gaze fell, as it had many times before, to the date typed three months earlier.
Three months. Had Papa recovered since she’d received word of his attack? Or had he . . . ?
Sonnie refused to think of the possibility of his death. He was too strong, too smart, too . . . stubborn to die.
And she had missed him terribly since he sent her away.
Vince Mancuso had not been blessed with sons. Sonnie was his sixth daughter, an “afterthought” born nearly ten years after Barbara. Cholera had claimed her mother when Sonnie was yet a baby, and after her passing, Vince had channeled his energies and time into building the Rocking M ranch into a powerful operation. He’d left the care and responsibility of raising Sonnie to his older daughters.
Sonnie’s mouth dipped ruefully at the rush of memories. She’d been a hellcat in those early years, much to the exasperation of her sisters. Willful and too much of a hoyden, she’d resisted their attempts to domesticate her, to teach her of cooking and sewing and cleaning the Big House, when all she’d ever wanted was to brand cows and ride horses and feel the clean Wyoming air blow across her face and through her hair.
She’d longed to be one of her father’s men.
It had been impossible, of course. Vince was determined she’d be a replica of her sisters, a proper young lady with all the feminine attributes inherited from her mother. He’d been appalled at her tomboy ways and had thwarted her keen interest in the workings of the ranch, right up to the day the last of the Mancuso sisters had married and moved away.
Papa needs you now.
Sonnie didn’t think Vince Mancuso had ever needed anyone, least of all her. What use did he have for a tagalong daughter? He’d already raised five. If he ever needed her, or even wanted her, he never would’ve sent her to Boston to live with Aunt Josephine to receive her schooling there, to learn of social etiquette and fashions and the arts, all the things her sisters survived just fine without.
She’d been devastated when he presented her with his decision. He’d refused to listen to her protests, her rants and ravings. She’d thrown a full-blown tantrum, but in the end he’d won, as he always did, and Sonnie left the Rocking M ranch.
She’d been back only once. Once for the holidays in all those years. And even then Papa had plopped her right back on the train headed east.
Papa needs you now.
Sonnie realized she still held Barbara’s telegram between her fingers, and she slipped it inside the satin-lined leather of her bag. A determined vein of hope brought an uncertain smile to her lips.
Maybe Papa did need her. It’d been so long since she’d seen him. Surely he missed her. And perhaps it’d taken a heart attack to make him realize he wasn’t invincible, that he wouldn’t live forever, that the world didn’t revolve around Vince Mancuso and the Rocking M.
Ah, dear, stubborn, headstrong Papa. She couldn’t wait to see him.
She only hoped she wasn’t too late.
The Union Pacific Railroad passenger car swayed along the rails with a rhythmic hum that would’ve been almost lulling had Sonnie been of a mind to relax. All day she’d stared through the window at the golden wheat fields and endless sand hills of Nebraska. Since they left the North Platte and Ogallala Depots, the topography of the land had changed from the gentle swell of the bluffs to the jutting snowcapped Rocky Mountains.
Cheyenne would be their next stop. In growing anticipation, she fidgeted with the seams on her gloves, clasped and unclasped her hands. She tried to maintain an aura of composure, but as the mighty steam engine chugged to a stop, she wanted to throw all dignity to the wind and bolt to the doors like an exuberant filly.
Instead she smoothed the striped silk of her dress over her knees. She sat up straighter and tugged at the black bands of velvet trimming her waist. Her fingers gripped her bag primly on her lap, and she waited for the conductor’s signal allowing them to leave.
From Boston she’d sent a wire notifying her father--or someone--of the exact date and time of her arrival. What if the wire had never reached the Rocking M? The ranch had always been self-sufficient. Days and even weeks passed before one of the men made a trip into town to receive mail and telegrams.
What if they didn’t know she was coming?
Chewing on the inside of her lip--a most unladylike habit, Aunt Josephine always declared--Sonnie stared into the throng of people crowding the platform. The blur of faces revealed no one familiar, and she battled a rising wave of disappointment.
At the conductor’s direction, she maneuvered into the aisle with the other departing passengers. She stepped from the train into the crisp autumn air and rose up on tiptoe to search again for someone she recognized.
“Miss Sonnie? Miss Sonnie! Over here!”
So many years had passed since she had heard the wizened old cowboy’s voice, but the sound washed over her as though it had been only yesterday. Feeling a delighted smile fill her features, she turned, instantly spotting his arm waving over the heads of the crowd. She returned the wave, then nudged her way through the throng toward him.
“Took yer own sweet time in comin’ back, didn’t you, young lady?” Cookie scolded with a frown on his face and a twinkle in his eye. “What’s the matter? Ain’t cow country good enough fer you anymore?”
Knowing there was no malice in his reprimand, Sonnie laughed. Dubbed Cookie for the ready supply of treats he’d kept in his saddlebag to surprise her with as a child, he had worked for her father for as long as she could remember and was as loyal and dedicated as any man could be.
“That’s not true, you grouchy dear, and you know it.” She dropped a
quick kiss upon his stubbly cheek. “How good to see you again!”
“What do y’mean ‘grouchy’? Me? Heck, anyone’d turn grouchy standin’ ‘round waitin’ for you and that iron horse to roll in.”
“Don’t you pay him no mind, Miss Sonnie. We hardly waited at all, and Cookie was plain fascinated by that there train.”
Sonnie’s glance lifted upward to the tall cowboy beside him. She smiled. “How are you, Stick?” Painfully shy and obviously infatuated, he’d earned his nickname from his lanky height and bony features, but not a finer wrangler did Vince Mancuso employ. “My, I do believe you’ve gotten more handsome since I saw you last.”
“Aw, Miss Sonnie.” An embarrassed blush crept from the collar of his new shirt upward to his slicked-down hair. “You always say that, leastways you used to, and both of us know it ain’t true.”
“Oh, but it is.” She laughed again and gave him an impulsive peck on the cheek. “Thank you for coming to meet me.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.” His blush deepened from her show of affection. “I’m real glad to see you again, and I’m sure your pa will be, too.”
She searched both weathered expressions. “How is Papa?” she ventured, her smile fading. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”
“Reckon he is.” Cookie patted Sonnie’s shoulder in somber reassurance, and she murmured a fervent prayer of relief. “The heart attack took a bite out of his strength, but he’s gettin’ better. The doc says he’ll need a few more weeks of recoverin’.”
“Your sisters were all here one time or another,” Stick added. “Took their turn takin’ care of him. They’ve gone home to their families, though, now that the worst is over.”
“Yep.” Cookie eyed her shrewdly. “All that’s been missin’ is the baby of the bunch. The littlest Mancuso.”
The littlest Mancuso. Daughter number six. The last in line, the one who always seemed to be nudged aside, sent away, unneeded.