by Pam Crooks
“A little scrawny,” he murmured. Offended, Lance stiffened and pulled away. The man smiled. “But nothing honest work and square meals won’t cure. You got a good appetite?”
Lance didn’t tell him he couldn’t get his fill at the orphanage, that there always seemed to be someone younger and hungrier than himself at the table. He tried to ignore the glimmer of hope flickering within him.
The man stroked his pencil-thin mustache. Lance, growing uneasy from the silence, shifted from one foot to the other.
“So you’re looking for a home, eh?” the man asked finally.
Lance swallowed his pride. “Yes, sir.”
“And I’m looking for a son.” His features softened, and he nodded in approval. He extended his hand.
“Name’s Mancuso. Vince Mancuso.”
They were late.
Lance leaned a hip against the porch railing and inhaled deeply of his cigarette. Smoke billowed from his lungs in an impatient swirl. One more time, he scanned the road leading up to the Big House. One more time, he found it empty.
Cookie and Stick had better have a good reason, a damned good reason, for being this late.
He’d give them ten more minutes, then mount up and ride into Cheyenne himself. His mind agonized over every mishap, every reason he could think of that might have caused their delay. He vowed to find them and bring them all home.
Sonnie. God, to see her again.
The blood heated in his veins, like it always did when he thought of her. It didn’t matter she didn’t know who he was. From the moment he’d first laid eyes on her all those years ago, he’d stayed in the background, out of her life.
And loved her.
A smudge on the horizon gradually formed into a definite shape. Lance recognized the stagecoach. He pulled his glance from the road and tried to quell the leap of anticipation in the pit of his belly. Flicking his cigarette into nearby shrubbery, he straightened from the railing and turned toward the man seated halfway across the porch.
“They’re coming, Vince.”
Sonnie’s father peered at him over the rim of his reading glasses, nodded, and folded his newspaper neatly in his lap. He rose, wobbly at first, and steadied himself with his cane. He slid his glasses into a shirt pocket and waited at the top of the stairs.
Lance considered him. Mancuso presented a fine figure of a man. Sturdy in stature, he was handsome and formidable. The heart attack had cost him some weight, some strength, and his age had slowed his recovery, but his eyes were shrewd, his mind sharp and quick. The running of the ranch had never faltered after his illness.
Even so, Lance noticed the subtle dependence he had shown toward him. He’d taken Lance into his confidence, showed him the inner workings of the Rocking M, displayed the financial ledgers few before him had seen. He’d asked for, and Lance had given, advice. They’d talked for hours of subjects they hadn’t the time for in the past, and the bonds, already begun that cold day at the Omaha Old Opera House, had grown even stronger.
Lance knew Mancuso had misgivings about Sonnie’s return. Why, he didn’t yet understand, but Vince didn’t show the elation a father should have upon his daughter’s return home. Sonnie was the one topic Vince rarely discussed, and the one Lance wanted to the most.
The stagecoach lumbered into the yard. Cookie barked the team to a halt and pulled the brake. Stick leaped down, and without a glance toward the porch, hurried toward the rig’s door.
Lance remained at the railing. Expectation rooted him to the floor and rendered him motionless. The door opened wide, and he caught a glimpse of a small, kid-leathered foot stepping to the ground. Teasing snippets of petticoats tumbled about shapely ankles before they were lost in the volume of rose-and-green-striped silk.
A rushing sensation, not unlike a thousand waterfalls, erupted within him. His heart pounded--no, thundered--in his head and chest. Blood flowed hot in his veins.
She always did this to him. The pitifully few times he’d been near her, it happened without fail. He gripped the railing behind him, gripped until he feared the wood would snap, until he achieved a measure of control.
Control.
He wouldn’t let her see the effect she had on him. What would she think? That he was a coward?
Seconds passed. She never gave him a passing glance. She hadn’t noticed he was there.
The rush faded, grew more manageable. He released the railing, flexed his fingers behind his back. She was beautiful. As beautiful as the most exotic wildflowers growing free on the Wyoming range. More beautiful than any woman he’d ever known.
With a gloved hand, she touched a finger to her hair, which was black as sable, lustrous. Her hat was perched forward on her head in the latest fashion and sported ostrich feathers that floated and swayed with every movement. Luscious red lips quivered with emotion.
“Papa?” she whispered.
The little sound tore at Lance. She abandoned her dignity and flew up the porch stairs. Vince caught her in his arms and murmured her name.
Moved by their reunion, Lance looked away. The carriage door clicked shut; Stick’s boot sole crunched the dirt.
The sounds tugged Lance’s attention. The two cowboys were disheveled and somber. His gaze darted over the stagecoach and found the scratches creasing the once-gleaming paint, the broken spokes on two wheels, the bent steel of the frame.
Lance shot a sharp glance back toward Sonnie. She appeared unhurt after whatever battle the vehicle had endured.
He vaulted the railing. Two long strides carried him to Cookie and Stick.
“What happened?” he asked in a low growl.
“Had a scare,” Stick declared.
“Heck of a scare,” Cookie said. “Two men jumped us. We tried to git away, but they was faster’n us. Wrecked the rig in the process.”
“What did they want?” he demanded.
“Mr. Mancuso.”
His mouth tightened. Reprisals weren’t unexpected on the range, but never before had vengeance struck so close to home. Worse, Sonnie had been caught in the crossfire.
“Who were they?”
“Clay Ditson was one, but I didn’t let on I knowed him.”
Ditson. Lance narrowed an eye. “And the other?”
“His Injun. Snake. Looked mean as ever, too.”
Foreboding thick as mud filled him.
“If any harm comes to Miss Sonnie, I reckon I’m to blame.” Stick’s announcement carried a vein of guilt, and Lance raised a questioning brow. “I shouldn’t a-told ‘em who she was, but it just slipped out. I feel right terrible about it, too.”
“We ain’t seen the last of ‘em, neither!”
The young cowboy’s obvious shame deepened from the reproving frown Cookie tossed at him.
Lance made no attempt to salve Stick’s remorse. Cookie had reason to be concerned with the revelation of Sonnie’s identity, and though Lance understood Stick’s regret, loyalty to the Rocking M, and Vince Mancuso and all his kin, was paramount and expected. Anything less would not be tolerated.
“Lance,” Vince said sharply.
Lance turned. His gaze clashed with Sonnie’s, staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and disapproval.
“Who did this?” Vince barked, indicating the coach with a terse gesture.
Why did she look at him that way, as if he’d done something wrong? It unsettled him, and he angled his body away from her--to shield himself from all she did to him. He concentrated on channeling his attention toward her father.
“Clay Ditson and Snake. They wanted you.”
“Hunting me down on the road like a common criminal?” Vince roared.
“Appears so.” Lance had learned long ago that calmness weathered him through Vince Mancuso’s storms.
“And with my daughter in the coach.” The cane thumped the porch floor in Vince’s agitation.
“Papa? Do you know them?” Sonnie clung to her father’s arm, as if now that she’d finally arrived, she couldn’t let him go
.
Seemingly with effort, Vince focused on her.
“They’re for me to deal with, mia bambina. Don’t give them another thought.”
“How can I not? They gave us quite a chase! What need did they have of you?”
“Business.”
“What kind of business?”
“Later, Sonnie.”
The command in the words brooked no argument, and she obediently gave him none, but her uncertain glance skittered toward Lance.
Again he looked away. His cowardice regarding Sonnie had been a part of him for as long as he could remember. Vince could handle her far better than he, and Lance steeled himself not to meet her gaze.
“Stick,” he said instead. “Take the rig to the machinery barn. We’ll fix it up there.”
“Okay,” he mumbled.
“Got the mail fer you,” Cookie said. “Had a wire come in, too.”
Lance caught the small bundle sailing toward him from the driver’s seat. “Thanks.”
The two cowboys tipped their hats to Vince and Sonnie in polite farewell. Lance moved to join them, but Vince called him back.
“Aren’t you coming inside, Lance?” he asked, frowning.
“Thought I’d check on the new foal,” he said, grasping the first excuse that popped into his head. He needed time away from Sonnie, needed to be able to breathe the very air she stole from him.
“Pah!” Vince scoffed, waving a dismissing hand. “You just checked him this morning. He’s doing fine. Have a drink with us to celebrate my daughter’s homecoming.”
Lance’s pulse beat a little faster inside him, growing bolder with every second he hesitated. To be in the same room with her . . . He tried to think of another excuse, a logical reason to stay away, and failed.
Sonnie released her father’s arm. She spoke softly and held the door open for him. Vince, never doubting that Lance would follow, went inside.
The door closed. Lance stood frozen at the bottom of the porch stairs. He’d do whatever Vince Mancuso wanted. He always had. If Vince wanted him to go inside and be polite to Sonnie and engage in normal conversation like any other man and woman, then he would.
But first . . . first he would wait until his heart stopped roaring, until the rush of a thousand waterfalls quieted to a low hum, until the blood cooled in his veins.
Only then could he panic.
* * *
Papa’s office hadn’t changed in the years Sonnie had been away. Oh, a little more cluttered, maybe. A little less organized, certainly. But for the most part, the room had remained just as she remembered it.
She glanced lovingly about her, reacquainting herself with the massive map of the Rocking M that took prominence on the wall behind his desk. On another hung a tanned hide emblazoned with the Rocking M brand. Assorted photographs of her mother, sisters, and herself mingled with those of prized bulls and stallions. Rifles and revolvers filled a nearby gun rack. The room reflected Vince Mancuso’s life, his passion for the Rocking M, and the years of hard work he’d put in to make the ranch a prosperous operation, and Sonnie thrilled to see it again.
“What would you like to drink, Sonnie? A glass of wine? I have raspberry brandy, too. Your favorite, eh?” her father asked, propping his cane against the cabinet.
“Yes, Papa. Still my favorite. A glass sounds heavenly. Thank you.”
Sonnie slipped the diamond pin from the crown of her hat and set the headpiece on a table. She watched him add a portion of water to the glass, a little idiosyncrasy she’d forgotten. Papa always believed a lady didn’t take her spirits full strength. To this day, Sonnie couldn’t tolerate them when they were.
“You look wonderful, mia bambina.” he said, handing her the glass. “As lovely as ever.”
“Do I?” She sipped, thoughtful of his use of the endearment. “After traveling so far so quickly, I feel in need of a relaxing bath.”
Her father settled himself in the burgundy leather chair at his desk. He considered her a moment. “You needn’t have come, you know. It’s dangerous for a young woman to travel alone.”
You needn’t have come.
A tremor of hurt flickered through her. Her lashes lowered. “Everyone expected the worst after your attack. I couldn’t possibly have stayed away knowing you were deathly ill.”
“Your sister shouldn’t have worried you. Matters were always well in hand.”
Sonnie sank slowly onto a brocade settee. Her grip tightened on the glass. Papa hadn’t really needed her after all, she realized, despite Barbara’s message.
“Who ran the ranch when you couldn’t?” she asked in a strained voice.
Papa appeared taken aback at her question. “Lance, of course. Who else?”
“Lance.” A niggle of resentment escaped in the single word as she matched the name with the man on the porch. “Does . . . Lance have a last name?”
“Sonnie,” he began with faint exasperation. “Harmon. Harmon’s his last name. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, Papa, how could I possibly?” she challenged in defense. “I--there’ve been so many men who’ve worked for you over the years, and I’ve been gone--.”
The front door opened, and she halted. Boot steps approached, and Papa’s gaze slid toward the hall. Without rising, he motioned him inside.
Lance Harmon had presence, Sonnie conceded with a barely disguised sniff. That much she’d give him. Tall and lean, he strode into the room with a grace that belied the power he exuded. Thigh muscles rippled beneath the denim of his Levis. Spurs jangled from the heels of his boots. In perfect symmetry, narrow hips tapered upward to broad shoulders, and beneath the pale blue shirt he wore, his biceps stretched the fabric almost to its limits,
He tossed the mail, several newspapers, and the telegram onto Papa’s desk before helping himself to a bottle of whiskey. He moved about the room with confidence and ease, as if he’d staked ownership.
Given Papa’s high opinion of him, maybe he had, and her resentment flared anew
“Evidently introductions are in order, Lance,” Papa said. A smile formed beneath his mustache. “Sonnie doesn’t remember you.”
Harmon looked directly at her. Eyes as heated as the whiskey in his hand touched her briefly before flitting away again.
“I’m not surprised. I wasn’t around much when she was growing up.”
Sonnie bristled. He made her sound as if she were a mere babe from the cradle. The man couldn’t be thirty yet, twenty-eight at the most. Being twenty herself, she was a full-grown woman and hardly a child.
“This is my daughter, Sonnie Mancuso.” Amusement danced in Papa’s tone. “And Sonnie, meet Lance Harmon.”
She didn’t think the matter funny in the least. Her chin lifted, and she waited for Harmon to acknowledge the formality. His eyes lighted on her for another burning scan of seconds, but he remained where he was.
Obviously it would be up to her to follow proper etiquette.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said coolly and almost held out her hand. In Boston, the men always took her hand, often with an added kiss, but this one certainly showed no inclination to do anything of the sort.
Remaining near the liquor cabinet with his stance relaxed, his demeanor controlled, he simply inclined his head. She was glad she hadn’t offered him her hand, after all. His attention left her to focus on her father instead, and the mail he’d begun to open.
Sonnie watched Harmon and nursed her burgeoning animosity much as she nursed the raspberry brandy.
Yes, he was handsome, she mused. Handsome in a rugged way that made the Eastern men she’d met seem like pale-skinned dandies. He had clearly weathered an abundance of sun and physical labor. His tawny-shaded hair shone with highlights of gold; his features were bronzed and defined. He exuded masculinity--sheer, raw masculinity.
Sonnie lifted her glass and took a long swallow.
“Senator Hickman will be attending the Association’s meeting,” Papa said, scanning the telegram through hi
s reading glasses. “He wants to set up an appointment with us.” He held up an envelope and sifted through several others. “But nothing from Mr. Horn.”
“Don’t expect him to write, Vince,” Harmon said, and set his drink aside. “He’s not the type to bother.”
“A man of Tom Horn’s caliber should at least give us the courtesy of an answer,” Papa retorted, tossing the mail onto the desktop in frustration. “We’ve been waiting for weeks.”
“Give him a little more time.”
“Time! Every day rustlers steal a few more head of cattle or squatters take a little more of our land. The stockmen are being squeezed out of business, and we don’t have time to waste.”
“I know, Vince.”
Papa fell silent for a moment. “We’ll wait until the first of the month; then we’ll clean up the range my way.”
His avowal dragged Sonnie’s thoughts from Harmon to the matter at hand. She sat back in the settee in puzzlement. Was this the trouble Cookie and Stick had hinted at? Rustlers and squatters were thorns in every cattleman’s side, but to what extremes had they gone to force her father into retaliation?
She knew the name Tom Horn. He was an Indian scout and an interpreter, a Pinkerton agent and a deputy sheriff. Yet the Eastern papers had touted a different side of him, one the West had applauded: his notoriety as a gunfighter.
Sonnie shuddered.
Papa had obvious need of his services, which meant the man couldn’t be as despicable as one might think. Papa always gave careful thought to everything and everyone, and if he needed Tom Horn’s gun, he’d certainly have good reason. Who was she to question his choice?
She didn’t appreciate being ignored, however. Papa and Harmon conversed as if she’d vanished into another room, as if, as a woman, she’d be incapable of intelligent conversation, or worse, totally incognizant of the seriousness of the situation.
But she understood. Being chased down in the stagecoach this afternoon and having her life threatened clearly defined the ruthlessness of the Weasel and the Indian and the measures they’d take to get to her father.
Papa scowled and snatched another letter to open. The front door slammed. A definite thunk on the foyer floor suggested her trunk had been set aside.