by Pam Crooks
Stick peered into the office. His searching glance settled on Harmon. “I brought in Miss Sonnie’s stuff, Boss. And here’s the little peashooter you sent along for her. Anythin’ else I can do?”
At first Sonnie thought he’d made a mistake in addressing Harmon. She glimpsed her father, but he showed no reaction to the young cowboy’s presence; indeed, his mail engrossed him completely.
Boss? Lance Harmon?
The one who’d given her a derringer to defend herself with, who’d sent her a lunch, who’d promised havoc if Stick and Cookie didn’t bring her back safely wasn’t Papa?
Numbness encircled her. Hadn’t Papa cared enough to attend to those things himself? Hadn’t he worried for her as she’d worried for him? Surely his health would have allowed him to!
Lance Harmon. Not Papa.
Tears burned the back of her eyes. The disappointment pierced her breast like a smoldering coal. Had he taken over her father’s life, his men, and the Rocking M as well? Why would Papa let him?
Through the rolling haze of hurt, Sonnie saw Stick put the case containing the gun onto a shelf, heard Harmon speak quietly in turn. Stick seemed eager to please, to make amends for the slip of her identity, and she took immediate pity on him.
After the cowboy’s departure, Papa ran a hand over his face. Fatigue etched deep lines in his forehead, and he slumped tiredly in his chair. The stagecoach’s broken axle had delayed Sonnie’s return by hours, and the wait had obviously taxed his stamina. She clucked her tongue in sympathy.
“Papa, why don’t you lie down to rest?” she asked, moving to his side and laying a hand on his shoulder. “When you awaken, you’ll feel much better, and we can visit then. I have so much to tell you.”
“As much as I hate to admit it, a nap is what I need.” He sighed and reached for his cane. “Your papa isn’t as strong as he used to be.”
“You will be again. In time.” Sonnie gently pulled his glasses from the bridge of his nose and put them in a drawer. “Come. I’ll help you to bed. Are you still in the little room down the hall?”
He nodded, and she took his arm. She kept her stride even with his as they walked slowly across the room. Papa halted at the door and gave Harmon a wan grin.
“Every father should have a daughter like Sonnie to fuss over him, eh, Lance?”
A corner of Harmon’s mouth lifted, but he said nothing. His gaze merely touched her in that heated, intense way of his.
Sonnie’s heart swelled from Papa’s compliment. The pleasure his words gave her smothered the hurt she’d endured earlier. How could she have doubted him? He really did need her. He just hadn’t said so exactly.
Within moments, Papa had settled himself comfortably in his bed. Sonnie pulled the covers to his chin and bent to kiss his cheek.
“If you have any questions, Lance can help you,” he said, his voice already slurring with sleep. “Just ask him.”
Sonnie had no intention of asking Lance Harmon for anything. Papa obviously valued the man, but soon he would see he didn’t need Harmon as much as he thought. Not while she was here.
She returned to the office to retrieve her hat. Harmon stood at the window, his back to her. He appeared deep in contemplation as he stared out over Mancuso land; indeed, he hardly seemed aware she’d entered the room. Not that he’d react any differently if he were aware, she thought with another sniff. He’d yet to speak to her directly since she had arrived.
With hat in hand, she slipped from the office and headed upstairs to her bedroom. Spread along the entire front width of the house, it had once been her parents’. After her mother died, though, her father had moved downstairs, leaving the room unoccupied for years. As her sisters married and moved away, the rest of the upstairs bedrooms had all emptied out as well--except for Sonnie’s childhood hideaway at the end of the hall.
When she was fourteen, though, Sonnie had decided to abandon her old, youthfully decorated room, with its clutter of toys and dolls, and unobtrusively moved in to the old master suite. She loved its spacious and cheerful feel, lent by the abundance of sunshine spilling in from windows lining an entire wall. A sitting room on the right had once doubled as a nursery but now bore a chaise, vanity, and bookshelves, and presented a wonderfully private retreat. The crocheted coverlet, thick floral carpet, and heavy furniture offered a quiet elegance her maturing tastes favored.
She tugged the draperies farther apart and opened a window. The cooling breeze freshened her skin, and, exhaling a pleased sigh, she turned and spotted a pair of boots, their leather tooled and shined, propped at the foot of the bed. With a frown tugging at her lips, Sonnie let her gaze sweep the room. A stack of folded shirts lay on the dresser, and a jacket was carelessly draped over the back of a chair. A small bowl held a pile of cigarette stubs and cold ashes.
She pivoted at the sound of movement in the hall. Harmon balanced her trunk on one shoulder and headed toward her former room at the back of the house.
“Lance?”
His step halted at the sound of her voice. Slowly, as if not expecting to be called from behind, he turned, narrowly missing the walls with the corners of the trunk.
“May I call you Lance? Or would you prefer Mr. Harmon?” Sonnie couldn’t help the haughty tone of the questions, but her resentment of him smothered her good manners.
A wary guardedness leaped in the chiseled planes of his expression. “Lance is fine.”
The sensual timbre of his speech drifted over her. She steeled herself against any slip of a reaction and glided away from the windows to indicate the baggage he carried.
“I believe that’s mine. Set it by the bed, please. I’ll unpack later.”
For a moment he didn’t move. His glance swung from her to her old room, then back again.
“I thought--.” He stopped. “I was under the impression you--.”
“I haven’t slept in there since I was fourteen. It seems, however”--she lifted her nose loftily--”that someone has laid claim to this room in my absence.”
His silence obliterated any doubts she might have had. Above the open collar of his shirt, his throat worked in a spasmodic movement, as if he tried to swallow and couldn’t.
His corded muscles bulged from the strain of carrying the trunk. He entered the room and slid it from his shoulder to the floor before straightening.
“Your father couldn’t be left alone after his attack. I moved in to stay closer to him.”
“My sisters were here, were they not?” she challenged.
“Yes,” he said. “But after he regained consciousness, he asked that I, in particular, stay.”
“I see.” Her lips clamped in barely restrained irritation. “Well, he’s feeling much better now, isn’t he?”
She scooped up the pair of boots in one arm and the mound of shirts in the other. “If you don’t mind, Lance Harmon, I prefer to have my room back.” She thrust them all at him and snatched the jacket to add to the pile. “Find some other place to sleep, won’t you?”
A vague spark of rebellion, so miniscule she might have been mistaken, flared in the honey-gold depths of his eyes, yet receded as quickly as it appeared. Her glare seemed to unnerve him, and, wordlessly, he strode to the doorway.
“Wait,” Sonnie demanded.
His arms full of clothing, his back ramrod straight, he halted without turning.
“Stick and Cookie did their best to protect me this afternoon. They’d have given their lives had it been necessary,” she declared with firm emphasis. “Any mistakes they may or may not have made should not--and will not--be held against them.” She paused. “Do I make myself clear?”
He waited so long to reply she thought he’d deny her altogether.
“Yes,” he finally said, the terse word hanging heavy in the air.
Sonnie remained unmoving long after he left. She’d expected to feel a stinging of satisfaction from wielding her authority over him. After all, she was a Mancuso, and he was only one of Papa’s men.
&n
bsp; But satisfaction evaded her, leaving in its stead a nagging certainty that Lance Harmon was more, much more, than that.
Chapter 3
Land, miles and miles of land, stretched toward the horizon and beyond. Covered with a thick shawl of brilliant snow, caressed by a deep azure sky, this place called Wyoming Territory presented a raw challenge as breathtaking as the swirling January wind.
Mancuso land. All Lance could see and more.
How could one man own so much? He thought of the congestion, the slums, the filth of New York. How could a part of one country be so ugly and another so beautiful, so limitless with opportunity?
“Impressive, eh?” Vince Mancuso watched him closely, a confident smile curving below the line of his mustache.
Lance could only nod. Words escaped him. The awe of it all held him transfixed and wide-eyed.
“I’m offering you a new life here, son,” Vince said. “One that won’t be easy, one that’ll make you dog-tired at the end of each day.” Pridefully, his glance swept the wintry horizon before he resumed. “But I’m telling you, too, that you’ll be rarin’ to go every morning, and you won’t do without.” He hitched the collar of his coat higher about his ears. “Mind if I call you ‘son’?”
The shift in conversation left Lance pensive. He’d be nobody’s son except Mother’s--he hadn’t been Father’s since the day he left--but if it made Vince Mancuso happy to call him that, then he could see no harm in it.
The horse beneath him pawed the snow. Lance ignored the discomfort the action caused, discomfort born of thigh muscles unaccustomed to a saddle. Once more, his enthralled gaze roamed the expansive meadows and hills sprawling in every direction.
“You’re fifteen,” Vince went on without waiting for a reply. “I’ll pay you a fair wage, even though I’ve got the papers saying I don’t have to. We’ll get a formal adoption later if you want. Either way, I’ll be taking care of you from now on.”
Lance wiggled his toes inside the stiff leather of his just-bought boots. Eagerness spiraled through him. Long nurtured within the walls of the orphanage, the yearning for a home of his own triggered a deep thirst to learn of this unfamiliar land, to work it with his sweat, to belong.
Finally, to belong.
* * *
She hated him.
Lance dropped the heap of shirts and boots into the nearest chair and strode out the front door with long, frustrated strides. He leaped down the porch stairs two at a time, his foul mood tattooing a scowl on his face.
He’d taken her room, her haven in the Big House, the one place on the entire spread she could claim as hers, the only part of the Rocking M Vince hadn’t taken away from her.
But he had.
The knowledge mortified him.
He cursed himself for not thinking of her side of it, for not having her homecoming in perfect readiness. He despaired of not asking Vince or Barbara or any one of her sisters which bedroom was hers before he’d moved in.
He strode toward the barns and outbuildings scattered beyond the well-tended lawn of the house. Several cowboys slid him curious glances, but he ignored them. A worktable was set up outside the main barn, and Charlie Flynn, on the Mancuso payroll for almost a decade, intently repaired a maze of harnesses.
“Charlie!” Lance barked without a break in his gait. “Mount up. We’re riding into town.”
Charlie glanced at the sky and the sun that would set in a couple of hours’ time. He set the harnesses aside and followed Lance into the barn.
Both men saddled their horses in silence. Lance avoided Charlie’s questioning gaze.
“Gonna be dark soon,” Charlie finally said.
“I know.”
“You got a hankerin’ for some of Gracie’s cold beer or something?”
“Or something.”
Charlie grinned and pushed his hat higher over his short, sandy-shaded hair. “You got a hankerin’ for Gracie?”
Lance tightened the cinch around the sorrel stallion. It’d been a while since he’d been needled about the woman who took his virginity, but he was in no mood to tolerate a round of teasing. He stabbed a boot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle. “No. I need her help.”
Charlie followed suit. Dipping their heads beneath the wide door as they exited, they guided their horses from the barn.
“I reckon this has something to do with Miss Sonnie’s accident,” Charlie said, an eye squinting once more to the sky.
“Yeah, it does.”
“Then I’m happy to be along. She didn’t deserve to get her pretty little neck nearly broke just ‘cause she wanted to come home and take care of her pa.”
News had spread of the afternoon’s ambush. Charlie’s loyalty would mirror that of every other hand who worked the ranch, Lance knew, and the cowboy’s comment toughened his intent. A trip to see Gracie might net a chance to learn the whereabouts of the men who’d caused it all.
He spied Stick brushing down the last of the horses unhitched from the stagecoach. His strokes were grim and brisk, a purging of his soul. Lance sensed the regret still haunting him.
He pulled up close to the corral. Stick spotted him; the currycomb went still in his hand, and he straightened.
“Sonnie spoke well of the care you and Cookie gave her today,” Lance said. “You did the best anyone could under the circumstances.”
“Anyone else mighta kept their mouth shut about who she was,” Stick retorted sullenly.
“It’s done. Ditson would’ve found out sooner or later.” Lance held Stick’s gaze. “I wouldn’t hesitate to put her in your protection again.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“No.”
Stick drew up taller. His remorse fell away like an unneeded blanket. “I’d die for her if I had to, Boss. Any of us would.”
Including himself. Lance gave him a tight smile. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” He reined the sorrel into a turn. “We’ll be back late. Leave a light on in the barn for us.”
“Sure thing.”
“See to Sonnie’s needs, too. She’s been gone a long time. She--”
“Say no more. She’s had me sufferin’ from Cupid’s cramps for as long as I can remember. She won’t lack for nothin’ if I can help it.”
Lance guessed Cupid’s arrow had pierced the heart of most any man who knew her. But no heart had been pierced as deeply as his own.
He gave Stick a curt nod of farewell and poked his spurs into the horse’s ribs. With Charlie beside him, he rode hard toward Cheyenne.
* * *
Gracie’s Spirits and Eatery occupied a corner of Sixteenth and Thomas Streets, directly across from Wightman Livery and right in the midst of the town’s bustling business district. Gracie Purcell had opened her little cafe to cater to customers who were few but regular, consisting mostly of saddle tramps and cowboys too dusty and dirty to frequent a restaurant demanding more respectable clientele.
Maybe because Gracie herself had never gotten respectable.
Former dancer. Former singer. Former madam. Some said she’d even been a prostitute in her younger days. She had a smile as big as the wide Wyoming sky and a heart to go along with it, however, and Lance had liked her from the moment he’d met her.
The hitching post in front of the eatery was full of tethered horses, their riders most likely lingering over coffee after eating supper or indulging in the first of a long night’s string of beers. Lance and Charlie added their reins to the row, and slapping the dust from the brims of their hats, they ambled toward the door.
Out of habit, Lance scanned the horses’ rumps in the gathering dusk. Gracie’s had long been a favorite watering hole for cowpunchers from the Mancuso outfit. He recognized many of the local brands, but none wore the M and half-circle of the Rocking M. Only two horses, a mealy-mouthed bay and a rangy palomino, didn’t carry a brand, an oddity in a land where stockmen diligently marked all that was theirs.
Inside, blue gingham tablecloths and frilly matching cur
tains offered the only feminine touches to a room usually dominated by men. Women and children rarely entered, a fact most likely attributable to the colorful painting hanging over the well-polished bar. Sheathed only in a gossamer veil and reclining seductively upon a bed of roses, a naked lady watched over every patron. Gracie had staunchly defended the piece, proclaiming it noble art, and kept the work in its place of prominence, even at the cost of losing coveted, respectable customers.
The tables were partially filled, and Lance and Charlie paused a moment, their glances flicking over the men scattered about the restaurant. No one paid them any mind, and they headed toward an empty table near the bar. Their movement caught Gracie’s eye, and she managed a wave despite the stack of dishes in her grasp.
Beauty didn’t come naturally to her, but Gracie transformed herself into a fetching woman with the aid of lotions and cosmetics. Too-dark brown hair and a thickening waistline gave credence to her years, yet her zest for life made her seem much younger.
“It’s about time you two stopped by,” she called out in a cheerful voice. Her voluptuous bosom bounced beneath the fabric of her blouse as she approached. “How long’s it been? Three, four months?”
Lance smiled and did a quick calculation of the weeks that had passed since spring roundup. “Nearly five, Gracie.”
“That’s five months too long.” She ran an appreciative gaze over him. “You’re lookin’ good, Lance.”
“So are you.”
“After runnin’ myself ragged in here today? I must look like a limp mop.” Despite her words, she beamed from his compliment.
“You gonna quit jawin’ and get us a beer, Gracie?” Charlie demanded with a teasing lilt. “Or do we have to get one ourselves?”
“Oh, hush, you old coot!”
“Old coot?” Charlie made a show of being offended. “I ain’t a day older’n you, darlin’.”
“That’s a lie, Charlie Flynn.” Any cowboy knew the way to raise Gracie’s hackles was to mention her age, and any cowboy worth his salt mentioned it any chance he got. She shot him a murderous glance and swatted at him with a towel. Chuckling heartily, Charlie ducked, and she missed. Sputtering under her breath, Gracie pivoted in a huff and left them with a blatant wiggle of her hips.