In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  Amused, Lance slid into a comfortable slouch in his chair. He propped one foot on the opposite seat and tilted his hat back. While he waited for Gracie to return with their beers, his assessing gaze swept the room again.

  In a far corner of the room, Snake wrangled his dinner as if there were no tomorrow. He sat alone, his attention focused on the meal he shoveled into his mouth. A long-bladed knife lay within reach near his plate.

  Gracie set two tall bottles on the table with a thunk. Moisture beaded on the brown glass. Lance took a long swallow of the cold brew and kept the Indian in his range of vision.

  “I hear Sonnie Mancuso is back in town,” Gracie said as she groped for a paper and pencil in her apron pocket.

  Lance made no comment. Just hearing Sonnie’s name stirred a flurry of emotion within him. Charlie lifted his drink and guzzled, then let out a loud, satisfied sigh.

  “Yep,” he said. “Purty as ever, too. Maybe more so. Came back to see her pa.”

  “How’s the old man doing?” Gracie watched Lance. He knew she had long suspected his feelings for Sonnie--perhaps had even envied them.

  “Gettin’ better every day,” Charlie answered for him. “Lance takes good care of him, don’t you, Lance?”

  A woman screamed. A sound, like a piece of furniture falling over, followed, and several heads turned toward the second-story loft.

  “Where’s Clay Ditson?” Lance demanded. Snake continued to work over his dinner as if nothing unusual had happened.

  “Up there,” Gracie replied, a frown marring her red lips. She motioned to a closed door at the top of the stairs. “With Daisy.”

  Lance finished off his beer. The mousy-haired young woman had worked for Gracie in all capacities at the eatery; evidently her duties included seeing to the customers’ intimate needs as well.

  “She was willing,” Gracie said defensively as Lance stood, scraping the floor with his chair. “And Ditson was flashing some big cash. She needed the money. We’ve all got bills to pay, you know.”

  Lance ignored her. He strode toward the stairway and up the steps with cold determination. At the door, he halted, turned the knob and discovered it locked.

  He lifted a knee and kicked. The door swung open with a crash. Daisy screamed.

  Sheets were tangled between the two on the sagging bed; a nightstand had fallen on its side. Ditson lay prone with Daisy struggling beneath him. His perspiration soured the air. Grimy tendrils of his dark hair escaped from the brim of the hat he hadn’t bothered to remove.

  Revulsion churned in the depths of Lance’s belly. It was times like this when he was ashamed to be a man--when men like Ditson took advantage of a woman even if she was willing. Or worse, when she wasn’t.

  When she was innocent and vulnerable, the way Mother had been with the landlord Hawthorne all those years ago.

  Or the way Sonnie had been this afternoon.

  He thought of Sonnie lying on the sagging mattress instead of Daisy, imagined her being there against her will, her skin soiled from Ditson’s touch, his breath, his lust, as he spilled his disgusting seed into her.

  The image sickened him.

  He snatched a threadbare robe from the floor and tossed it toward the bed. Daisy wriggled free of Ditson and lunged for the garment, covering her thin form with its folds.

  “Get out of here, Daisy,” Lance said softly.

  She mumbled something resembling acquiescence and darted to the dresser. She plucked a bill from the top and skittered from the room.

  “Come back here, you no-account female! I ain’t got my money’s worth from you yet!” Ditson roared, trying to disentangle himself from the covers. “Harmon, damn you! What’re you tryin’ to do?”

  Lance shut the door behind him. Gracie’s patrons didn’t need to hear his business with Ditson, or to know he intended to take his revenge for the scare Ditson had given Sonnie. He wanted the pleasure all to himself.

  “Stay away from Vince Mancuso’s daughter,” he said.

  The deep-throated command appeared to take Ditson by surprise. He eased from the mattress; his features slowly twisted with mirth.

  “So that’s what this is about.” He seemed oblivious of his nakedness as he stepped warily away from the bed. “Wantin’ her for yourself, are you? Tell me, Harmon--been under her skirts yet? Given her a right welcome home?”

  A snarl erupted from deep within Lance’s chest. He grabbed Ditson by the arm and slung his fist into the man’s stubbly jaw. Ditson flew into the wall and slumped to the floor.

  Hate emanated from him. “Mancuso took what was mine,” Ditson rasped. He licked at the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “I’ll take what’s his any chance I get, and if that means gettin’ to him through his daughter, then I sure as Jesse am gonna.” He roused himself, but apparently thought better of it, remaining, instead, exactly where he was. “I want my land back, Harmon. All of it. And I’m gonna get it.”

  “You touch her and I’ll kill you.”

  “You don’t scare me. You’re as underhanded and connivin’ as the old man.”

  “Silver Meadow was never yours,” Lance said in a growl. “Silver Meadow is Mancuso land. You squatted on prime grazing range and stole Mancuso stock to start your own herd. We ran you off once. Next time we won’t be so patient.”

  Ditson’s sunken chest, sprigged with curling hairs, shook with joyless laughter. “Quite the twosome, ain’t you? Mancuso’s got so much land, he don’t need my little patch. The man’s got to learn to share.”

  Lance straightened grimly. Talking to Ditson had proved fruitless in the past; now was no different. He moved toward the door.

  “I got a right to be a cattleman, just like Mancuso, you son of a bitch!” Ditson yelled. “He ain’t got no right to run the rest of us off!”

  “Consider yourself warned,” Lance said in a low voice. “Stay away from the lady and from Mancuso range.” His hand gripped the knob and pulled.

  “Harmon.”

  Lance stopped and waited.

  “Consider yourself warned that I’m not gonna.”

  Tight-lipped, Lance yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind him. He met Charlie at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Everything okay, Boss?” the cowboy asked, concern drawn into his tanned face.

  “Fine. Just fine.” Lance made no attempt to curb his biting tone. The jangle of his spurs muted the clomp of his boot soles across the wooden floor. He halted at the table where a wide-eyed Gracie still waited, pencil in hand.

  He dipped his fingers into the hip pocket of his Levi’s and pulled out change. The coins clattered to the table in payment for the beers.

  A chair scraped the floor. A sharp, guttural sound raised the hair on the back of Lance’s neck. Slowly he turned toward the Indian waiting in the shadowy corner of the restaurant.

  A gleaming blade hissed past Lance, fast as lightning. Snake’s knife slammed into a heavy beam scant feet away, its handle still vibrating from the force of the throw.

  “Son of a bitch!” Charlie choked.

  Lance didn’t flinch. His muscles were frozen, his heart robbed of its normal beat. Snake stood in a wide-legged stance, the crude, angular planes of his copper face arrogant and silent with scorn.

  And Lance understood: Clay Ditson possessed the brains, Snake, the muscle. A dangerous pair. A deadly combination. Throwing the knife implied a message, a foreshadowing of . . . later.

  Of business not yet finished.

  His jaw tightened. Without a challenge to Snake, without thanks to Gracie, without a motion to Charlie, he pivoted toward the restaurant’s doors.

  Sonnie couldn’t have come home at a worse time.

  * * *

  A vague glow from somewhere in the back of the Big House peeped through the dark sitting room window and offered Lance a timid welcome home. His thoughts grave, he perched against the porch railing and slowly finished his cigarette.

  He was in no hurry to go inside. Sonnie and Vince had
apparently retired early; there would be no one up to talk with, even if he wanted to. Besides, he’d already made a decision. All that was left was to figure a way to see it through.

  Somehow, he’d have to get Sonnie on a train back to Boston. She’d hate him for it, but it was for her own protection. He winced as he remembered the looks of adoration she gave her father, and anyone could see her happiness to be back on Mancuso land.

  But he knew Clay Ditson. Lazy and shiftless, he’d put down stakes in grass-rich Silver Meadow and then brazenly rustled Rocking M stock over the past winter. After the spring roundup, Lance figured nearly a couple hundred head couldn’t be accounted for. He was convinced that, with Snake’s help, Ditson had pilfered the majority.

  Vince had been furious. He’d ordered Lance and several of his trusted men to burn Ditson’s ramshackle cabin to the ground. Only fast talking on Lance’s part had prevented Vince from hunting the two down and hanging them on the spot.

  Shortly thereafter, the heart attack felled Vince, and things had quieted down. With no retaliation from Ditson, Lance had put him out of his mind and concentrated instead on nursing Vince back to health.

  Then Sonnie came home, and all hell had broken loose.

  Not that it was her fault. No, the opposite. She’d been an innocent victim, but at least she’d been a living victim. Lance vowed to do everything in his power to keep her safe from harm.

  The only way to do that was to send her back East, keep her as far away from the Rocking M and Clay Ditson as possible. Unfortunately, that meant keeping her away from himself, too.

  He tossed aside the tiny stub of his cigarette. What chance did he have with her, anyway? He couldn’t think straight when she was near. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t act like any other man in the presence of a woman. For his own peace of mind and for her safety, he had to send her away.

  He breathed a soft curse at the unfairness of it.

  The ranch had quieted for the night. The bunkhouse sheltered cots filled with snoring cowboys, dead to the world until just before dawn, when the cook’s rousing holler would beckon them to breakfast. Even the livestock were silent.

  His growling belly demanded the meal he’d denied it since the ride into Cheyenne. He entered the house, latching the door behind him, and headed for the kitchen, the lamp left burning there drawing him like a beacon. His tread echoed within the walls of the hushed house; his spurs jangled inordinately loud.

  He dropped his hat upon the table before rummaging through the contents of the cabinets. Finding nothing quick and appealing, he turned to the stove top and the pot perched on one of the burners.

  Lifting the lid, he grimaced and sighed. Bean soup again, with congealed bacon grease, chunks of pork, and an overload of spices. Celia Montoya, who volunteered to cook for Vince while her husband, Ramon, prepared meals for the rest of the men, favored fare with a kick to it. Vince never seemed to mind, but Lance himself preferred plainer food, with nothing stronger than respectable dashes of salt and pepper.

  Too tired to bother fixing himself something different, he set the pot to warming before searching out a loaf of rye bread. Regardless of her penchant for spices, Celia managed to bake to perfection, and Lance sliced himself a thick portion. Another trip to the cabinets produced a jar of apricot preserves and a dish of soft butter.

  A slight sound, like bare feet shuffling across the rugless floor, stilled his actions. Unbidden, the roar of a thousand--a million--waterfalls blasted through him. He clutched the preserves so tightly the glass should have broken. His thumb slid unnoticed into the butter.

  Without looking, he knew it was Sonnie. He could smell the fresh, carnation scent of her even before he turned. His senses exploded with awareness of her presence.

  “Oh. It’s you.” Surprise tinged her tone.

  He forced himself to face her, to assume a façade of control. Luxurious sable tresses flowed about her shoulders and back with careless abandon. He never realized how long her hair had grown over the years until now, and the nearly overpowering urge to bury his face into her neck and stroke his cheek against the silken tendrils shook his battered composure as Snake’s flying knife had failed to do.

  “I thought you were Papa,” she said, a hand grasping her satin robe tighter to her bosom. “I thought maybe he felt ill or . . . or something.”

  She appeared uncomfortable to be with him. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour or the intimacy of being together in the dimly illuminated kitchen. Lance nearly groaned from the irony of it.

  She showed none of her earlier pique with him. From that, he took relief. The roaring eased to a low hum inside his head; he even managed to set the preserves upon the counter with a semblance of coordination.

  “Where did you go tonight?” she asked after a long moment.

  Belatedly, Lance realized he’d made no comment to her explanation. He glanced down and noticed his thumb stuck in the butter. With a flare of impatience, he yanked it out again and reached for a damp cloth.

  “Into town,” he said.

  Her dark brows arched. “Cheyenne? Whatever for?”

  “Business.” He saw no reason to concern her about Ditson. Her return home had been marred enough because of the man.

  “Business.” A flicker of hurt flittered over her expression, and she gave a defeated shake of her head. “You’re as close-mouthed as my father. I’m not a little girl anymore, Lance.”

  He remembered how Vince had answered her in the same vague manner earlier this afternoon, and he regretted his own reply. He scoured his mind for a more suitable one, yet his keen desire to protect her from further worry or dismay prevented it.

  Sonnie slipped her hands into the robe’s pockets and glanced at the pot on the stove. The pungent aroma of chilies and garlic hovered in the air while the soup warmed. She returned her gaze to him.

  “After my father woke from his nap, we spent the evening talking and getting reacquainted.” She paused; her chin lifted a little higher. “He speaks highly of you. In fact, he speaks of little else. The Rocking M and you are synonymous, it seems.”

  Lance grew wary of the resentment in her words. “We’ve been close for a long time.”

  “As close as a father is to his son.” Her voice carried no questioning inflection. It appeared she was convinced of the observation.

  He frowned. “I could never replace you. You’re his daughter, his flesh and blood. He loves you very much.”

  “He loves you as well. And I don’t even know you.”

  Her bitterness galled him. Needing the distraction, Lance turned away and stirred down the little bubbles in the simmering broth.

  His relationship with all five of Sonnie’s sisters had always been friendly, though, he had to admit, short-term. Only recently had he spent any duration of time with them, and only then because of Vince’s heart attack.

  He understood Sonnie’s hurt. She feared losing her father’s love to him, that somehow Vince’s heart wouldn’t hold enough affection for both of them, that after being gone for so many years, she’d been replaced by someone she viewed as a perfect stranger.

  She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Sonnie reached over the pot of soup and the spoon he used. Her fingers curled about his wrist, tilting the back of his hand toward her. “You’ve been in a fight.”

  Never had she touched him before. He stared at the smoothness of her flesh, creamy with a hint of the olive tones from her heritage, and how it contrasted with the callused bronze of his. He tried to comprehend what she’d said.

  “Your knuckles have little cuts in the skin. You hit someone tonight.” Her gaze roamed over his face, as if searching for some sign that a similar blow had been returned. “And he didn’t hit back. Is this what your business in town was about? A fight?”

  Her disapproval left him powerless to defend himself, to deflect her criticism with a sound explanation, to point out that the whole purpose of his ride into Cheyenne was to hunt Ditson down and warn
him within an inch of his worthless life to stay away from her.

  She released his wrist without waiting for a reply. The coolness of her touch scalded him much as the scathing look she speared him with for a long, agonizing moment.

  “I would like a tour of the ranch,” she said finally. “First thing in the morning. And since my father is incapable of accompanying me, I suppose”--she hesitated--“I suppose I shall have to settle for you.”

  His belly did a flip-flop. A tour of the ranch. With Sonnie.

  Alarm soared through him.

  How would he breathe? How would he endure the sting of her resentment of him, of knowing she despised him so?

  But before his mind could form the words to reassure her, to convince her he could never replace her as Vince’s own, that the Rocking M was as much her heritage as his, she’d already begun moving away from him.

  “Good night, Mr. Harmon.”

  The satin shimmered over her hips as she left the kitchen. A frosty chill hung in the room afterward, a chill not likely to be warmed by Celia’s spicy, steaming soup.

  She despised him. In spite of everything.

  Lance eyed the fare with growing distaste. His appetite gone, he dropped the lid onto the pot with a clatter. The clanging sound drowned out the curse spilling from his lips.

  Chapter 4

  Vince Mancuso’s home stood as majestic as a palace in an island of snow. The Big House, he called it, a structure aptly suited to the name, and a finer house Lance had never seen.

  It was almost too fine. Imposing, actually. He swallowed. Even scary. He’d lose himself in all those rooms. After a lifetime of tiny, squalid apartments and the stark simplicity of the orphanage’s dormitory, the grandness of Vince’s residence was daunting.

  “You don’t like it, do you?” Vince asked with keen perception.

  Lance didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful, not after all Vince offered, but a lie of disagreement just wouldn’t come forth.