In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “I didn’t either at first,” Vince admitted ruefully. “The place grows on you, though.” His face, reddened from the cold, blowing wind, took on a faraway look. “I built it for my wife. She wanted to fill it with a dozen babies, and she would’ve, too, if I hadn’t lost her.” A surge of emotion quieted him for a moment. “She gave me six. All daughters.” He stirred himself from his reverie. “You’ll be more comfortable in the bunkhouse with the other men.” His gloved finger pointed toward a low-slung, rectangular building a short distance away. “The bunks are nothing fancy. Main thing is they’re warm, and you’ll have plenty of companionship.” His glance settled approvingly on Lance. “You’ll make friends here. You’ll fit in in no time.”

  Again, eager anticipation for the future coiled throughout every nerve ending in Lance’s body. How would he ever repay Vince Mancuso for the chance he’d given him to begin his life anew?

  The front door to the Big House opened, and a squealing young girl dashed out.

  “Papa!” A pair of pink ribbons tied back her wild sable curls. Oblivious to the need for a warm coat or to Lance’s presence, she ran down the porch stairs. “Papa! Papa!”

  Chuckling heartily, Vince dismounted and swept her up in his arms for an exuberant hug. Five more girls, obviously sisters of varying ages, appeared on the porch, and within moments he embraced each of them.

  The men came next--hordes, it seemed to Lance. Cowboys with their wide-brimmed hats, scuffed boots, and bandanas around their throats. They came from the bunkhouse and the barns and every structure in between, all to greet Vince Mancuso.

  Lance was excluded from their welcome, but he hardly noticed. The pair of pink ribbons, and the little girl who wore them, held his attention.

  They’d forgotten her. Though she tried to break into the wall of male bodies and older sisters to get to her father, no one seemed to care she was there. Not even Vince.

  Especially Vince.

  She appeared stricken by his rejection.

  Lance’s heart constricted. He, too, knew what it was like to be forgotten. Unneeded.

  He ached for her. Then her sisters remembered she didn’t wear a coat, and when they led her shivering into the Big House, Lance learned her name. It was a peculiar name for a daughter so beautiful and feminine.

  Sonnie.

  * * *

  The supple suede of Sonnie’s split skirt whispered in the air with a lightness that matched her step. Her fingers trailed along the polished balustrade of the stairwell as she left the hall and approached the kitchen which was alive with the lingering smells of brewed coffee and seasoned sausage.

  The low timbre of male voices slowed her step. Her mind flashed a memory of dim lighting and Lance standing over the stove, a wooden spoon in his hand. Her heart beat inexplicably fast.

  He’d be in there, of course, planning the day’s chores with her father. It was a habit with them, most likely. Did her father ever make a decision without him anymore?

  Resolutely, she entered the kitchen and found them seated at the table. Both were immersed in the numbers scrawled on the pages of a huge, leather-bound ledger.

  Papa’s eyes smiled at her over the edges of his reading glasses. “My little girl finally decided to get up, eh?”

  She sensed a vague hint of disapproval in his greeting, so faint she might have imagined it. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “It’s early, Papa. Just after dawn. And I’m not little anymore.”

  “You’ll always be my little girl, Sonnie,” Vince said, and absently patted her hand.

  She banked a twinge of annoyance. She didn’t want to be reminded of her placement in the long line of Mancuso daughters.

  Not with Lance Harmon sitting there, witness to every word.

  She hadn’t fallen asleep last night easily. She’d been tortured by her immediate resentment of him and his hot glances that flowed over her face and skin, much like Papa’s expensive brandy heated her throat with every swallow.

  She forced herself to look at him, to be polite and civil and pleasant.

  “Good morning, Lance,” she said smoothly.

  He smelled of shaving soap and the fresh Wyoming wind in his clean shirt. He looked vibrant and masculine, strong and powerful, and he rattled her composure to no end.

  He returned the greeting in his low voice, warmed her with his whiskey gaze, and she had to turn away.

  “Are you hungry?” Papa asked. “Celia made us a pan of scrambled eggs with sausage this morning. Help yourself.”

  She was grateful for the distraction and served herself a plateful. She reached for the pot of coffee.

  “Lance tells me you asked for a tour of the ranch,” her father said, watching her. “This morning.”

  “Yes.” She carried her plate in one hand, the pot in the other, and strode to the table. “I’ve missed the Rocking M, Papa. I want to see the land again.”

  “He’s been waiting. The sun has been up for an hour already.”

  The coffeepot hovered over her cup. Again she heard a note of censure in his tone, noticed her father’s and Lance’s finished breakfast plates, knew Celia had been up and working long before she had.

  She poured the black brew with controlled dignity, first her cup, then her father’s, then Lance’s, despite the dismay building inside her.

  “I won’t be so lazy tomorrow, Papa,” she said. “I’ll get up earlier. I promise.”

  “Your journey home wore you out yesterday. You are used to sleeping so long, eh?”

  “No,” she murmured, frowning. “Rarely.”

  Lance leveled her with an assessing gaze. “He wanted to wake you. I told him to let you sleep.”

  “I expect no special treatment from either of you,” she said.

  “It’s still early. The sun hasn’t been up long. Don’t fret over it.” Lance’s glance swung to her father. “Either of you.”

  The reproval had been given in a quiet voice, but with respect. Papa nodded and flashed her a quick, conciliatory grin. “You deserve to be pampered. It’s not every day you come back to visit. Relax all you want while you’re here.”

  Visit? The word echoed in Sonnie’s brain. He thought she intended to return to Boston, that her stay here would be temporary.

  Before she could untangle the misconception, Celia Montoya, one arm around a bag of flour, the other around a small child, emerged from the pantry.

  “Miss Sonnie! How good to see you again!” The dark-eyed woman beamed.

  Delight coursed through Sonnie at the sight of her, and she rose to her feet. “Oh, Celia, the last time I saw you, you were a blushing bride on Ramon’s arm.” She gave Celia a quick hug before she relieved her of the flour. “And who’s this? What a beautiful little boy!”

  Gently, she brushed the child’s hair from his forehead. At her touch, he whimpered and pulled away to bury his face in Celia’s neck.

  “Our son, Juan. You must forgive him, Miss Sonnie. He’s not normally so unsociable.” She shifted him to a more comfortable position on her hip. “He’s not feeling well this morning. I think he’s coming down with something.”

  Sonnie reached out with her free hand and felt his forehead. The fever met her palm, and she crooned in agreement. “He should be in bed resting.”

  Celia tossed a helpless look toward the table. “I didn’t know if I should come today, but someone must cook for your father.”

  “I can cook for him.”

  “You?”

  “Women in Boston cook every day,” Sonnie said. She tried not to sound defensive at the uncertainty in Celia’s voice. “My sisters taught me my way around this kitchen long before I ever left.”

  “And you hated every minute.” Her father chuckled at the memory.

  Sonnie took the ribbing, knowing it was true. “I’ve taken several excellent cooking classes, Papa. And Aunt Josephine’s chef was superb. He’s taught me many things.”

  Juan whined and fidgeted in his mother’s arms. Compassion for the toddler tweaked S
onnie’s own maternal instincts. “Celia, he needs to be in his bed. Take him home. I’ll take care of my father.”

  The young woman appeared torn between her son and her duties. She glanced worriedly at Lance.

  He stood, taking his coffee cup with him. “Sonnie’s right,” he said. He moved toward the door, power and masculinity sheathed in the lean contours of his body. “Your place is with Juan. Vince won’t starve with his own daughter cooking for him.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Vince looked askance at them from his ledger and waved her away. “Take the time you need to care for the boy.”

  “I’ll have Stick bring around the surrey for your drive home,” Lance said and left.

  Celia tucked an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear and smiled. “I will go then.”

  Sonnie lent her assistance in bundling Juan into his small coat. Within moments Celia and her child had settled in the carriage waiting in front of the house. Sonnie draped a blanket about the toddler’s chubby body as he rested his sleepy head on his mother’s lap.

  “Remember to fix plenty of food, Miss Sonnie,” Celia said. “There’s always extra mouths at the table. Your father is tending to like his coffee a little weaker than he used to. And try to get him to eat something in the middle of the afternoon.”

  “Don’t worry. You just take care of Juan, and I’ll take care of my father.”

  “Thank you, Miss Sonnie.”

  With a slap of the reins, the surrey rook off. Sonnie acknowledged a bittersweet victory in her quest to take care of her father. The decision had been hers to send Celia home, though it had been Lance who finally convinced her to go.

  Still, it was a start. She experienced a thrill of pleasure at the thought of being the mistress of the Big House, a voice of authority on the Rocking M.

  “You can’t do it all, you know.”

  Sonnie whirled. Lance tossed the dregs of his coffee into the bushes lining the front porch and approached her.

  “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Harmon?” she demanded.

  “Cook for your father. Take care of his house. Take care of him. All that, and take over the Rocking M, too.”

  She stiffened. “The ranch is my home. I have no intention of ‘taking it over,’ as you claim.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Beneath the brim of his hat, his shrewd gaze studied her, as if he could probe into her innermost secrets, each of her hopes and dreams.

  And lay them all out on the table, like playing cards to deal at his whim.

  “I’ve been here less than a full day, Lance. I’m a stranger to you. Just as you are to me. You’re wrong to judge me as if you’ve always known me.”

  He went still at that. She sensed his restraint, as if he held inside more than he allowed her to see.

  She sensed, too, a weakening in him, as if some of his impatience had vanished.

  “Then why the tour of the ranch, Sonnie?” he asked quietly.

  “Why do you deny me the pleasure?” She met his challenge, held his unwavering gaze, gave no more than he gave her.

  “I’ve denied you nothing,” he said, the words suddenly rough.

  “But you’d like to.”

  He swore and stepped away, the impatience back in him. “I’ll give you your damn tour of the place. Meet me at the corral in twenty minutes.”

  A smile touched her mouth, sweet in its victory.

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  * * *

  The shortgrass prairie grew wild and free and sprawled along the Wyoming horizon in glorious, untamed beauty. Miles and miles of blue grama and buffalo grass blanketed the Rocking M rangeland and fed Vince Mancuso’s cattle their fill. Sonnie marveled at the hundreds of black, brown, red, and white hides clustered in the distant hills.

  Her father’s livestock. Impressive, she mused. Very impressive. He’d built up the herds from those she remembered, and what she could see was only a small portion of the whole. The numbers were staggering--too many to count, too many to fathom. She doubted even Vince himself knew how many cattle he owned.

  Beside her, Lance sat in the saddle and inspected them, too, an eye squinted against the midmorning sun. He studied them in earnest, and Sonnie wondered what he was thinking.

  She refused to ask. He’d been aloof during their ride from the Big House onto Mancuso rangeland. Polite. A perfect gentleman. And so silent she thought she’d go mad from the frustration of it.

  A sigh escaped her, and she shifted in her seat. The saddle leather creaked and drew Lance’s glance.

  He regarded her for a moment. “You ready to go back?”

  “Not for a while yet.”

  “It’ll be time for dinner soon.”

  She shook her head, protesting his argument. “Another hour or so.”

  As if against his better judgment, he shot another glance toward the sun, then nodded in concession. “What else do you want to see?”

  “Everything.” Sonnie nudged her horse forward and dragged her gaze along a bunch of little bluestem growing amid the buffalo grass, the flowered tips brushing the bottoms of her stirrups.

  “Reckon we can’t see everything in one morning.” His horse kept pace with hers. “Most likely we couldn’t see it all in a month, either.”

  “Too bad. I’d like to see all there is to see on the Rocking M. Did it rain much this summer?”

  “Not enough to make the cattlemen happy. Or the farmers, either.” He shrugged, appearing willing enough to keep the conversation going. “But we’ve had worse droughts. Hell of a lot worse.”

  They rode into bottomland devoid of trees and the prairie’s shortgrass. A breeze whipped up, and Sonnie’s hand flew up to keep her wide-brimmed hat on her head. Dirt kicked into pesky swirls. Prickly pear cactus and yucca thrived in the barren soil.

  “The cattle have overgrazed here,” she said, her mouth pursed in consternation. “The land will erode away if something isn’t done.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “Such as?”

  Was he mocking her? She sat a little straighter in the saddle. “A fire. A controlled one. The ash will replenish the soil and clear away old grass shoots so that new growth may thrive. By next spring, the cattle will be able to graze again.”

  “You’re a smart lady, Miss Mancuso.”

  “You’re making fun of me, Mr. Harmon.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Has my father ever considered drilling a well?” she asked.

  “Here?” He appeared taken aback.

  “Yes.” Her nod was emphatic. “It would be expensive, true, but the water would enable the forbs to survive.”

  “Forbs.”

  “Herbs that aren’t grass. Wildflowers, if you will.”

  “Sonnie--”

  She tossed her head and lifted her nose into the air. “There are more than two hundred species of flora in this part of the country, and more are being identified every day. One of my professors predicted that upward of seven hundred species will be recorded in the sand hills alone. Fascinating, don’t you think?”

  He stared at her, his shadowed gaze incredulous and a bit amused. “How did a girl growing up in the East get to know so much about ranching in the West?”

  “I studied long and hard, that’s how.”

  His brow raised.

  Her chin lifted.

  “I took horticulture and veterinary classes, if you must know. When my father ordered me to study music and foreign languages, I learned about animal husbandry instead.”

  For a moment Lance fell silent.

  “It was important to me,” Sonnie added, not quite sure why she was telling him so.

  “You didn’t want to be like your sisters,” he said. “You wanted to be the son Vince never had.”

  Sonnie met the heat in his whiskey gaze. “You make it sound ridiculously simple. It’s not.”

  “I understand more than you give me credit for.”

  “How can you possibly?” she demanded, puzzled. She’d only
met him yesterday.

  But he ignored her question, his attention snared, instead, on a half dozen head of cattle huddled together. Sonnie studied them, too.

  Something wasn’t right. The certainty filled her with foreboding; she knew it as surely as Lance did. The animals appeared listless and unsettled.

  Sick.

  They dismounted and approached the cows; their big, doleful eyes watched them without interest.

  “They’ve got no appetite.” Lance scrutinized the grass in the rangeland not so far distant. “They’ve wandered here because they don’t care if they eat or not.”

  Sonnie pressed a hand to the hide nearest her, felt the rapid beat of the cow’s pulse and heard the labored breathing.

  Lance stepped around a large stain in the dirt.

  “Diarrhea. What the hell happened?” Grimly, he held a brown-and-white face in both of his hands, opened the cow’s mouth wide, and looked inside.

  Sonnie bent closer and looked, too. “Her tongue and throat are irritated and sore. She’s eaten something she shouldn’t have.”

  “She’s been poisoned.” He growled the words, fury blatant in his tone.

  “Oh, my God,” Sonnie said under her breath, horrified at the realization.

  Again his sharp glance darted over the larger herd grazing on the shortgrass in the hills. Worry that they might have been affected as well darkened his features.

  A chill took Sonnie. Her brain searched and sifted through the memories of scores of ailing cattle she’d seen and examined over the past few years.

  Lance grasped her by the elbow and hauled her toward her horse.

  “Did the professors in your fancy school teach you about hate on the range, Sonnie?” he demanded. “Or how men will sabotage and kill to get their revenge?”

  Sonnie yanked her arm free and spun to face him.

  “They taught me about yellow phosphorus,” she said, thinking not of what Lance warned her about but only of the diagnosis so clear in her mind. “The cows have all the symptoms.”

  He halted. “Phosphorus.”

  “Look at them, Lance. They stand there in a stupor. Convulsions will set in soon. Every one of those cows there could die today. Or tomorrow.”