by Pam Crooks
“Do you think I don’t know that?” His hands clamped around her waist, and he lifted her bodily into the saddle. “Rat poison. Christ.”
“We must oxidize the phosphorus to overcome the systemic effects of the poison.” She scrambled to get her seat in the saddle, slide her feet into the stirrups and grasp the reins. “I suggest old oil of turpentine. Potassium permanganate may be given as well.”
“You sound like you jumped right out of a textbook.” He swung into the saddle with controlled speed and an agile grace.
With anger, too.
“I intend to tell my father my opinions,” she said, defiant that Lance paid no heed to all she tried to tell him. “I’ll convince him my diagnosis is right.”
“You do that, Miss Mancuso. And while you’re at it, you can tell him Clay Ditson and Snake are responsible for poisoning prime beef. And that his youngest daughter has no business getting herself involved in a range war and needs to be sent away somewhere safe, somewhere far away where she won’t get herself hurt.”
“I’ll do no such thing!” she gasped, but her glance swept the horizon for signs of the harsh-looking Indian and his sour-smelling accomplice.
Lance leaned over, tugged her horse’s bridle, and forced the mare into a turn toward the ranch. A mask had fallen into place over his features, that iron-clad control she both hated and admired.
“I’m staying right here,” she grated and spurred her horse out of Lance’s reach. “I can help my father. Together we can solve the problems on the Rocking M.”
The vow didn’t include Lance. The slight narrowing of his eyes revealed that he understood the omission.
“You don’t have a notion in hell about the problems on the Rocking M, Sonnie.”
“I’m learning.” Her nostrils flared. “He’ll teach me what I need to know.”
Lance swore, reached into a shirt pocket, and withdrew a rolled cigarette. He tucked it into the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t bother to light the tobacco. The hard line of his jaw gradually eased, but his expression remained distant and unfathomable.
“Well, Sonnie,” he drawled. “I reckon you got one more problem waiting for you when you get back to the Big House. I reckon, too, Vince won’t be happy about it.”
Wary, she eyed him. “What’s that?”
“Dinner.” He indicated the sun, sitting high in the sky. “You’re late.”
* * *
Sonnie slid from the saddle, hurried up the stairs, and dashed into the kitchen. The door slammed behind her.
Lance was right. Dinner should have been ready and waiting.
The realization of it galled her. Cookie stood in the middle of the room, his hands propped on his hips, a perplexed frown on his grizzled features. Stick stared uncertainly at the cold, empty kitchen.
Both men turned at her harried entrance.
“I’m sorry.” Breathless, Sonnie began to hunt for an apron to protect her suede skirt. She had no idea what the pantry shelves held, but she tried to form a menu of what to fix on such short notice.
“Reckon we might be at the wrong place at the wrong time, Miss Sonnie,” Cookie said, still frowning. “Ain’t we supposed to eat about now?”
“We most always have dinner at the Big House when we get the hankerin’. Celia never seems to mind. Is that gonna change now that you’re back, Miss Sonnie?” Stick asked.
“No, no. Of course not,” Sonnie said, aghast that he would think so.
The back door opened, and Lance stepped in. Frazzled by her tardiness, by him, Sonnie avoided his gaze and rifled through a drawer filled with towels.
Papa’s cane thumped along the hallway. He appeared in the doorway. His sharp-eyed perusal scoured the room.
“Sonnie, haven’t you a meal ready?” he asked.
She gave up on the apron and turned to face him. She blanched at his frown. “I’ll have something ready shortly, Papa. If everyone would like to make themselves comfortable, I’ll--.”
“These men have been up and working hard long before you even awoke,” he interrupted. “They’re hungry. They need to be fed.”
Sonnie froze. His scolding mortified her.
“I should have watched the time, Papa.” She wanted to die from embarrassment, from shame. I shouldn’t have been so careless.”
“This isn’t Boston,” he reminded her with an impatient thrust of his cane. “And you’re not on holiday in Rome. This is the Rocking M.”
“Yes, Papa.”
She sensed the discomfort of the other men. Cookie shuffled from one foot to the other. Stick cleared his throat and stared down at the toe of his boot.
“Ramon will have plenty of food, Vince.” Cool and calm, Lance reached for a bar of soap at the sink. The low timbre of his voice sounded controlled, without censure. “We’ll eat in the bunkhouse with everyone else.”
“Sure,” Cookie said. “We’ll eat in the bunkhouse. You bet we will.”
He gave Stick a pronounced jab in the ribs.
“Bunkhouse grub is good,” Stick added quickly, his head bobbing. “Mighty good, Miss Sonnie. We don’t mind ‘t all.”
Sonnie endured their sympathetic looks as each lifted a finger to his hat and left as if hellfire licked his heels. The room fell silent, so silent she could hear the dull pounding in her temples.
“You won’t forget again, will you?” Papa asked, more softly this time, sparing her the indignity of another reprimand in front of Lance.
She shook her head. She felt like a child caught in a forbidden prank. She wanted to beg him for forgiveness.
“It’s my fault, Vince,” Lance said. Water dripped from his arms. “I should have brought her back sooner
Her father’s gaze rested on him briefly.
“We rode out too far, lost track of time. We both knew better,” Lance added.
“Seeing the ranch was important to her,” Papa mused, as if Sonnie were no longer there.
Lance nodded and found a towel. “Nice morning for a ride.”
Papa’s irritation clearly dissipated. He turned back to Sonnie.
“I’ll come back in half an hour,” he said. “Would that give you time to fix me something to eat?”
“Yes. Of course,” she murmured.
He gave her an approving half smile, then left. She stood stiffly, listening to the sounds of his cane as he retreated to his office. She didn’t need to turn around to know Lance remained, that his burning gaze rested on her, that he felt her regret almost as much as she did.
“Thank you,” she said and drew in a breath.
She heard him move closer.
“For what?” he asked.
“For defending me to him. For taking the blame.” She blinked, trying hard not to succumb to a girlish bout of tears. “For not laying into me when you had the right.”
“Lay into you?” he repeated slowly. “Because dinner wasn’t ready?”
“You’re the ‘Boss Man.’ A good scolding would’ve been well within your realm of duties.”
“Sonnie.” Her name fell from his lips in a protesting growl. She held up a hand before he could say more.
“But then, my father did well enough, didn’t he? He’s a hard man. He didn’t build the Rocking M into the spread it is without stepping on a few toes when someone didn’t pull his share of the load.” She endured a new stab of hurt. “Not even his daughters.”
She whirled away from him, found a skillet, and set it on the stove’s burner with a noisy bang that suited her wounded mood. She rummaged through another drawer in a determined hunt for an apron but found two bowls instead. She set them upon the table with a thunk rivaling the skillet’s.
Lance halted behind her, so close she could smell the leather from his saddle, the soap just rinsed from his skin.
“You needn’t have taken the blame for me,” she went on. Her voice broke with a betraying quaver. “Please don’t next time. I--I mean, there won’t be a next time.”
She broke off. She refused to show her
despair. Not to him. Not when he inspired her father’s respect more readily than she did.
She wanted him to touch her. The need came out of nowhere. The idiocy of it, the futility, spurred her to reject the fantasy of his arms closing around her in comfort and enabled her to bolt well out of his reach.
“You said nothing of the poisoned cattle to my father,” she said abruptly and snatched a plate of sliced roast beef from the icebox.
“No. I didn’t want to upset him any more than he already was.”
Sonnie bit the inside of her lip.
“I’ll tell him later. When the time is right,” he added.
Knowing Lance’s reasoning was sound, that he kept her father’s health uppermost in his mind, she nodded jerkily.
A long moment passed. Then his boot soles trod upon the floor and halted at the door. She waited for him to speak.
“If you’re in need of an apron,” he said quietly. “Try the third drawer down on the left.”
A moment later she stood alone in the room. Without looking, she knew he’d be right, that an apron would be just where he’d said, in the one place she had yet to check.
She closed her eyes. The man knew Vince Mancuso’s kitchen better than she--a stranger to her father’s house. A nearly overwhelming feeling of inadequacy stung her soul.
A feeling of total, unequivocal failure.
* * *
Sonnie rolled the last walnut-stuffed date in sugar and set it neatly in place upon the silver tray. She stepped back from the table, sighed, and considered her handiwork.
It was a peace offering, of sorts. She hoped the sweet treat would make up for her negligence about dinner and would soothe whatever annoyance Cookie or Stick might still be feeling toward her.
Not that she’d seen anything of the sort in their expressions. And Lance . . . well, Lance had been absolutely gallant about the whole thing.
Sonnie sighed again.
Even her father had been his usual loving self at dinner. Most likely, he and the others would go about their business and pretend the whole thing never happened.
But it had. She wanted the sugared dates to win them over again, to remind them she was still a Mancuso and very much a part of the Rocking M--not a city girl gone too long to easily fit into their lives.
She glanced around the tidy kitchen and figured she had enough time before starting supper to bring the treats to the men herself. Her spirits lightened at the thought.
A quick trip upstairs to her bedroom produced the jacket that matched her skirt. Brisk brushstrokes livened the shine in her hair, and she decided to leave the long black tresses down, unbound but for a pair of pearl combs placed high on the sides of her head.
She studied her reflection in the mirror, pondering the suede skirt that flowed from her thighs to her calves and hugged the slimness of her hips and waist. The tops of her boots hid beneath the skirt’s hem, but what leather showed gleamed, a fine testament to the boots’ quality and price. She looked like a rancher’s daughter, she decided, not displeased. A daughter worthy of the name Mancuso.
Making a good impression was imperative. For many of her father’s men, this would be their first meeting. For the others, those who had been on the Rocking M payroll for years, it would be a reacquaintance with those she remembered, renewed introductions for those she didn’t.
Her nerves fluttered with anticipation, with pleasure, at the prospect.
After returning to the kitchen, she balanced the silver tray in one hand and, careful not to disturb her father’s nap, quietly shut the door with the other and stepped outside.
The crisp Wyoming air nipped at her cheeks, but the sun warmed its bite. Sonnie halted at the bottom of the porch stairs, and her gaze caressed the lay of the land surrounding the Big House for several long, appreciative minutes.
Fruit trees lined the lane leading to the main road heading into Cheyenne. Split-rail fencing encased the sprawling lawn and formed a handsome yard ablaze with crimson and gold leaves on the maple and cottonwood trees, brilliant mums and prolific hollyhocks.
More fencing divided corrals. Livestock barns housing horses, hogs, and mules loomed in the near distance. Red-coated Hereford cattle dotted the range beyond, the air punctuated by the cries of bawling calves. Chickens flitted about; roosters screeched; imposing blackbirds cawed and complained.
Oh, how she’d missed this, Sonnie thought with a swell of emotion: the sounds, the expanse, the beauty of the Rocking M. She inhaled a lazy breath.
And she’d missed the smells, too.
It had been inevitable that she’d come back. A twist of fate. A stroke of luck. Papa’s health had failed him, but gifted her with a reason to come home. And though her return had not been without its rough moments, the future promised a smoother road paved with determination and gentle persuasion.
The tray of sugared dates testified to that. She strolled toward the barns, feeling more content than she had in a very long time.
Chapter 5
The flames of the campfire jumped and danced, the only flare of light within sight on the boundless Wyoming rangeland. The cold night closed around Lance like a black cloak, oppressive and unnerving. Huddled next to the fire in their bedrolls, three men snored in sleep, oblivious to their lack of quarters.
He shivered. He’d never spent a night outside before, had never set up a camp, had never worked a roundup. There were many things to learn in this new country. Only by listening to the others spin tales and trying to understand their strange way of talking could he quell his unease.
“Yep,” Shorty said. “Ain’t no skunks anywhere like we got right here in the Territory. You ever seen a skunk before, Lance?”
Lance grew fidgety under their attention. He didn’t yet feel a part of them. He was too new. Different.
“Sure,” he said, not flinching from the little lie. He was certain a page from the orphanage’s encyclopedia didn’t count, but he met the cowboy’s gaze directly. “Lots of times.”
Shorty nodded. “Reckon they all smell the same, but out here, they’re bigger, meaner. Plumb crazy.”
Unable to stop it, his glance darted to the shadows, then back to Shorty. “Crazy?”
“Yep. Crazy. Come right up to you with no fear. And they’ll bite any chance they git. Ain’t that right, Mr. Mancuso?”
Lance swallowed. An unseen coyote howled a warbling cry and prickled the hair on the back of his neck.
Vince took a leisurely drag on his cheroot, his silence indicating agreement.
“Saw a man get bit once,” he said. “Went mad before my eyes.”
“Mad?” Lance choked.
“Started slobberin’ at the mouth,” Shorty added.
“Screeched and hollered like a banshee,” Vince put in.
If Vince said it was so, then Lance believed him. His heart started a slow pounding. A noise in the foliage beyond quickened the beat.
“By Gawd!” Shorty shrieked. “There’s one now! Do you see it, Lance?”
Something moved closer. The firelight caught a hazy stripe in the dark. No one moved. How could they all be so brave?
“Don’t let him git you, Lance.”
Too intent on the slinking creature, Lance hardly heard the warning voice. Drawing closer, the stripe grew more distinct.
“Watch him! He’s gonna jump!”
The skunk lurched and lunged. Out of nowhere, it hurled from the air and landed in his lap. Lance yelled out in horrified fright, his hands frantically clawing the awful thing away.
His chest sucked in air. By the time his head cleared and his heart slowed, he realized he’d bolted to his feet, ready to run.
He realized, too, that Shorty was laughing so hard, he was writhing in the dirt. The others, those he’d thought were sleeping, rolled with laughter beneath their blankets. Even Vince’s shoulders shook in hilarity.
And suddenly, Lance understood their joke. A skunk skin, stuffed with rags and crudely tied together with string, lay on its sid
e where he’d thrown it. Another cowboy held a long line of balled twine, one end attached to the skin.
A self-derisive grin stretched across Lance’s lips. He felt foolish, stupid. A complete idiot. In spite of himself, the grin turned into a reluctant chuckle.
Everyone watched him, gauging his reaction. His laughter slowly deepened to match theirs, and one by one, they began to nod in approval.
He’d passed their test, a difficult one, one at his own expense. But he didn’t care. He’d reached an important plateau.
Acceptance.
* * *
“What’ve you got there, young’un?” Cookie called out. He gave the patent leather on the stagecoach a final rub of oil, then tossed the piece of muslin aside. Straightening his wiry frame, he beckoned Sonnie closer.
“Has Ramon given you dessert?” she asked. Her admiring glance skimmed across the repaired rig, which was gleaming and looking like new again.
“Ramon? Dessert?” A huff of tobacco-tainted breath slipped through the old cowboy’s mouth. “Nah. He don’t bother. Celia’s the one who does the bakin’ ‘round here.”
“Perhaps these will do, then.” She held the tray out to him.
“What are they?” He eyed the treats suspiciously.
“Dates,” she replied, a little surprised he didn’t recognize the fruit.
He appeared doubtful. “I ain’t never seen a date all gussied up like these are.”
“They’re rolled in sugar to make them look pretty,” she said. Tendrils of amusement lightened her tone.
“You didn’t stick nothin’ funny in ‘em, did you?”
She laughed, tickled by his boyish wariness. “No, you dear. They’re filled with walnuts. Try one. And if you don’t like it, I’ll find plenty of men around here who will.”
At her dare, Cookie plucked one off the tray. He took a tentative bite, chewed, then popped the entire piece into his mouth.
“Well?” Sonnie’s mouth twitched.
“They’ll do.” His grimy fingers snatched several more. “Hey, Red. Frank. Want one?”
Two cowboys scrambled from underneath the coach. Wiping their hands on their pant legs, they approached her, their shy gazes not quite meeting hers. She greeted them warmly and offered them the tray.