In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “What’s the matter with you boys?” Cookie snorted in disgust and gave the closest a slap to the shoulder. “Ain’t you got no manners? The least you can do is wait to be introduced proper before feedin’ yer faces. This here’s Mr. Mancuso’s youngest. Her name’s Miss Sonnie.”

  “Miss Sonnie.” Awe filled the words, spoken by the bravest of the pair. “Red Holmes, ma’am. Right proud to meet you.”

  “I’m proud to meet you, too, Red.” She smiled, noting the color of his hair, the reason for his nickname.

  Beaming, Red landed a not-so-subtle nudge to the young cowhand beside him.

  “And I’m Frank Burton,” he said hastily and blushed furiously.

  Sonnie immediately sought to put them at ease. “Are you hungry? Help yourself. There’s plenty.”

  Their enthusiastic compliments warmed her. A few moments later, a new group joined them, their eagerness to meet Vince Mancuso’s daughter obvious. A second round of introductions was made, and Sonnie committed each name to memory. In seemingly no time at all, their easy conversation transformed them from hired hands into friends.

  She hadn’t realized how much being accepted into the Mancuso outfit had meant to her until now. Their appreciation, masculine and respectful, touched a part of her heart she hadn’t known needed touching. Their welcome was spontaneous and enthusiastic. Their acceptance nearly completed her return home to the Rocking M.

  If only the Boss Man would do the same.

  * * *

  Through the open barn doors, Lance watched the huddle of men surrounding Sonnie grow larger by the minute. Her laughter drew them like thirsty cattle to water. They came from everywhere, heedless of the work they left behind, eager for a morsel of her attention.

  He scowled darkly. Drunk on her, every one of them.

  He’d just returned from Mancuso rangeland with Charlie Flynn. They’d been forced to put down the half dozen poisoned cows too sick to save. His mood worsened just thinking about it.

  Now, seeing Sonnie with damned near the entire Mancuso outfit panting at her feet . . .

  Any other man would walk out and join them. No other man would keep himself from the pleasure.

  No one except him.

  Charlie entered from the corral and dropped a handful of hen quills on the workbench. Lance turned away and busied himself doing nothing.

  “Looks like Miss Sonnie’s out there gettin’ to know the hands,” Charlie said, peering out. “I wonder if she remembers me.”

  His hopeful tone grated on Lance’s patience. He dragged his glance back through the open doors and watched Sonnie bend over to pat one of the ranch dogs on the head. The mutt--dubbed Moose--wagged his tail furiously, as smitten as the rest of them.

  “Mind if I go out and jaw with her a spell?” Charlie asked.

  But before Lance could reply, Charlie was on his way out, leaving Lance alone in the barn to fight a wave of disgust for his own cowardice.

  He refused to think of her and fished a knife from the hip pocket of his Levi’s. With the tip of the blade, he cut oblong holes a quarter inch from the small end of the quills, then slathered them with petroleum jelly.

  He heard her enter. The soft tread of her footsteps warned of her approach. The now-familiar rush, the sensation of her presence, roared through him. His fist closed, opened, then closed again.

  “I thought . . . maybe you’d like a sugared date, Lance. I saved some for you.”

  She was uncomfortable with him. Uncertain, too, as if she couldn’t gauge his response to her. He snatched a milk bucket in one hand, the quills in the other, and spied the silver tray with the remaining confections.

  How could he eat when she tied his stomach into knots?

  “You’re busy,” she said when his hesitation stretched into long moments. She set the tray on the bench. “You can have one later if you’d like.”

  “I will.” The roar lessened. “Thanks.”

  Moose had followed her in. He rubbed against her, his wagging tail thumping her skirt. She scratched his head absently.

  She seemed nervous, yet she made no attempt to leave. Maybe she wanted to stay. Maybe she wanted to be with him.

  He squelched the hope. He was crazy to think it. To want it.

  He entered the nearest stall and dropped the quills and bucket inside before sitting on a low stool.

  “What are you doing?” Curious, she followed him in.

  His hand lifted and stroked the rust-shaded coat of the cow before him.

  “She has sore teats. Her calf’s a rough nurser.” He found it easy to talk with her about something as ordinary as cows. “Been chewing on her pretty hard. I’m keeping them separated so she can heal.”

  “Oh.” She moved closer, then fell to her knees in the hay beside him. “She’s full. She needs to be milked.”

  “That’s what the quills are for.”

  “To empty the udders?”

  His mouth softened at her choice of words. “Yeah. To empty the udders.”

  Her expression turned wistful. “I haven’t milked a cow in years.” She turned hopeful eyes toward him. “May I?”

  In all his life, he’d never be able to deny her anything. He managed a brisk nod. “Trade places with me, then.”

  She shifted to oblige him, placing a hand on his thigh to steady herself as they switched positions. The casual movement, that thoughtless act of touching him, branded him clear to his bones.

  The roar inside his head threatened. Iron-clad control held it back.

  Sonnie tucked the suede skirt primly about her and settled herself on the stool. Lance squatted on his haunches, angling his body toward the cow’s rear legs in case she had a notion to kick. He took a quill and gently inserted it into a teat.

  Sonnie made a sound of sympathy.

  “Are you hurting her?” she asked in a voice hardly above a whisper.

  “No.” The cow hadn’t flinched and showed no sign of pain. “This’ll help the milk’s flow.”

  “Oh,” she said again, intent on his actions, clearly fascinated with them.

  After he’d done the same to the other teats, he straightened. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded. Grasping the forward teat with her left hand and the opposite with her right, she pulled and squeezed. The cow shuffled and swung her head toward Sonnie, her big brown eyes doleful and wary, her jaws working her cud.

  “Easy, Rosie,” Lance crooned. He rubbed her broad side in long strokes. “Try again, Sonnie.”

  She did as he told her, to no avail.

  “Nothing’s coming out.” She heaved a frustrated sigh.

  “Do it this way.” Without thinking, Lance leaned toward her and covered her hands with his, guiding her in the proper motions. Milk trickled, then increased to a steady stream.

  “Oh, it’s coming out fast now!” she said softly, the airy sound amazed and triumphant.

  Her skin felt smooth and cool--delicately-veined, fragile-boned, unaccustomed to hard work. Lance barely heard the victory in her voice. She filled his senses with awareness.

  He’d never been this close to her before.

  He pulled away. He had to, for his own sanity. For control. She continued milking and didn’t seem to notice his reaction.

  A coiling tendril of hair tumbled over her shoulder and rested across her breast. Lance stared openly, shamelessly, at the rounded curves. A growing heat spread within his loins. He jerked his glance away, his imagination of the womanly flesh hidden beneath the suede vivid and rampant.

  “Ta-da!” Her dark eyes bright with delight, Sonnie turned to him and presented him the bucket brimming with foamy milk. “Now what?”

  Lance inhaled slowly to clear his head of the lusty visions.

  “We clean her with tincture of myrrh.” He set the milk carefully aside and left the stall in search of the bottle.

  “May I help? How often do you apply it?”

  “Twice a day,” he said and stopped dead in his tracks.

  Moose
, half dog, half billy goat, ate anything he found worth eating, and most times his stomach tolerated none of it. One paw held Sonnie’s silver tray firmly in place on the ground while his long tongue vigorously licked at the last traces of sugar

  She gasped in dismay.

  Lance turned. Her expression was one of horror, of absolute incredulity. Full-blown amusement erupted within him.

  He held it in. He wanted to spare her feelings. He knew how she’d hoped to please everyone with her treat.

  “Oh, bad dog! Bad, bad dog!” She tried to shoo him away. Moose didn’t budge, too engrossed in stealing one more lick from the tray. She found a broom and took a wild swing. Moose yelped in alarm. His tail fell between his legs, and he slunk into a corner. She snatched the tray from the ground.

  “And what is so funny, Lance Harmon?” she demanded, her eyes sparking ebony fire.

  “Nothing,” he said hastily. He choked down his laughter and kept a close watch on her broom. “Nothing. I swear.”

  “Do you think I can’t cook just because I lived in the city?” she asked. “Is that why you refused to eat the dates?”

  The chuckles died inside him. Her unexpected accusations blindsided him. He sputtered a denial.

  “Maybe you’re glad the dog ate them all.” Her nose lifted with an audible sniff. “Well, Boss Man, I’ll prove to you I can cook. Tonight. Six o’clock. Come hungry.”

  With that, she left.

  Lance stared after her. It’d all happened so fast. He had no idea why he was blamed for Moose’s crime or why Sonnie’s mood had turned so testy. He swore in frustration and sent the dog a glowering scowl.

  Moose, properly chastised, whined in apology and promptly threw up.

  * * *

  The table was ready.

  Sparkling silverware and fragile, hand-painted china adorned the starched white tablecloth. Crystal glasses etched with the Rocking M brand stood in their places above each plate. Pressed linen napkins were folded perfectly at every place setting.

  Not even Aunt Josephine could prepare a finer table than this, Sonnie mused with satisfaction.

  She’d decided against using the dining room for supper. It was too large and formal. Though they’d rarely eaten in the same room where food was prepared at her aunt’s house, memories of eating at the heavy wooden table here in the kitchen lingered from her youth. She was certain Papa and the others would prefer it.

  They’d be here in only a few minutes. Her nerves fluttered, and Sonnie pressed a hand to her belly to quash the feeling. Everything was ready. The meal promised to be superb, and, she assured herself, there was nothing to be apprehensive about.

  Boot steps and the low drone of male voices from the back porch announced their arrival. The door swung open. Cool air scurried inward, and with it, Cookie, Stick, and Charlie Flynn.

  But not Lance.

  Sonnie ushered the men in with a gracious welcome and tried to hide her disappointment. So what if he decided to eat with Ramon and the other hands in the bunkhouse? She’d just enjoy her meal without him.

  She concentrated her attention on arranging a large platter with quail and rice. She’d made him angry. That was it. Her little temper outburst after Moose devoured the last of the sugared dates had soured Lance to her supper invitation, and he’d refused to come.

  Maybe she shouldn’t blame him.

  Male conversation billowed around her. He was getting to her. That low voice of his. The strength he exuded. Blatant, raw masculinity. And his dedication and expertise in ranch matters was something she envied--and admired.

  No wonder Papa favored him.

  Sonnie’s teeth found the inside of her lip. Lance was the reason for her apprehension, she knew. She wanted to prove to him she could be all that he was, in the kitchen and out.

  But now that he wasn’t coming, she felt oddly deflated. Robbed of the opportunity.

  Robbed of him.

  She spooned sauce over the golden, plump birds and tried not to think. As she drizzled butter over tender asparagus spears, a crisp swirl of air blended into the kitchen’s warmth.

  Her gaze flew to the door. Lance stepped in. He removed his hat and raked a hand through his tawny-shaded hair. He looked rushed and out of breath.

  Wherever he’d come from, he’d been in a hurry to get here.

  She swallowed down her pleasure and met the wary guardedness in his gaze.

  “The others have only just arrived.” She lifted the heaping platter and extended it toward him. “Put this on the table, won’t you?”

  Tossing his hat aside, he reached to take the dish from her, and their glances locked. From within the depths of his eyes, the guardedness disappeared. In its place was a hot whiskeyed flame--assessing and powerful.

  His gaze broke from hers, lifted to the hair she’d piled in a coif on her head, slid down over the pale blue wool of her dinner gown, and up again.

  The whiskey flame burned.

  She almost shook from the heat of it. The platter swayed in her grip.

  He took its weight, smooth and easy. “Whatever you want, Sonnie.”

  The provocative tone of his words, barely above a whisper, nearly shattered her composure. Shaken, she turned back toward the stove.

  Whatever you want, Sonnie.

  She would have to be stronger against him, against the effect he had on her. Tougher. She didn’t want to think about the things Lance Harmon was beginning to make her want.

  She had to concentrate on the meal she’d prepared. She had to be accepted by her father’s men, to prove that she belonged on the ranch and not conveniently tucked away in a city clear across the country.

  She had to prove it to Lance.

  The men clustered around the table. Sonnie set the bowl of buttered asparagus in the center and sensed their hesitation to sit.

  “Ain’t never seen a table set as fine as this ‘un,” Cookie grunted, both hands stuffed in his pockets.

  “Almost too fine to spoil by eating at,” Stick added, his tone awed and admiring.

  “Oh, that’s silly,” Sonnie said. “Find a chair, all of you. The food is growing cold.”

  “Want me to light this here candle, Miss Sonnie?” Charlie queried.

  “Please do, and thank you.”

  “Well, look at this.” Her father’s voice boomed into the room. “Josephine has taught you well, mia bambina.” He moved forward with his cane clicking along the floor and took his place at the head of the table. “Looks real nice. Smells good, too.”

  His compliments made all her labors worthwhile. “I hope you’re hungry, Papa. I’ve made your favorites, with peaches for dessert.”

  She set a bowl of pasta, topped with a sauce of tomatoes, anchovies, and olives, in front of him.

  “Ah, pasta.” He smiled. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had any.”

  “I thought so.” She retrieved a bottle chilling in ice and began pouring into each of the glasses.

  “Wine?” Cookie asked skeptically.

  Sonnie nodded. “Full-bodied, to complement the meal.”

  The old cowboy shook his head and covered the top of his glass with his hand. “I’d rather have a beer.”

  The kitchen fell quiet.

  “I think, Cookie,” Lance said, his tone soft as he settled his long, lean frame into a chair next to her father’s. “That if Sonnie wanted beer served, she would have provided it.” His steady glance hooked with the other man’s. “Try the wine.”

  Slowly the gnarled hand pulled back. “Now that you mention it,” he said with a loud clearing of his throat. “Wine does sound good. Fill ‘er up, Miss Sonnie.”

  Sonnie’s confidence wavered momentarily. She wasn’t sure if she should be grateful or appalled at Lance’s intervention with the old cowboy, but as the dishes began their rounds about the table, and the men’s praising comments filled the conversation, her aplomb returned.

  Miniature loaves of crusty bread completed the meal, and she removed her apron before sh
e sat down. With a start, she realized all the chairs were occupied except for one.

  Next to Lance.

  She hadn’t counted on that error in her careful table arrangement. She’d assumed her place would be at her father’s right.

  Clearly, Lance was accustomed to taking that particular seat. No one seemed to question it. She stoically took her place beside him and laid her napkin over her lap.

  “Mangia! Mangia!” her father declared with a rare enthusiasm. He picked up his fork to dig into the food on his plate. At his example, the men followed suit.

  “Papa!” Sonnie’s eyes widened; her glance swept over the others. “We must say grace.”

  In unison, the folks were laid back down again.

  “It seems we have forgotten that,” her father said, his expression deadpan. “Shall we say one out loud or silently?”

  Masculine expressions waited for her reply. Their lack of practice in something as basic as saying grace at mealtime exasperated Sonnie.

  “A silent one will do.”

  All heads bowed in individual reflection. When her own prayer was complete, Sonnie straightened, and, as if waiting for her signal, the others did the same.

  She tasted the quail. Each had been simmered to perfection, and Sonnie was pleased with the tenderness of the meat. She had painstakingly figured the amount she’d need since the birds were small, and at least two would satisfy a manly appetite. But several remained on the platter. A little frown teased her brow.

  “Papa?” She sought his assurance. “How is your quail?”

  “Very good,” he said, his head bobbing between bites. “The best I’ve had in a long while.”

  Her glance slid toward Lance.

  “The quail is fresh,” he commented in his low voice.

  “Stick bagged them for me.” She sent the young cowboy an appreciative smile. “He worked hard to get as many as I asked for.”

  “So that’s where you were all afternoon,” Charlie said. “Thought maybe you were snoozing in a pile of hay somewheres.”

  “Naw. But I heard tell I missed some mighty fine-tastin’ dates whilst I was out huntin’,” Stick said with obvious disappointment.

  “You did.” Charlie grinned. “Reckon Moose got your share.” He relayed the dog’s offense for Papa’s benefit, which left them all roaring. Sonnie’s cheeks warmed at the memory, but she accepted their teasing with a few giggles of her own.