In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  Only Cookie remained silent. He toyed with his food, and at her query he flicked a piece of anchovy across the plate with his fork.

  “Can’t tell what this is,” he muttered.

  “It’s an anchovy, Cookie,” she said.

  “An-cho-vee? For dinner?”

  “Why, yes. They’re very popular in Italian dishes.” Dismay began to build within her.

  “Can’t see why you like ‘em so much,” he groused. “They taste funny.”

  “Cookie,” Lance said, a wealth of warning in the single word.

  “Well, I can’t stomach ‘em, Boss,” he blurted. “I ain’t used to city slicker’s grub.”

  “You don’t have to eat anything you don’t like,” Sonnie said. She wanted to apologize for everything that made him unhappy. “Would you like me to fix you something else?”

  “He eats what the rest of us eat,” Lance said in a growl. “Or does without.”

  At the terse command, the table fell silent. Sonnie slid her hand over his forearm and felt the muscles tense beneath the fabric of his shirt.

  “Maybe Ramon would have something he’d like better, Lance,” she said. Her dismay grew in leaps and bounds. “Or I have potatoes in the drawer. It won’t take long to fry him some--”

  “No.”

  The single word silenced her, as it must have done for countless recalcitrant ranch hands before her.

  She bit her lip. The sauce was perfectly spiced. Indeed, it rivaled that of the most exclusive restaurants in Rome and Paris and was a wise foil for the quail. But Cookie’s failure to appreciate it dulled her success and drained her own appetite.

  “My daughter has become accustomed to the finer things in life, Cookie,” Papa explained, breaking off a chunk of bread. “She’s developed a taste for a wide variety of cuisines.” His dark-eyed glance held the old cowboy’s. “You’ll like the anchovies when you eat them.”

  No one could mistake the hidden order in his words, a command to support Lance’s. Sonnie’s throat constricted. She wanted to throw the entire meal out the window.

  Cookie lifted his glass and took a good-sized swallow of wine. He grimaced and blew out his breath. “Reckon a man’s gotta git away from steak and potatoes once in a while. Lookin’ forward to them thar anchovies, Miss Sonnie. I’ll get used to ‘em. Yessirree.”

  And he took another drink of wine.

  Sonnie’s hand balled into a fist on her lap. She hated being patronized by her father and Lance and all the men. She picked up her fork and resumed eating without tasting a bite.

  The meal progressed, and the tension around the table dissipated as the men fell into their usual camaraderie. Sonnie’s attention wandered to the graceful way Lance held his knife as he buttered his bread, to the fine sun-burnished hairs on the back of his hands. She noticed how callused they were, how clean. He had manners, a style of eating and drinking that made the men around him seem rough and clumsy.

  They weren’t, of course. No more than she. But he was different. A notch above. Somehow better.

  Her glance drifted downward to the soft blue wool of her dinner dress. With its bordered skirt finished with navy bands and wide point de Genes lace, she was different as well. She seemed far too overdressed when set against the men with their rolled-up shirt sleeves and denim jeans. She’d given little thought to her attire until now--Aunt Josephine always insisted upon formal wear at mealtime--and, for the first time, she understood the men’s initial discomfiture after their arrival.

  Yes, she was different, too. Something out of place at the Rocking M. Mink among ordinary cowhide. And because of that, the men treated her warily, like a fragile object, with high esteem and respect as if they feared she’d break.

  She didn’t want their wariness or discomfiture. She didn’t want to be out of place. She wanted to be a part of them. Their equal. Their partner.

  More red wine slipped down her throat.

  “. . . back to Silver Meadow. A few more head came up missing.”

  Sonnie’s attention sharpened. Lance had her father’s full regard.

  “How many is a few?” Vince asked.

  “Twenty-five. Maybe thirty.”

  “Bastard doesn’t learn, does he?” he snarled.

  Grimly, Lance shook his head. “Ditson and Snake have been camping out in the cabin’s burned-out shell. Some of the debris has already been cleared away.” He touched his napkin to his mouth, then dropped it on his empty plate. “Looks like they’re planning to stay for a while.”

  Sonnie held her breath at her father’s angry frown. There was more Lance had to tell him.

  “You think they might be out there now?” Papa demanded.

  “Could be. Saw him and the Indian at Gracie’s last night, but I don’t think they’re staying in one of her rooms.”

  “We’ll find them. They need to be taught a lesson.” He reached for his cane and thumped it hard on the floor for emphasis.

  “Vince.”

  Her father stilled. His razor-sharp gaze bored into Lance.

  “This morning Sonnie and I came across a half dozen cows. They’d wandered from the main herd.” For the first time, Lance hesitated. “They’d been poisoned.”

  “What?” Her father’s voice thundered to the ceiling. He swung toward Sonnie, his features harsh.

  “It’s true, Papa.” Never had she seen him like this. “They were very sick.”

  “Let’s ride out,” he said abruptly, pushing back his chair. “We’ll surprise Ditson, the son of a bitch.”

  “It’s cold and dark,” Lance said, his brows furrowed. “You haven’t ridden since your attack.”

  “And by God, it’s time.” A ruthless expression darkened her father’s face--one that held no mercy. “Stick, saddle our horses.”

  The men rose.

  “I’m coming with you,” Sonnie said.

  “No.” Lance and Papa spoke in vehement unison.

  “But, Papa.” Her gaze jumped from him to Lance, then back again.

  “It’s not safe,” Lance said, answering for him.

  Unease rippled through her for her father’s health, for all he intended.

  “Let Lance go, then,” she said to him. “And the others.”

  “Keep out of this, Sonnie!”

  She recoiled from his abrasive tone. Unbridled hurt soared through her. Still, she tried again, half rising from her chair in her appeal. “Stay here for dessert, Papa. Please. I’ve fixed peaches, your favorite. Remember?”

  Cookie was the only one who seemed to hear. “Peaches, did you say?”

  She nodded, her gaze glued to her father’s retreating back. “Steeped in wine and sprinkled with crumbled--”

  At the cowboy’s blanched expression, she stopped.

  “Your pa’s in a real hurry. Maybe later, Miss Sonnie.”

  In the blink of an eye, the kitchen emptied.

  Except for Lance.

  He stood at the door, its knob gripped in his fist.

  “Supper was good, Sonnie,” he said, his voice low, rough. “I want you to know that.”

  She sank back into her seat.

  “My father is waiting, Boss Man,” she said bitterly. “Go before he does something he shouldn’t.”

  A muscle in his jaw leaped, but Lance said nothing more. With a firm click of the latch, he left her alone.

  Alone with a passel of dirty dishes and leftovers from the culinary success that had been an absolute failure.

  She reached for the wine bottle and filled her glass to the rim.

  Chapter 6

  The muscles in Lance’s arms bulged from the pair of heavy water buckets he carried from the pump toward the horse trough behind the cabin. He didn’t mind staying at the ranch’s scattered line camps for weeks on end. Riding fence and checking cattle wasn’t as monotonous as the other cowboys claimed. He rather enjoyed the solitude and never tired of the rolling Wyoming landscape.

  A soft moaning sound reached him, a sound at odds with the crea
k and groan of the towering windmill close by or the muted calls of cows in the distance. Another, deeper and lustier, followed, a puzzling intrusion to the otherwise stillness of the land.

  Lance’s steps slowed. He approached the cabin warily, tiptoeing to the back with the stealth of a wolf on the prowl. He peered around the structure’s corner.

  And froze.

  A man and woman, both as naked as the day they were born, lay entwined on a bed of pine needles, their only covering the shadows cast by the breadth of the evergreen branches above them. Lance recognized the wrangler, a drifter recently hired by Vince for the summer; his mate was a willing young girl whisked away from a nearby farmhouse for the tryst.

  Blood thundered in Lance’s temples. He eased away from the sight, then leaned against the cabin. His fingers lost their grip on the bucket handles; each bucket toppled to the ground with a thud that sloshed water over the toes of his boots.

  He was almost twenty. He knew what happened when a man had relations with a woman. Many times he’d heard the men in the bunkhouse boast of their conquests, their fun.

  Their power.

  His eyes squeezed tight; his belly churned. He trembled with a raw fear that surfaced from somewhere in the deepest core of his being.

  A man could bring a woman pain, too. Hurt her with his strength, his demands.

  His lust.

  Mother.

  And Hawthorne.

  Why had he thought of them now? Hadn’t the memories vanished with time? Would the pain ever dim?

  Never. Never would he forget how Mother had suffered and died because of a man who couldn’t control his body’s greedy lust, a man stronger than she who had overpowered and conquered.

  Conquered.

  He would never be so weak as to succumb to desire. Passion. To yearnings so strong he would yield to a woman on a bed of pine needles in broad daylight or triumph over her for the sake of some lousy rent.

  Never.

  * * *

  Silver Meadow, magnificent even at night, sprawled before Lance. He didn’t need the brilliance of the sun to know the gentle lay of the land, a miles-long length of range lush with grass and fed with water from a glistening spur of Chugwater Creek. Moonlight splayed over the valley, painting everything it touched with hues of silver and shadowy grays. Dots of black formed the moving shapes of grazing cattle, and toward the east lay the only blemish to the land, the charred remains of the cabin Clay Ditson had once called home.

  A sharp wind tugged at Lance’s hat brim, and, absently, he pulled it lower over his forehead. Beside him, Vince sat straight in the saddle, oblivious to the cold, and like a king surveying his kingdom, swept a slow glance over the view below.

  Lance waited in silence. He sensed the rage building in Vince, a possessive kind of rage kindled by one man who stole from another. He understood it. He felt the same. But Vince’s illness demanded a calmness, a control, that Lance must maintain for the both of them.

  The staccato of hooves drew his eye toward Charlie and Cookie riding up from within the darkness of the valley. As they drew closer, obliging beams of moonlight rendered their forms more distinct.

  “Campfire’s cold, Mr. Mancuso,” Charlie said, reining his mount to a stop. “Ditson and Snake are gone. At least for now.”

  Vince gave no sign he heard him. In the prolonged quiet, Cookie’s horse blew and pawed the ground. The two cowboys looked expectantly at Lance.

  “Want to go down and have a closer look?” Lance knew full well Vince would settle for little else.

  “What right do they have to waltz out here and squat on my land?” Vince exploded as if Lance had never spoken. “Rustle my herd, then use my grass and my water to graze ‘em! I won’t stand for it!”

  “Easy, Vince,” he cautioned. “Your heart.”

  The older man’s breath hissed inward as he visibly strove for composure. “I wish to hell they were here,” he ground out. “They need convincing, and I’m of a mind to do it.”

  “I’ll talk to Ditson again,” Lance said.

  “Pah! Talk! We tried talk, and he won’t listen! We tried threats, and they don’t faze him!” With a jerk, he yanked the reins into his hand. “He’s forcing us to take stronger measures. Maybe then he’ll understand we mean business.” Abruptly his heels jabbed his mount’s ribs, and he broke away, riding at a brisk canter into the valley.

  Lance exchanged a somber glance with Charlie and Cookie. In unison, they took up their own reins and followed him deeper into the darkness.

  The blackened carcass of the cabin’s foundation sat as a reminder of their last warning to Ditson. A potbellied stove sat in what had been the structure’s largest room and loomed above the ashes and seared furnishings. A pile of bedrolls and supplies lay heaped in one corner, swept clean for use.

  The very sight of Ditson’s belongings worried Lance. They told of his obstinacy, of his deliberate rebuff of their attempts to keep peace on Mancuso range.

  They told of trouble.

  “Look at this, boys.” A short distance away from the cabin’s rubble, Vince inspected a springboard wagon, its back loaded with fresh-cut lumber, a wide roll of tar paper, tools, and several open-topped cans.

  Lance rode closer, adding his inspection to Vince’s. Next to the cans stood a lone bottle.

  He leaned from the saddle to read the label in the meager light.

  It was yellow phosphorous.

  Rat poison.

  Sonnie had been right. So had he. Clay Ditson had poisoned Mancuso cattle.

  The son of a bitch.

  Vince reached inside his coat and retrieved a cheroot. A match burst into a flare of light, and in the glow of the flame, a slow grin spread beneath his mustache.

  Cookie slouched more comfortably in his saddle. “Reckon Ditson’s plannin’ on nestin’ fer a spell,” he commented. “Got enough wood here to build himself a right cozy little home.”

  “Must’ve cost him a bundle,” Charlie grunted.

  “Yeah. A bundle,” Vince said. One hand cupping the flickering match, he drew in deeply of the expensive tobacco before exhaling a puff of smoke. “He’s a fool. A damn fool.”

  He removed his foot from the stirrup and kicked at one of the cans. Kerosene spilled out, pooling on top of the lumber and tar paper. His arm lowered, and the match arced in the air. Within moments, flames stretched and lunged, engulfing the wagon bed in a hungry fire.

  Heat bathed Lance’s face. He stared impassively at the waste, the destruction.

  It had to be done. Ditson deserved it--poisoned and stolen cattle in exchange for the home he planned to build.

  Ditson would know Vince Mancuso had come to call. There would be repercussions--revenge and anger--a hit at Vince where he’d hurt the most.

  The certainty of it tugged a silent curse through Lance’s teeth.

  “Cold night, eh, boys?” Vince asked with a little smile. The tension had eased from him. He appeared relaxed, pleased with his actions. “Let the fire keep you warm. When it burns out, ride back to the ranch.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Mancuso,” Cookie and Charlie said.

  Vince spurred his horse into a turn, and Lance did the same. Instead of riding out of Silver Meadow, they swung wide and rode slowly into Ditson’s small--but growing--herd.

  Grimly they studied the stock. Showing the conviction of a man who knew what was his, Vince’s expression hardened as he scanned the fatted Hereford cows and calves.

  Ditson had chosen well. The animals were ordinary, with no unusual traits to set them apart, animals any other rancher in the area would have. All he had to do was mark each as his own, and no one could prove they once belonged to the Rocking M.

  Lance strained to discern the brand marked on the nearest calf. In his mind’s eye, he compared it to the original, the Rocking M’s, and within seconds he comprehended what Ditson had done with a simple running iron. Circle Double Diamond. A few strokes and the half circle and M had changed into a design belonging only to D
itson.

  But guessing the artwork was still not proof enough he had rustled Mancuso stock. Short of killing the animal on the spot and pulling back its hide to see the initial brand burned underneath, it was only one man’s word against another’s. Clay Ditson was too smart to get caught in the act of rustling. He knew what he was doing, he knew what he wanted, and he would continue to steal from the huge herd on the Rocking M to build up his own.

  Vince would not stand for it. Nor would Lance. And therein lay the problem.

  “He’ll go after Sonnie, you know,” Lance said.

  “He does, and he hangs. Right along with that damned Indian of his,” Vince said.

  “I want to send her back.”

  “Send her back?” Vince seemed surprised. He shrugged and tossed aside the stub of his cheroot. “She wants to stay.”

  “Boston is the safest place for her. At least until we get Ditson thrown into jail.”

  “Pah! No jail will hold him. He’s too shifty, and the juries are against the cattlemen. They won’t convict him.” Vince fastened the top button of his coat in a gesture that hinted that the matter was settled, that he was ready to leave. “This is Wyoming range. Mancuso range. We’ll get rid of Ditson our own way.”

  “Vince.” Lance tried to keep his frustration at bay. “We have to do this right. Go by the law, get solid proof that will hold up in court.” He leaned forward. “So we can keep Ditson away from Sonnie for good.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Vince demanded. “We can handle him.”

  Lance swore inwardly. Vince seemed incognizant of all that Ditson was capable of.

  But Lance had heard the wily man’s determination only yesterday at Gracie’s, the vow he’d made, the warning that he would disregard any orders to stay away from Silver Meadow.

  Clay Ditson wanted to be a cattleman. He’d stop at nothing to be one.

  Abruptly Lance swung from the saddle and dropped to the ground. He walked deeper into the herd and perused each animal closely, trying to find some oddity, some inconsequential characteristic that would set them apart from the rest.