by Pam Crooks
“You’re a miserable, low-down wretch, Lance Harmon,” she choked from behind him.
“Yeah, well,” he drawled with cold sarcasm. “You had it coming.”
“You don’t care, do you?”
“No.”
“You don’t care about anything but yourself and my father and everything that’s his.”
He locked the door for the night. “Keep whining and you’ll wake him. What do you think he’d say if he saw you drunk and fresh off an illicit card game? In the bunkhouse, no less.”
She moaned into the small of his back. A quick glance revealed Vince’s bedroom closed and silent. Lance headed for the stairwell.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Put you to bed.” He grunted and shifted her to a better position for the climb up.
“Let me down,” she commanded in a loud whisper. Her wriggling renewed with fervor. “How dare you treat me like this! I can walk up to my room myself.”
“You’re in no shape to walk anywhere by yourself, Sonnie,” he snapped without sympathy. “And hold still, damn it.”
A strangled cry escaped from her throat. She held her body rigid over his; he took his own sweet time in ascending the stairs.
He entered her room and closed the door firmly. She was primed for battle. He didn’t want her waking Vince in the fray of it.
A gentle shading of moonlight guided him to the bed. With his free hand he jerked back the covers. Bending, he eased her from his shoulder and let her slide backside-first onto the mattress. Her legs dangled over the edge, and she fell against the pillows like a rag doll. Her hand fumbled with the unruly hair that had fallen across her face.
His fury flared again. Sonnie--so graceful and dignified--had toppled to the ranks of a common dance-hall girl. Why had she gone to the bunkhouse?
The crazy fool.
Unceremoniously, he swung her legs up onto the mattress, then grasped a handful of the covers to throw over her. Her protests halted him.
“My dress, Lance,” she said in exasperation. “And my shoes!”
He glared at her in the darkness.
“What about ‘em?” he said in a growl.
“I can’t sleep in them. I need my nightgown.” She attempted to sit up. “My hairbrush, too. I must clean my teeth and wash my--”
He reached out and plunked her down into the pillows again.
“You wouldn’t make it to the dresser, Sonnie. You’re going to have to make do with what you’ve got on. Here.” He bent once more, cupped his hand around the heel of her shiny, bow-topped shoe, and slipped it off. Her toes wriggled; her silk-stockinged foot flexed in sublime provocation.
His foul temper wavered. Even drunk, she had the power to arouse him.
Grimly, he removed the other shoe. “There. Better?”
“Thank you,”
Her meekness gave him pause. He guessed the full effects of the liquor were settling in, and she’d feel worse before she’d feel better.
Clutching the covers a second time, he pulled them over her. She lay perfectly still, as if she were afraid to move.
Her pathetic frown tweaked his heart. She watched him, her expression doleful. He realized she was no longer vexed with him and wouldn’t give him the war of words he’d expected.
He wished she would. He could deal with a heated argument better than he could her inebriation and the discomforts that would come with it.
“Close your eyes, Sonnie. Sleep,” he said, his voice rough, raspy in the silence.
Immediately her lashes fluttered downward. The sable crescents joined tight; within seconds, they flew open again.
“Oh, Lance, the room is spinning,” she said with a whimper.
Like droplets of water through a sieve, his anger seeped from him.
“Stare at the ceiling,” he said. “Don’t move your head. The spinning will stop, and then you’ll sleep.”
“All right,” she murmured. She didn’t stir a hair’s breadth and did exactly as he bade. Lance waited several long moments.
“Better?” he asked finally.
“A little.” A stubborn hiccup escaped, and her hands balled the blankets about her stomach. A flicker of alarm went through him.
“You going to be sick?” His glance left her to spear the darkness for a suitable container if he needed it.
“Oh, I couldn’t bear it. Not in front of you.” Mortification laced the admission. She curled onto her side away from him. “I feel awful.”
He knew she did. He’d been in her place a time or two himself. Compassion smothered the rest of his fury.
“I’ll stay with you,” he said. “Just until you fall asleep.”
Finding no chair nearby, he stepped toward the bed. His weight dipped the mattress, and the springs creaked.
Sonnie lay motionless. Silver-tipped shadows outlined the regal shape of her nose, dusted over the gentle curve of her cheek. Her breathing, soft and shallow, whispered in the quiet.
She turned slightly and caught him looking at her. The fullness of her mouth curved downward into a rueful pout.
“Are you going to scold me, Lance?” His brow raised questioningly, but she continued. “Tell me how stupid I am? That I deserve everything I got tonight?”
He shook his head. “Stupid, maybe, but I don’t want you hurting because of it.”
Her pout deepened. “Jake McKenna said it was okay if I drank a beer or two. He said you wouldn’t mind.”
“Did he?” Irritation sizzled within him. “What if McKenna said I wouldn’t mind if you robbed a bank? Would you do it? You’re a smart lady, Sonnie. Don’t let McKenna do your thinking for you.”
The air hung heavy with the words. From against the pillows, Sonnie released a disheartened sigh and rolled to her back.
“Why do you hate me so?” she asked, the words quavery, uncertain.
The question rocked him. “I don’t hate you, Sonnie.”
God, no. Never. Never that.
“You’re always gruff with me.” He detected a tremble in her lower lip. “You hardly look at me. You won’t touch me.”
“That’s not true.”
Or was it? Was that how he treated her, as if he hated her, when he’d loved her with every fiber of his being for as long as he could remember?
“It is.” She lifted an unsteady hand from her stomach, touched her hair, rubbed her forehead. “You act as if you can hardly stand to be in the same room with me.”
“Oh, Sonnie,” he said in a frustrated hiss.
How could he tell her that she scared the hell out of him? How would he explain the god-awful fear of getting too close, of hurting, of being hurt?
“Are you sorry I came back?” she asked, her gaze steady.
He struggled with the truth in her demand and searched furtively for a way to answer without wounding her already wounded feelings.
“You are, aren’t you?” she said at his lack of reply. “You want me to go back to Boston.”
Her intuition dismayed him. His throat worked; tentacles of guilt repressed the words on his tongue. He remembered the conversation he’d had with Vince as they rode out of Silver Meadow earlier tonight. The images of Clay Ditson and Snake lingered vividly in his mind.
He leaned forward. “Sonnie, you have to understand how it is out here. It’s too dangerous for you to stay. We’re on the brink of a range war.”
“Don’t send me away, Lance.” To his horror, the glimmer of unshed tears shone in her eyes. “Please. I’ll stay away from the bunkhouse. I won’t drink beer again. I won’t fix anchovies again. And I’ll have meals ready on time every day.”
Her pleas tortured him. “It’s more complicated than that, Sonnie. A hell of a lot more complicated.”
She studied him, her features troubled. “Why don’t you tell me then? I want to learn everything there is to learn about this ranch. And you’re fighting me on it. “
He swore and drew back. “I’m not one of your damned professors.
And the Rocking M isn’t a classroom.”
“You won’t tell me, will you?” she murmured. “You keep everything locked away from me. Just like my father.” She drew in a steadying breath. “I can defend myself against Clay Ditson and Snake, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He couldn’t begin to tell her all he worried about, or that all his worries included her.
“They’ll use you against Vince. Against me,” he said roughly. “Poisoning cattle is just the beginning.”
“I can save the ones we saw this morning. I’ve studied diseases for years and--”
“We put them down this afternoon, Sonnie. Charlie and I. They were too far gone to save.”
“Oh.” Her lower lip trembled again. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s done. We can’t change it.”
“Such a waste,” she murmured, saddened.
He nodded once, agreeing.
Her body shifted, rustling the bedclothes. She appeared to hesitate, then reached a hand toward him.
“I’m sorry, too, that I made you angry. I shouldn’t have let Mr. McKenna talk me into playing cards. It’s just that . . .” She rested her fingers against his chest.
The warmth in her touch drizzled through the fabric of his shirt and onto his skin. She’d touched him before. Now should be no different.
But it was.
His blood stirred.
“What, Sonnie?” His whisper sounded raspy, jagged. “It’s just what?”
A fingertip toyed with a button.
“After you left with my father and the others, I didn’t want to be alone. I hate being alone. I’ve always hated it.”
He held himself taut. His heart stepped up its beat, pounded a steady thrum in his veins.
“Do you know what it’s like to have everything you’ve ever loved or wanted stripped away from you?”
Yes. God, yes. Mother. Father.
You.
“You’ve probably never been shut out of someone’s life, have you? You’ve never been passed by or denied the only thing you’ve ever wanted.”
He said nothing and kept the old pain of his years at the Children’s Aid Society inside him. He refused to share his heartbreak when hers was overflowing.
“I wanted some company tonight. I didn’t care who or what kind.”
He braced an arm beside her. Her hair tumbled in an obsidian halo about the pillow and glinted in blue-black perfection in the moonlight.
“Right or wrong,” she went on in a low, hushed tone. “The bunkhouse gave me that.”
Her hand came up to curl around the back of his neck. She tugged him closer. Her breath stroked his chin, teased his nose with the lingering scent of beer.
The familiar rush of waterfalls threatened to overcome him, to drown him with its roar. He fought to stay afloat.
“Don’t be angry with me, Lance. Right now I couldn’t bear it.”
She lifted her head a scant inch. Her mouth, the mouth he’d dreamed about throughout countless nights, found his. He was helpless to draw back, to prevent the kiss she promised to deepen, and he followed her down against the pillow.
Her lips flirted with his, trembled, then grew bolder. The tip of her tongue touched the tip of his.
Sweet Jesus. Her power.
She held a power over him so consuming it devoured his fears, squelched the roar inside him, soothed the pounding of his heart. A power that ignited desire so quickly he could hardly breathe from the force of it.
He groaned her name and thrived on that power. She gave back a portion of the control she’d taken from him; he used it, molded it, and kissed her back with all the pent-up yearning of years of loving without being loved back.
His lips rolled over hers and tasted the response of a woman who was not afraid to kiss a man. She could give him more, and he pleaded for it. Needed it.
Needed her.
His arms moved to pull her closer, to crush her against his chest, to satisfy the cravings she’d stoked inside him, but she pushed against him and ended their kiss when he would have kissed her forever.
Through thick ebony lashes, her gaze found him. He saw the vulnerability in her eyes, the incredulity of what had just happened between them.
His ardor cooled. The liquor had freed her inhibitions, but he’d been sober as hell. The reality of what he might have done appalled him.
“Lance?”
Her voice, soft and uncertain, reached out to him. He drew back, freed himself from her touch, and pulled the bedcovers high to her neck.
“Go to sleep, Sonnie.”
Her mouth opened to protest; then closed again.
“Yes,” she murmured finally, and rolled to her side. Her lids drifted downward. Within moments her breathing became deep and regular.
He rose slowly from the bed and backed toward the door. All his life he’d struggled for detachment from women--strength, control, common decency. Yet Sonnie was his one weakness. She always had been.
And he wanted her more than ever.
* * *
Sonnie didn’t want to wake up.
She clung to oblivion, burrowed deeper into the warmth of the covers, but already daylight filtered through her closed lids, and she relinquished the fight.
She opened one eye. Glaring sun shone through the parted drapes, and she quickly closed her lashes again. The brilliance hurt.
She groaned aloud and turned over. Her temples throbbed. Her mouth was dry as cotton. Her nightgown itched. Sonnie opened her eyes and stared at the pale blue wool fabric of her dinner dress’s sleeve.
She wasn’t wearing her flannel nightgown.
One by one, her groggy mind sorted through the events of the previous night. The meal she’d prepared for her father and his men. The card game in the bunkhouse. Jake McKenna.
Lance.
Her gaze darted to the edge of the bed, to the spot where he’d sat.
And their kiss.
Her belly fluttered. The memory of how she’d pulled him to her rushed forward. She could still feel his mouth moving over hers. Hard. Masculine.
Hungry.
Heat spread through her cheeks.
Lance had shown her vibrant, barely sheathed desire. She’d been almost swept away by it, but had somehow stopped herself.
How had she managed it?
Her head swiveled toward the empty pillow beside her, to blankets rumpled by no one else but her.
If she hadn’t. . .
A niggle of disappointment swept through her, in spite of everything. Another man might have taken advantage of her inebriation and bedded her. But not Lance Harmon. The honorable Boss Man. Her father’s favorite.
She should be grateful to him, she supposed.
Even so, the kiss would never have happened if she’d used common sense and resisted Jake McKenna’s zealous hospitality. How many bottles of beer had she downed at his urging?
Sonnie didn’t want to know.
Now, this morning, she paid the price. She must pull herself together and assume a facade of normalcy for Papa’s benefit. Instinctively she knew Lance would not reveal her ill-fated visit to the bunkhouse.
She should be grateful to him for that, too.
With a mammoth effort, she flung aside the covers and sat up, then pushed her toes into the thick carpet. Her head swam, and her stomach lurched. She waited for the unsavory sensations to pass.
Carefully, not yet trusting her balance, she stood. She ventured to the window in her stockinged feet and pulled the drapes closed.
The darkened shadows helped. A splashing of cold water and a refreshing drink for her dry mouth would be even better. She concentrated on getting herself over to the dresser.
She glimpsed herself in the mirror and moaned. Her eyes were puffy and ringed with fatigue; her hair was a virtual rat’s nest of tangles and drooping curls. Wrinkles covered her dress from neck to hem, and she detected a definite scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke about herself.
Longing
for a leisurely hot bath, she lathered a washcloth instead and cleansed her face and neck, dismantled what was left of her coiffure, and gradually worked the snarls free from her hair.
Her mouth begged for a drink. Having no cup or fresh water at her disposal, she padded gingerly to the door.
The sound of male voices mingled with the aromas of fried steak and potatoes wafting up the stairwell. Her stomach flipped again.
She was in no condition to see her father or anyone else. Her lip curled downward in a frustrated pout, and she retreated back into her room.
And nearly stepped on Jake McKenna’s cigar.
The awful thing reminded her once more of the fool she’d made of herself in front of the men in the bunkhouse.
In front of Lance,
How would she ever face them again?
What choice did she have?
More determined than ever to regain her dignity and respect as Vince Mancuso’s daughter, she plucked the cigar from the carpet and tossed it into her wastebasket. She shed her mussed dinner gown and retrieved the last fresh one she had from the armoire.
From the dresser’s drawers she gathered an armful of clean underclothing, and from her mirrored tray, an array of cosmetics. She laid them all out on the bed and grimly set to work.
* * *
Less than an hour later, she was ready.
Studying her reflection in the mirror, Sonnie ruefully offered thanks for Aunt Josephine’s tutelage in the practiced art of ladies’ toiletry. Creams and lotions were a godsend; powdered rouge restored color to her pale cheeks. Soap and water had washed away the bunkhouse smells, and her bottle of La Dore perfume replaced them with a delicate carnation scent.
She smoothed the tapered sleeves of her lavender wool gown. Trimmed in darker lavender and black, the gown accented her hair and skin tone favorably, and knowing she looked presentable on the outside helped alleviate some of the discomfort plaguing her on the inside.
Better prepared to meet her father this time, Sonnie left her room and descended the stairwell. She took care not to jar her head unduly and managed each step slowly, methodically. She passed his office and was grateful to find the door closed.