In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  As she passed the formal dining room, however, she noticed that the rectangular oak table held several plates containing remnants of breakfast. The buffet sideboard held silverware and coffee cups, platters and bowls. Drops of moisture beaded on the outside of a crystal water pitcher, hand-engraved with the Rocking M brand.

  The icy cold water drew Sonnie like a lifeline. She took a matching tumbler, filled it full, and drank in long gulps.

  “Don’t drink so much. You’ll feel drunk all over again.”

  She stopped in mid-swallow at the low, masculine voice behind her. In the sideboard’s beveled mirror, she watched Lance approach from the kitchen’s direction, a silver-plated coffeepot in his hand.

  Her heart did a fast beat. His hair gleamed like honey in the room’s sunlight. Clean-shaven, muscular, and rugged in rolled-up shirtsleeves, he looked out of place pouring himself a cup of coffee and setting the expensive, elegant pot aside.

  She couldn’t hold his cool gaze, not after her brazen behavior the night before. She lowered the glass. An odd wooziness took her, and she leaned against the curved edge of the sideboard.

  “Sit down and drink this instead,” he said, his tone quiet. “It’s better for you.” He handed the steaming cup to her.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, and sipped.

  He made no reply. With prudent movement, she eased into the nearest chair. Lance slid a plate of hot food in front of her.

  Daintily she covered her mouth with her fingertips. Any other time, the seasoned beef, hash browns, and eggs would have tasted as delicious as they appeared. But not today.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I ...I can’t eat this.”

  “You have to.”

  Her eyes closed, and she shook her head slightly.

  “You need something in your stomach, Sonnie,” he said.

  Giving in, knowing he was right, she set her cup down. The first tentative bite of steak was tender and surprisingly tasty. She managed another.

  From the corner of her eye, she watched him cover the remaining fare to keep it warm, then pour himself another cup of coffee. He left the sideboard to stand at the window. Long moments passed. Only the ticking of the clock broke the silence.

  He seemed reluctant to leave. The knowledge brought a measure of relief. She had amends to make.

  “Who cooked breakfast?” she asked softly, enduring a new wave of guilt that she had once again failed in that regard.

  “Ramon.” As he left the window to face her, his glance lighted on her for a brief moment, then skittered away. “Your father has a visitor this morning. He wanted to offer him a good meal.”

  “Oh.” Her spirits plummeted further. She refrained from asking who the visitor was. “I’m sorry I didn’t get up in time.”

  “Forget it.”

  “If you would’ve come for me, or . . . or had someone wake me or something--.” She halted at the subtle reference to last night, to his presence in her room

  To their kiss.

  Lance’s whiskey-hot glance burned into her. He was thinking of it, too, she knew. His eyes lowered, settled, dwelled on her mouth.

  “I behaved outrageously last night,” she said, the words hushed. She couldn’t bear the heat of his thoughts when hers traveled the same road. “You must forgive me.”

  He set his cup on the table, splayed both hands on the starched tablecloth, and leaned toward her.

  “Not on your life,” he said, his voice low, husky.

  His seductive implication flustered her; for the life of her, she couldn’t hold his gaze.

  “Where did you learn to drink beer?” he asked.

  She grew wary at his sudden shift of conversation. “I prefer flavored brandies and water. I’d never had a beer before Mr. McKenna offered me one.”

  “You took to it well, then. There were a hell of a lot of empty bottles lying around.”

  “You finished one for me,” she objected in feeble self-defense.

  “To keep you from getting any drunker than you already were.”

  She stiffened. “Why are you scolding me again, Lance? I told you I was sorry for my indiscriminate behavior.”

  “You were in danger at the bunkhouse.”

  His words startled her. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “All it would take for a roomful of drunken cowboys to slake their lust is one beautiful woman,” he said. “Need I say more?”

  “Papa would never allow such a thing.”

  “How would he know until it was too late?”

  Refusing to accept his concern, she shook her head, believing instead that her father, with all his wisdom, influence, and power, would somehow prevent anything of the sort from happening. “No, Lance.”

  “It happens, Sonnie. You were damned vulnerable going out there by yourself. You broke the rules.”

  “Why would those men harm me? They’re my friends. This is my home.”

  “Most of those men had never seen you before yesterday. When their bellies are full of liquor, do you think they’d give a damn who you are?”

  “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.

  “Believe it. Vince Mancuso is not as invincible as you think he is. He doesn’t control every living soul who walks the land. No one does.” He pushed away from the table in barely controlled frustration.

  “You’re being far too protective of me, I think,” Sonnie said, her wariness increasing tenfold.

  “You need protecting, that’s why.”

  “That’s silly. What would make you think that?”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “Charlie found five more head of cattle poisoned this morning.”

  His grim-voiced revelation stunned her. “My God. Where?”

  “Just beyond the corrals.”

  “So close to the Big House,” Sonnie said under her breath.

  “Ditson is getting reckless, and that scares the hell out of me.”

  A flicker of pain crossed his features. Then, like a storm cloud passing over a dusky moon, the pain disappeared and somber determination took its place.

  “I don’t want him getting to you next, Sonnie, so pack your bags. I’m putting you on the first train back to Boston.”

  Chapter 8

  “You ever had a woman before, Lance?”

  From his perch on an aging tree stump, Shorty asked the thoughtful question. At his feet lay a heap of wood shavings fallen from the deft strokes of his whittling knife.

  For a moment, the tin of tobacco hovered over a scrap of thin paper between Lance’s fingers. He darted a wary glance toward the old cowboy.

  “Not sure if that’s any of your business, Shorty,” he replied.

  “Reckon it ain’t. But I’m askin’ anyway. You ever had a woman?”

  Irritation prickled Lance. Tiny bits of tobacco floated onto the paper. Shorty could be as meddlesome as an old hen; Lance doubted he’d give up his persistence.

  “Nope,” he said finally, his tone terse with the admission.

  “Why not?”

  “Never needed one.” The paper dipped and spilled tobacco between his knees at the blatant lie.

  “Never needed a woman?” The knife halted. Shorty’s bewhiskered face showed disbelief.

  “Nope.”

  He wouldn’t think of the thoughts that plagued him at night or the yearnings that were destined to go unfulfilled. He wouldn’t think of Mother and all she’d endured because of a man’s wretched need for a woman.

  “Gawd.”

  Lance concentrated on adding more tobacco to his cigarette. Even at the age of twenty-one, his desire for feminine warmth and softness haunted him when he least expected it. But he always managed to overcome the weakness through hard work and long hours and buckets of sweat,

  “Never needed a woman,” the older man said softly, as if he still couldn’t believe it. Holding up the misshapen chunk of wood, he considered his handiwork for long seconds. A gap-toothed smile creased his cheeks, and he tossed the creation into L
ance’s lap, knocking the half-rolled cigarette into the weeds.

  Lance swore in exasperation and glanced downward. Shorty had molded a discarded piece of kindling into a crude female shape, complete with curves in all the proper places. He met the cowboy’s amused gaze.

  “Never needed a woman, “ Shorty said again, his smile deepening into mischievous determination. “We’re gonna have to do somethin’ about that, ain’t we?”

  * * *

  Lance steeled himself against Sonnie’s protesting gasp. Dots of color shone on her pale cheeks; her jaw jutted with defiance.

  “I’ll not leave without a fight,” Sonnie said.

  Her proclamation, hushed with emphasis, spurred his resolve. Spine straight, hands clenched in front of her plate, she stared across the table at him.

  “I won’t let you stay without one, either,” he retaliated quietly, hating the argument--any argument--with her.

  “I belong here.”

  “You belong in a safe place. The ranch is not safe.”

  “I can think of none safer than the Rocking M.”

  “Damn it, Sonnie.” He blew out a frustrated breath and realized she would never listen, would never understand his reasons. She would never agree that he was right and she was wrong.

  He refused to let her see how it pained him to have made the decision, but in the absence of sleep the night before, the realization had come, sure and insistent. Charlie’s discovery of the poisoned cows just after dawn only intensified it.

  She couldn’t stay on the Rocking M.

  There had been no time to tell Vince of his convictions. Tom Horn had ridden in early this morning without fanfare or announcement. Vince, in his relief and rage, had spent every moment since engrossed in conversation with him about the cattlemen’s woes on Wyoming ranges, including his own.

  Vince would accept his decision, Lance knew. Sonnie had been gone for a long time. Her presence wouldn’t necessarily be missed by her father--or anyone else, most likely. With the Stockmen’s Association’s meeting to commence in Cheyenne in a few days’ time, and with Horn available to help Vince prepare for his appointment with Senator Norbert F. Hickman, Lance expected little resistance.

  No, the only one whose heart would be torn in two by her departure would be his own.

  Vince’s office door opened, and Tom Horn and Vince entered the dining room. Thick-chested and broad-shouldered, Horn stood at an even height with Lance at two inches past six feet. He moved with the arrogant swagger of a man comfortable with a gun in his hand. A man who held the reins in a fast, hard life.

  Just seeing him again annoyed the hell out of Lance.

  Possibly because Vince regarded him so highly, as if the sun rose and set on anything Tom Horn said or did. Or maybe it was his reputation for killing and swift enforcement of rangeland law when Lance preferred to use the established judicial system. More probably, though, it was Horn’s cool attitude and elevated opinion of himself that made Lance want to stuff his fist down the man’s cocky throat.

  Horn’s keen eyes lighted appreciatively on Sonnie and did little to ease Lance’s irritation. Moving away from Vince and toward the table, Horn pulled out a chair and angled it next to Sonnie’s.

  “Well, Mancuso, you didn’t tell me about the lady in the house,” he said, a slow, practiced grin spreading across his features. “Pretty little thing, too.”

  Vince appeared frail next to Horn’s bulk. He smiled with pride and sat at the table.

  “She’s my daughter, Tom. Her name’s Sonnie. This is Mr. Tom Horn, Sonnie,” he said with a nod. “You remember me talking about him, don’t you?”

  “The gunfighter?” Her lashes fluttered uncertainly. Her stance was still rigid from the quarrel she’d shared with Lance, and her gaze darted to her father. “Yes, of course.”

  Horn took Sonnie’s hand, her olive-hued skin almost lost in the depth of his bigger one. He dropped a gallant kiss over her knuckles.

  Lance wanted to spit in disgust.

  “Sonnie,” Horn purred. “A strange name for such a beautiful woman. What’s it short for?”

  “Sonnie Mancuso is my full name,” she replied, her expression demure, yet strained. “Papa christened me at birth.”

  For the first time, Lance sensed her dislike of the designation. He frowned at its masculine overtone.

  “Your ma had all girls, didn’t she?” Horn asked, amused, sparing Vince a quick glance before facing Sonnie again. “No sons to use the name on?”

  She gave a quick shake of her head. Obviously she found nothing funny about the subject.

  “No,” she said. “No sons to use it on.”

  “I’ve always thought of her name in a different way,” Lance said. “Reminds me of the sun that warms and heals.” His gaze left the other man and found Sonnie’s already upon him. “And gives life to everything it touches.”

  Her lips parted in vague surprise.

  Horn guffawed. “Damned poetic, Harmon.” His mirth faded as a new thought apparently struck him. “You his wife, Sonnie?”

  “I’m not married, Mr. Horn.”

  He appeared pleased. His grin returned, and, oblivious to Vince sitting a short distance away, he curled his fingers over her forearm and squeezed. “Real glad to hear that, Sonnie.”

  Lance chafed at his flirting and continued lack of formal address, a requirement demanded of every cowboy on the ranch. He snatched his empty cup from the table and headed for the sideboard.

  “Back off, Horn,” he said in a growl. “She’s not feeling well this morning.”

  “Not feeling well?” Vince asked, running a searching eye over her.

  “Late night.” Lance watched Horn in the mirror and reached for the coffeepot. “She’s still getting used to ranch hours.”

  “You don’t live here at the Rocking M, then, Sonnie?” Horn asked.

  “I’ve lived in Boston for most of the last ten years,” she explained with a lift of her chin. “But I’ve returned. And I’ve come home to stay.”

  Lance glared at her in the glass. She pointedly ignored him, as if daring him to deny it in front of her father and Tom Horn.

  “The big city, eh?” the gunfighter asked, and absently extended his cup toward Lance. A tiny portion of coffee swirled in the bottom. Irritation surged anew, but Lance filled the cup with fresh black brew. “Never cared for crowds myself. Give me wide-open country and a horse any day.”

  “We mustn’t forget your gunbelt, Mr. Horn,” Sonnie said coolly, eying the pair of Smith & Wessons packed about his hips.

  “Or a man needin’ chasin’ down,” he replied with a loud slurp of coffee. “That’s when I’m happiest.”

  “I’m sure,” she demurred and unobtrusively leaned back into her chair.

  “Tom will be invaluable in helping us deal with some of our problems,” Vince said. “The stockmen of Wyoming are in dire need of his services.”

  “I’d like to check out the neighboring ranges, Mancuso. I need to know if any of the other ranchers have had a problem with their stock being poisoned like yours were.” Horn’s decisiveness suggested he had no doubt his wish would be honored. “Are you ready to ride with me?”

  “Vince, stay here and rest.” Lance approached the table. “I’ll go with you instead, Horn. Vince has been ill.”

  “I’m fine, Lance. Don’t tell me what I’ll do and not do.”

  Lance stiffened at the sharpness in Vince’s tone.

  “I’m ready anytime you are, Tom,” the older man said and reached for his cane.

  “Stick will see that you have a fresh horse,” Lance said, forcing himself to be civil and ignore the sting of Vince’s rare indifference toward him. “Take your pick from the corrals.”

  “I’ll do that.” The gunfighter rose, gulped one last swallow of coffee, and passed a shrewd glance over Sonnie. “Until later, little lady.”

  Her lashes lowered in feminine courtesy. “Mr. Horn.”

  At a slower pace, Vince proceeded to follow h
im from the dining room. Knowing that an opportunity to discuss her return to Boston wouldn’t present itself until later that evening, Lance called him back.

  Vince waited expectantly.

  “I’ve told Sonnie I’m putting her on the first train to Boston,” Lance said.

  “No.” Vince shook his head. “I need her. The meeting is Saturday. There will be a banquet and dance, and Tom will need a lovely woman on his arm.”

  “You want Sonnie and Horn together? He’s a hired gun, for God’s sake.”

  Unfazed, Vince nodded. “She’s a Mancuso. She can use her . . . influence in a way I can’t.”

  A picture of the tough, hardened killer and Sonnie, eating, dancing, touching, turned Lance’s blood cold.

  “There are women better suited than your own daughter to persuade Horn to your way of thinking,” he scowled.

  “Like who?”

  Lance’s chin squared, his roster of qualifying females limited. “Like Gracie.”

  “Gracie?” Vince appeared aghast at the thought.

  “She could handle him. He’s her type.”

  Vince waved an arm, dismissing the idea. “Sonnie is perfect. My sister, Josephine, has prepared her for an occasion such as this. That’s why I sent her to the East, eh?” As if remembering Sonnie was still in the room, he turned and gave her a tender smile. “You’ll help your papa when he needs you, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said in a soft voice. “Yes, of course. If you need me, I’ll do anything you ask.”

  “There. You see, Lance? Sonnie is happy to help.”

  A growl of protest rumbled from his chest. Every fiber of his being fought Vince’s intention--a father using his daughter for his own gain.

  “Vince, I’ll handle this,” he grated. “I’ll find a way without her.”

  “Not this time.” Vince’s tone stung with finality. “Come, Sonnie. We’ll talk on our way out to the corral.”

  In a rustle of petticoats, lavender wool, and a hint of carnations, she went to him and slipped her arm through his. Together they disappeared beneath the archway and out the front door.

  Lance stood frozen with disgust and impatience. Rarely did he and Vince disagree, and to do so now, on an issue as important as Sonnie and a ruthless gunfighter, over a couple of lowlifes like Clay Ditson and Snake, left him quaking with frustration.