by Pam Crooks
Thumps and thuds from the porch drew another scowl, and he strode to the hallway. A courier from the train station struggled with a profusion of leather and brass trunks.
An hour ago, Lance would have sent him back to reload Sonnie’s luggage and transport it all back to Boston. Now, he thought with a healthy curse, the damned things were here to stay.
But not for long.
* * *
Sonnie had never socialized with a hired gun before. Indeed, she’d never been in the same room with one, spoken to one, or even seen one before this morning. But now, knowing of Papa’s wishes, she knew all that would change.
It was an important task he’d entrusted to her, that of wooing Tom Horn to Vince Mancuso’s way of thinking. A man of Horn’s rank would surely be the solution to the cattlemen’s plight--and Papa’s as well. If the reputed gunfighter agreed to accept the job as range detective, stockmen throughout Wyoming and neighboring states would be spared future losses of land and livestock from untold numbers of rustlers’ plundering.
And poisoning.
Her responsibilities unnerved her, however, and she leaned back in Papa’s leather chair with a sigh. Sequestered in his office for most of the day, the air laced with a lingering scent of his cheroots, she was struck by how sheltered her life had been. Back East, her most troublesome worries had been limited to her rigorous academics or which evening gown to wear to which gala affair with whom. The problems of the West had pretty much been lost to her.
Until today.
Upon her lap, the thick, cloth-covered volume of the Minutes of the Executive Committee described them in detail. As secretary of the Wyoming Stockmen’s Association, Papa’s notes, and those of his predecessors, outlined the organization’s rise to power, its political advocates and enemies, victories and defeats. Sonnie read the papers in their entirety and came away with an awed understanding of the cattlemen’s concerns, their wealth, their love of the land with its bountiful grass and water, and their belief that the range must be policed by ruthless men to protect what was theirs.
A ruthless man like Tom Horn would not be averse to using his gun to uphold their beliefs.
Sonnie couldn’t help thinking of the methods he would employ to rid the Mancuso range of Clay Ditson and Snake. Blood would spill, and she abhorred the thought. But Papa knew best how to handle such a troublesome matter. It was what he wanted and what the Association wanted.
But not what Lance wanted.
Unbidden, the certainty came through. His antagonism toward Horn had been a tangible thing this morning, and Sonnie puzzled over it. Despite their close relationship, Papa seemed oblivious to Lance’s feelings, yet Lance held his tongue and hadn’t made an issue of their differences in front of the gunfighter.
Bemused, Sonnie closed the book and rested it on the desktop. The cluttered office, homey and endearing, encouraged reflection, and she was struck once again by the memories the room held and the years of hard work it represented. All the countless hours Papa spent toiling over financial ledgers, reading the latest in veterinary journals and newspapers, keeping abreast of the cattle market and his involvement in the Stockmen’s Association throughout Wyoming’s rise from territory to newly established statehood, had been spared her.
But the Rocking M prospered. Her gaze found the huge map on the wall behind the desk, and she pondered the ranch’s boundaries. Straddling three counties, the thousands of acres of Mancuso land were almost impossible to comprehend. Yet there it was in the mapmaker’s ink, a maze of lines representing forests, hills and canyons, grass-rich pastures, and winding creeks. Her heart swelled with renewed pride in the vastness, in the beauty.
Her heritage.
The Rocking M was hers, given by her father to be shared with her sisters, but it was a heritage no one could take away--not Clay Ditson and Snake, and certainly not a train bound for Boston.
So engrossing were her thoughts that she didn’t hear her father’s approach until his movement drew her attention, and with a smile, she rose to greet him.
“Is this where you’ve been all day, mia bambina?” he asked, removing his heavy coat and hat and hooking them on the rack near the door.
“Yes, Papa.” Inwardly wincing at his endearment, she tapped her finger upon the volume before her. “Reading your minutes from the Association meetings.”
“Ah. And what have you learned?”
He appeared preoccupied. With his shoulders hunched, he shuffled toward the liquor cabinet. It seemed to Sonnie he leaned more heavily on his cane than usual. Her smile faded.
“I’ve learned much,” she said quietly, watching him with a concerned eye. “I had no idea the blizzards of ‘86 and ‘87 were so devastating. You never mentioned it in your letters.”
His hand lifted in a bland gesture. “Why worry you? It was hard on all of us.” He shook his head wearily. “Drought in the summer, early snows in the winter. The cattle couldn’t find grass to eat or water to drink. Our losses were devastating.”
“Oh, Papa.” She clucked her tongue in compassion. “I would have come home to help you if I’d known.”
“Pah.” Again his hand lifted. “The trains would never have made it through. Better you stayed in Boston. “He reached for a glass and a bottle of whiskey. “All the stockmen suffered. Some were wiped out completely.” Pausing, he appeared to relive the past. “We were one of the lucky ones. Lance and I . . . we built the herds back up again. The Rocking M is still strong.”
“Thank goodness,” she said, picking up the book to return it to its place beside the family Bible. On the shelf, a yellowed envelope lay askew in the empty spot where the Minutes of the Executive Committee belonged.
“The problems never end, Sonnie,” he said, his tone sounding unusually defeated. “If not the weather, then a fickle market or rustlers and squatters. Now I’m losing cattle to poisonings. Sometimes I get so tired of the fight.”
His fatigue worried her. “Papa, you must rest. Come sit for a spell,” she urged, indicating the brocade settee near the desk. “You’ve been out riding too long. You’ve worn yourself out.”
The whiskey bottle rattled against the edge of the glass as he poured the amber liquid.
“I might have at that, bambina,” he conceded, his expression wan. “I should’ve listened to Lance, eh?”
While he spoke, Sonnie stole a curious glance at the envelope. Printed in the upper left-hand corner with the words Children’s Aid Society, New York, it was addressed to her father and postmarked in 1877, thirteen years earlier. She held it up to the window’s light to sneak a peek at the contents.
“Papa, what is this Children’s Aid Society?” she asked in growing puzzlement. “May I read the letter?”
Only silence greeted her query. From behind her, she heard a muffled thud, as if something heavy had dropped to the floor.
She whirled. Her father lay in a crumpled heap, one hand extended outward, still gripping the bottle. Whiskey seeped into the crimson floral carpet and pooled into a staining puddle. His other hand clutched his chest.
“Oh, dear God!” She gasped in terror, and the envelope slipped unheeded from her fingertips. Sonnie ran to him and fell to her knees at his side. “Papa! Oh, Papa!”
His skin held a deathly pallor. He seemed suddenly old and drained of life.
His lashes fluttered; a rasping cough escaped from his throat. He gulped in air.
“Get Lance, Sonnie,” he wheezed. But she shook her head in refusal and pulled the liquor bottle from his grasp.
“I won’t leave you, Papa.” A sob welled up, pushed into her throat. “I’m staying right here with you.”
Cold, weak fingers curled around her wrist. “I need . . . my medicine.”
She strove hard to keep her panic under wraps and tried to recall where she’d seen the collection of little brown bottles. Her father struggled for consciousness. Time was precious. He needed help immediately or she’d lose him forever.
“I’ll find the med
icine. Hang on, Papa. I won’t be long.”
Yanking at her skirts, she stumbled to her feet and flew down the hall. Her mind whirred to remember which cabinet bore the lifesaving pills.
She jerked open doors and drawers in her search. Somebody had moved it--or had they? Where had she seen the damned medicine?
On a fevered prayer, she finally found the bottles.
But which one did he need?
Aconite? Digitalis? Amyl nitrite?
Which one?
She scooped them all up into her skirt. Hugging the unwieldy bundle to her, she left the kitchen in a run and returned to the office.
Her father hadn’t moved. He lay deathly still. She dropped to her knees and let everything tumble onto the carpet.
“Papa, tell me what you need.” She held up a miniature bottle, the label printed in tiny letters she could scarcely read or understand. “This one?” His eyes remained closed; he didn’t appear to hear her. A hopeless feeling of inadequacy washed over her. Her voice rose to a panicked pitch. “Papa, tell me which one!”
She feared giving him the wrong antidote. Or too much or too little. How would she know? His life depended on the right decision, a decision she couldn’t make.
But Lance would know.
She had to find him. She hadn’t seen him since breakfast, but she had to find him to save her father.
Sonnie rushed from the room and flung open the front door. A flurry of cold air whipped her face and tugged her hair as she raced down the porch steps. She hadn’t a notion where he would be. Her feet flew across the lawn toward the nearest barn.
Please, God. Let him be close.
The massive wooden doors stood partially open, and Sonnie squeezed in sideways without widening them further. A stinging sensation blazed across her arm, but she hurried inside without sparing it a thought.
“Cookie!” she cried. The old cowboy was bent over a dismantled plow. “Where’s Lance?”
He blinked up at her, obviously surprised at her frantic state, and frowned. “Well, now, I reckon I saw him last in the corral.”
“Which corral?” she demanded, breathless, urgent to keep moving.
“The north ‘un.” He lifted a greasy finger in the general direction of another door. “What’s got you all fired up, young lady?”
Her skirt hem lapped at her heels. She bolted from the building, past Red Holmes and Frank Burton, their arms laden with heavy sacks of feed. Frowning their concern, the two men dropped their burdens and sprinted after her toward the corrals. Cookie hustled close behind.
Sonnie found Lance hunkered over a foal nestled in a bed of straw and engrossed in conversation with Stick.
“Lance,” she called without a halt in her run. “Come quickly!”
He rose, half twisting toward her. She stumbled over her hems and nearly fell into him in her haste. Automatically his hands grasped the curve of her waist and steadied her.
“Sonnie.” His tawny brows furrowed beneath the shadowed brim of his black cowboy hat. “What is it?”
“It’s Papa.” She tried to swallow and gather her wits, but tears threatened to overcome her. Her fingers dug into the muscular flesh of his biceps. “Hurry, Lance! He’s had another attack, and I--I think he might be dead!”
Lance’s gaze shot toward the Big House before swinging back to the gathering group of concerned men. “Red and Frank, ride into town and get Doc Tanner. Cookie and Stick, come with me.”
He was already moving toward the corral’s split-log fence. As he slung orders, each man instantly obeyed, responding to his authority without question. His hand reached out and took Sonnie’s, pulling her with him toward the fence in a shortcut back to the Big House.
He bent and slipped between the rails ahead of her. Battling her skirts, she followed with as much grace as she could manage. Once through the fence, she was hard-pressed to keep up with him.
“Where is he, Sonnie?” Lance asked at the back door.
“In the office,” she said.
He pushed her ahead of him. She scurried through the kitchen and down the hall and found her father just as she’d left him.
Still. So very still.
Lance dropped to a knee beside him and immediately pressed his fingers to her father’s neck. Sonnie’s gaze clung to Lance’s grave features for a sign of what she feared the most.
“He’s alive.” Lance’s glance lighted on her briefly before he turned his attention to loosening Papa’s collar. “His pulse is weak but steady.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Find the nitroglycerin, Sonnie,” he said, making a terse gesture toward the menagerie of medicine strewn about the carpet.
She found the appropriate bottle and tapped a mound of pills into her palm.
“How many?” Her hand shook.
“One. Just one. Take a deep breath, Son.”
She did and felt better for it. She slid the remainder of the pills into their container and capped it.
His control soothed her panic. She thanked God he was there.
“I’ll tip his head back and keep his mouth open. You put the pill under his tongue,” he said.
She held the medicine between two fingers and did as he told her. The others stood in respectful silence.
“The pill is so tiny. Is it strong enough to save his life?” she asked in a doubtful whisper.
“Yes.” The low, confident timbre of his voice assured her he knew of its power. “The pills are sugar pellets in which a solution of nitroglycerin and alcohol is absorbed. Pretty soon the medicine will strengthen his heartbeat and reduce the pains in his chest. You’ll see.”
His knowledge of the unfamiliar drug impressed her. She trusted him that it would work, that they’d followed the correct procedure to keep his heart pumping.
Still, she awaited the medicine’s cure with bated breath.
Chapter 9
Everyone stood in the yard waiting for her.
Everyone but Lance. He wanted to watch from the nearest livestock barn when the others chose the front lawn of the Big House. He couldn’t tell her good-bye looking dirty, sprinkled with hay and smelling of manure.
She was leaving today. Leaving for a city called Boston located clear across the country. Leaving forever, maybe, and he had no idea when he would see her gain.
If he would see her again.
Worse, she didn’t want to go. He’d found her crying in the garden behind the house. Though she sobbed her despair, he’d been helpless to offer her comfort. In his usual cowardly way, he remained in the shadows and fought the unexpected lump in his throat.
He remembered the arguments she had had with her father. Through the open window, he heard every word of her pleas as she begged, screamed, demanded to stay on the Rocking M.
But Vince had refused.
Lance didn’t know why. How could a father send his daughter to a strange city so far away? How could he deprive her of the clean air, the rich land, the beauty of the Territory? Wyoming was vastly different from Boston. How would she manage?
The cowboys stood in a somber group, their hats in their hands, their conversation scant and subdue. At last she emerged onto the front porch, and Lance couldn’t help sidling just a little closer.
So young, yet so grown-up. Wearing a coat of deep blue wool and trimmed in frothy fox fur, she descended the stairs flanked by her sisters. Vince brought up the rear.
Even from where he stood, Lance could see her red eyes swollen from tears shed not long ago. Yet she walked tall, proud, mature for her youthful age.
Her dignity slipped, however, in the group of men. Hugging each one in turn, she cried openly as she bade them farewell. The work-hardened cowboys swallowed hard, rendered emotional by the beautiful wisp of a girl they’d all come to love.
Too soon, she climbed into the waiting buggy. Vince was the last to board the rig. From over the hatted heads of his men, his gaze found Lance’s, and he halted.
It seemed to Lance he waited for som
ething, an unspoken message of approval, perhaps. Or assurance that the all-powerful Vince Mancuso had done the right thing in sending his sixth daughter away.
But Lance could give him nothing. For years, he had been convinced that Vince could do no wrong, that every decision he made was the right one. Today, though, Vince had fallen off his pedestal. With regard to Sonnie, he had failed in the worst way.
Filled with disgust, Lance spun on his heel and walked away.
* * *
Papa’s lids quivered and opened; a faint degree of color infused his ashen pallor. His eyes were glazed and confused.
He stared up at her. A sheepish smile formed beneath his thin mustache. “Guess I passed out, eh, mia bambina?”
“You did, Papa. And gave me the scare of my life, too,” she admonished softly.
“Shouldn’t have . . . gone out with Tom.” A wheezing groan escaped with the admission.
“One of these days you’ll learn to listen to me, Vince,” Lance said.
Her father’s head swiveled against the floral carpet. His smile faded. “Too used to giving orders . . . not taking ‘em.”
“That’s going to change.” Lance gestured to the sober-faced men standing aside. “Help me get him to his room. It’ll be a while before the doc gets here.”
With the care normally reserved for the handling of a newborn infant, they lifted Vince from the floor and carried him to his bedroom. Sonnie ran ahead and pulled down the quilts on the bed, fluffed the pillows, and lighted a lamp.
“Okay, lay him down easy.”
Under Lance’s direction, her father was settled upon the mattress with great care. Charlie removed the expensive boots; Lance draped the covers over him.
“Reckon you ain’t gonna be out ridin’ fer a spell, Mr. Mancuso,” Cookie predicted.
“Best that you stay right here till you’re feelin’ like new again,” Stick said, his young features serious.
Papa managed a weak smile. “I don’t think . . . Lance and Sonnie will let me leave this room till I am. Thanks for your help, boys.”