In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  His raspy voice betrayed his fatigue, and, in unison, the men glanced at Lance.

  He gave them a silent nod. Touching fingers to their hats, they acknowledged Sonnie and took their leave. Collective boot soles thumped the floor in the hallway; the front door closed with a firm click.

  “They’re very worried about you, Papa,” Sonnie said, moving toward him and sitting on the edge of the mattress. She smoothed the quilt over his chest. “It’s important that you rest and get well again. You have a ranch to run.”

  His gaze flickered past her to where Lance stood at the foot of the bed.

  “I’m puttin’ the Rocking M in your hands, Lance,” he said. “Run it . . . as you see fit.”

  Sonnie went still.

  Had her father considered her for the management of the ranch? After all, she was a Mancuso through and through. Lance wasn’t, and never would be.

  She forced a stiff smile. “Papa, I’m home now. I can assist Lance whenever he needs it. I’ll show you. Both of you.”

  Lance’s eyes rested on her. She could feel the heat, the intensity. She knew it as surely as if she’d turned and faced him.

  But she wouldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t allow him to see the hurt her father’s decision inflicted or the misfortune of her inadequacy as the youngest Mancuso daughter.

  She couldn’t meet his eyes as he watched her beg.

  “Pah.” Vince lifted a hand in a weak gesture of dismissal. “What can you do, Sonnie? It’s a man’s world out here. You know nothing of ranch matters.”

  “I know more than you credit me for. Give me a chance, Papa.”

  “What’s this foolishness I’m hearing from you?” His tone sounded weary, faintly exasperated. “Lance will run the Rocking M. It’s all he’s ever done.”

  “Of course.” Despite the prickles of keen disappointment, she accepted the command. She had to, in light of his illness.

  She stroked his pale cheek. “Rest, Papa. The doctor will be here soon.” The words sounded stilted in the room’s silence. “I’ll be near if you need me.”

  He mumbled a feeble compliance, and his lids closed.

  She was acutely aware of Lance’s presence. Her lashes lowered to keep from meeting his gaze, and she swept aside her skirts to pass him by. A manly blend of tobacco and leather assailed her. His scent. She closed her mind to it, and quickened her steps down the hall, then busied herself in the kitchen lighting lamps to ward off the evening’s shadows gathering in every corner.

  Without looking, she knew when he stood in the doorway.

  “Don’t fight me on this, Sonnie,” he said.

  Her actions faltered. “Fight you?” She feigned ignorance as she retrieved the coffeepot from the top of the stove. “Whatever do you mean?”

  She sensed the tautness in him as he strode closer, his boots striking the wooden floor with a slow, even tread.

  “I’m the logical one to run the ranch. Your father knows that. So does everyone else.”

  “Everyone but me. Is that what you’re saying?”

  From the pump at the sink, she sloshed water into the blue enamel pot.

  “Yes.” He stood a few feet away from her. Oddly, it seemed only a few inches. “You’ve been gone for years. You don’t know the first thing about running an outfit this size.”

  “I’ve studied hard. But because my learning came from a classroom, I’m incapable.” She sliced him with a sharp glance that mirrored the sting of his insinuation.

  “I never said that.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Sonnie, damn it.” Frustration emanated from him. “You’ve led one hell of a pampered life up to now. You’re not ready--.”

  “Pampered! As if I had any choice!” To her dismay, tears welled up and rendered the last word shaky. She spun on her heel to flee him, but his lean fingers caught her upper arm.

  She cried out at a sudden burst of pain. He swore and immediately let her go; his thumb came away with a smear of blood. A rip in the lavender wool of her sleeve gaped open and revealed a seeping gash across her skin.

  “What happened?” He took the coffeepot from her and set it back on the stove.

  Sonnie inspected the wound, feeling its bite now that she knew of it. “The barn door, I think. I was so worried about Papa, I didn’t pay attention when it happened.”

  “Sit down.” He opened a drawer and retrieved a clean length of white cotton.

  “It’s only a scratch,” she protested, still eying the unsightly abrasion.

  “Scratches get infected. Sit.”

  The command in his tone allowed no argument. Crossing the kitchen, she sat in the nearest chair and watched him mix alum and water in a bowl before dropping the cloth into the contents.

  He strode toward her, positioned another chair in front of her, and plucked the cotton cloth from the bowl. He wrung it free of excess water.

  “Pull up your sleeve,” he said.

  Fashion dictated a snug fit from her shoulder to her wrist, and she couldn’t easily bare her arm to his tending.

  She frowned. “I can’t. It’s too tight.”

  He considered the dilemma only a moment. His eyes met hers. The honey-gold depths darkened to a burnished hue.

  “If the sleeve can’t go up,” he reasoned softly. “Then it has to come down.”

  Warmth found her cheeks at what his logic implied, but she could see no other way to allow him access to the wound. “All right, then.” She scooted about on the chair seat and presented him with her back. “Please unbutton me.”

  After a moment’s silence, he cleared his throat.

  “Why?” he asked with a tad more roughness than she suspected he intended.

  She peered at him sideways. “The tiny buttons deal me fits. I can barely manage them on my own.” A rueful pout dipped her mouth. “And my arm is beginning to throb now. It hurts to lift it.”

  The cloth dropped back into the water. Taking the act to be acquiescence, Sonnie scooped the weight of her hair off her nape and waited.

  Just when she thought he’d refuse her his assistance after all, his fingers found the first button at her neck. They hovered for a fraction of a second before working it free; then, with hesitant dexterity, he undid several more.

  The gown sagged against her shoulder blades. Cool air danced over her bare skin. He continued his trek downward, the touch of his fingertips brushing her spine like teasing flourishes from downy-soft leathers, until he came to the lacy satin barrier of her corset.

  A soft curse drifted to her ear.

  “You’ll have to make do with that, Sonnie,” he said, snatching the cotton from the alum solution and wringing it a second time. “I’m not in the habit of undressing women.”

  His sudden gruff temperament unsettled her, and she refrained from arguing that he was hardly undressing her or that it was his idea to pull the gown down in the first place.

  Instead she murmured her thanks and managed to tug the sleeve from her arm, all the while clutching the front of the gown to her bosom in a determined attempt at modesty.

  Not that he was even looking at her.

  “I’m ready,” she said finally, eying the cloth clenched in his fist. She took pity on the thing; he seemed intent on wringing it to shreds.

  He faced her again, and though his tawny brows remained furrowed, the gruffness seemed to have left him. He laid the cloth against the abrasion and applied gentle pressure to stem the seeping blood. The combination of alum and cold water stung the raw tissues, and she sucked in a gasping breath.

  “I know this hurts, Sonnie.” His free hand curled around her elbow, holding her arm still. “But we have to make sure the wound is clean to prevent infection.”

  The task took his full attention, his every touch gentle with compassion. Lean and tanned and dusted with hairs of burnished gold, his hands worked nimbly, efficiently. His sure actions inspired trust, not only in treating her simple wound, but, she guessed, in most anything else as well.


  Had she fallen into the same trap her father had, that of trusting Lance Harmon above anyone else? Hadn’t she run to him when she needed him most? And, in return, hadn’t he responded by taking charge, by being in control, by living up to all she had needed and expected?

  Yes, that and more.

  “Is there nothing you can’t do around here, Lance?” Sonnie asked, her tone pensive.

  Tossing aside the cloth, he applied laudanum to the open wound. The opiatic immediately brought relief from the persistent ache.

  “What I ‘do around here’ took years to learn,” he said. His gaze caught hers. “Years of hard, backbreaking work. Living with risks. And danger.”

  She understood. “Because I’ve been denied all that, you still want to send me back east.”

  The container of laudanum rolled across the tabletop. “Yes.”

  “I won’t go. Not with Papa so sick. You can’t possibly think I would.”

  The strong line of his jaw tightened.

  “No,” he said finally. “We’ll wait until he’s better. Then you’re going.”

  She would see about that. The smug thought acknowledged a small victory and gave Sonnie hope. He’d granted her a measure of time to learn, to take care of her father, and to convince Lance she truly belonged on the Rocking M.

  But, most important, to prove to him she had no intention of returning to Boston.

  Her lips softened in a smile. Reaching out, she trailed a knuckle along his cheek, faintly stubbled with the shadow of a beard.

  “In the meantime, shall we call a truce, Boss Man?” she challenged quietly.

  He seemed unable to resist touching her in return and took her hand. He drew his palm over her wrist to her elbow.

  Sonnie held her breath, transfixed by the sheer tenderness of his caress. He didn’t stop but continued toward her shoulder and onto her back, his work-roughened skin a pleasurable contrast to hers.

  His hand splayed, then slid along her shoulder blade, one side and then the other, before ending his journey at the barrier of her corset. He seemed hungry to explore, to learn the feel of her.

  Her gaze melded with his. She couldn’t pull herself away, though the intimacy of the moment suggested she should.

  He fingered the pink satin ribbons, as if he contemplated undoing them as slowly as he’d undone the back of her dress. Unbidden, the feel of his hard mouth rolling over hers the night before flared in her memory, and she longed to feel him again. His whiskey-shaded eyes, smoldering with the desire he held in check, settled on her lips, and his breathing took on a definite ragged edge.

  “Truce, Sonnie,” he whispered. “But nothing more.”

  He swore softly and pulled away. He rose to his feet and jammed his thumbs into the snug denim pockets at his hips.

  She scrambled for composure. She’d been far too bold. She should never have let him touch her bare skin so freely or to see and feel something as private as her corset.

  But somehow, with him, it was different. The amorous moment invoked no shyness, only the stirrings of a deep need she wanted him to assuage. The memory of last night, and the kiss they’d shared in her bedroom, remained all too vivid.

  She refused to be ashamed of her actions. Though he promised her little, she knew that at times a woman had these feelings about a man, and she knew, too, with absolute certainty, that Lance had the same feelings for her.

  He was just better at hiding them. The man had the control of steel.

  “I fear the torn sleeve has quite ruined my gown.” Grateful for her outward calm, she stood, clutching the lavender wool tightly to her bosom. “I’ll change before Doc Tanner arrives.”

  His eyes still smoldering, his desire still strong, he nodded. Perhaps he didn’t trust himself to speak. Perhaps he felt as shaken as she.

  But for now, it didn’t matter.

  He’d given her more time, after all. Time to restoke the fires he’d banked. Time for the kiss he denied her. Time enough to make him want her so much that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t want to send her away.

  And if she accomplished nothing else during her reprieve, she would accomplish that.

  * * *

  Doc Tanner pulled up in front of the Big House with a squeal of buggy brakes and swirling dust. He dismounted from the black rig and hastened to Vince’s bedside.

  His rank as the Mancuso family’s physician from Sonnie’s eldest sister’s birth on down had fostered a close friendship between the two men. His features, lined from years of devotion to patients, reflected his anxiety.

  He examined Vince thoroughly. Lance kept his distance and quietly watched from the bedroom’s doorway, while Sonnie hovered nearer, speaking in subdued tones, lending her assistance whenever the good doctor needed it.

  At the end of the examination, Vince’s fatigue was evident. Doc Tanner returned his stethoscope to the worn medical bag, reached over, and patted Vince’s hand in companionable reassurance.

  “I’ll leave Sonnie instructions, old friend. Mind you, do what she says. Your heart will need a measure of tender loving care for a spell.”

  A ghost of a smile appeared on Vince’s lips. “Don’t look so worried, Ed. Got no intention . . . of restin’ easy in heaven yet.”

  The doctor snorted in good-natured disagreement. “You’re too stubborn for heaven, Vince. A slow burn in hell would do you some good. Even then, the Almighty would have to do some serious thinkin’ to let you into His part of the country.”

  Lance grinned; Sonnie’s mouth crinkled in amusement. The exchange relieved the room of its somber mood, and Doc rose to take his leave.

  “I’ll check back in a couple of days, Vince,” he said. “I want to see your ol’ ornery self by then, hear me? Until then, take care.”

  Vince’s hand lifted in a limp wave of farewell, and Sonnie preceded Doc from the room. She gifted Lance with a sable-lashed glance and a soft scent of carnations as she passed him.

  He drew in an aching breath and savored it. After a moment, he joined her in the hall.

  “I’m worried,” the doctor said, a frown replacing the teasing countenance he had worn for Vince’s benefit. “I’m certain Vince’s daylong ride in the cold outdoors triggered his attack. He didn’t have the stamina for it.”

  A stab of resentment for Tom Horn’s arrival and Vince’s adulation of him shot through Lance.

  “What are you worried about, Doc?” he asked. “Another attack?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Pneumonia.”

  “Pneumonia!” Sonnie’s hand flew to her breast.

  “I may be fearing the worst, but his lungs don’t sound as clear as they should. Watch him close, Sonnie. If he takes a bad turn, we’ll have to put him in the hospital.”

  Her dismayed gaze touched Lance’s before she nodded to the physician.

  “In the meantime,” he went on. “Motherwort tea is a good remedy if he has heart palpitations. Have him drink it freely.”

  “I will.”

  He donned his hat and buttoned his coat; Lance reached around him and pulled the front door open.

  “It’s good to see you again, Sonnie.” Doc smiled. “Even if it must be under these circumstances. You’ve grown into quite a beautiful woman. Spitting image of your mother.”

  “Thank you.” Her head dipped in courteous acceptance of his compliment. “I’ve been told often of our resemblance.”

  “Well, I must get back to town.” Repeating his promise to make another trip out in two days, he settled himself into his rig and waved good-bye. Lance stood next to Sonnie at the top of the porch stairs, and they watched the buggy drive out of sight.

  “I didn’t realize he was so sick,” Sonnie murmured.

  “None of us did.” He regretted the worry in her voice. “He’s tough. He’ll make it through.”

  The night cloaked them in its chilly embrace, and Sonnie shivered, folding her arms across her chest for warmth. Lance doubted his trite words eased her fretting, and he wished
for the right ones that would bring her comfort. They failed him, and a need to hold her close against him grew in their stead.

  His courage failed him there, as well. He despised his inability to slash away at his fears of getting too close. What man would deny himself her kiss, as he’d done earlier in the kitchen? What man could keep from touching her now, from giving compassion and comfort when she needed it?

  Only a hell of a fool.

  He would hurt her in the end. He couldn’t lose sight of that. Her departure from the ranch, her return to Boston and the distant, sheltered life Vince intended for her was inevitable.

  He took solace in her presence beside him, her nearness a rare pleasure. He couldn’t help reliving the feel of her creamy, smooth skin beneath his fingertips and the inviting warmth of her body. Desire flared anew in his loins.

  She looked up at him, turned his provocative thoughts into a jumble, and gently touched his arm.

  “I’ll go in and read to Papa for a while, Lance. Maybe he’ll sleep easier.”

  “Sure, Son,” he said, his husky voice implying agreement while his heart yearned for her to stay.

  She hesitated, a slight frown on her brow. He expected her to protest his inadvertent shortening of her name.

  She said nothing, however, merely withdrew her hand and stepped away.

  The brief contact numbed his arm. He watched her go, staring at the enticing sway of her hips as she did, and wondered if she still wore the pink-ribboned corset.

  She disappeared inside. Uncomfortable from the growing tautness in his groin, he shifted his stance and reached inside his shirt pocket for a rolled cigarette. In the match’s flare, he noticed Charlie Flynn’s approach.

  “Mind if I bum one off you, Boss?” Charlie climbed the porch stairs and relaxed against a whitewashed post.

  Lance handed him the one he’d just lit and repeated the process with a second. Both men inhaled leisurely, and Lance forced his thoughts away from Sonnie.

  “Where’s Horn?” he asked, propping his foot on the bottom railing. He rested an elbow against his knee.

  “Decided to stay at the Iron Mountain Ranch.” Charlie studied the fiery tip of his cigarette. “Mr. Mancuso came back without him. Said Horn had some friends up there, and he was gonna do some scoutin’ on his own before comin’ back here.”