by Pam Crooks
But not on Lance. He knew she spoke of Snake and Ditson, of her tumultuous homecoming and the incident in Silver Meadow. Yet again, he regretted putting her in danger.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. She’s stronger than you think,” Charlie said quietly, his gaze keen on Lance, on what he was thinking. “We’re all gonna help you take care of her until this thing is over. Ditson and Snake won’t get to her.”
“Just let ‘em try,” Lance said.
Charlie eyed him. “And if they do?”
He watched the stagecoach pull away toward Cheyenne. His lips spread in a cold, mirthless smile.
“Then I’ll kill ‘em both.”
Chapter 11
It had been pleasant enough, he supposed, now that he thought back on it. Lying with Gracie proved to be enjoyable and enlightening, an experience not without its finer moments. She’d been kind, compassionate, even fun. With her gentle guidance, he’d shed his virginity with dignity, and they parted in amicable friendship.
Lance sprawled on his bedroll and stared into the star-studded sky. He was a man now, in every sense of the word. In a few carnal minutes, he passed over that coveted masculine threshold into a new world, a world brightened from a glimpse into feminine desires and pleasures. With Gracie as his teacher, he learned another lesson in life; in a fleeting flare of passion, a fresh understanding had dawned.
Their coupling had not been perfect. Even though they performed the physical joining as nature intended, with both achieving mutual satisfaction, something was missing. And Lance, with all the wisdom of his twenty-two years, knew exactly what.
Feeling. Emotion. That depth of yearning only a man fiercely in love with a woman had.
He didn’t yearn for Gracie, nor she him. Gracie shared her body as easily as she would a good drink or a hot meal. She expected little in return, only a small token of payment for her time. Denied the warmth of love, she accepted the coldness of lust.
Lance regretted the travesty. She didn’t deserve the loss of a man’s care and affection in her life. But had Mother? Being abandoned by his father, her husband, had left her broken, and Hawthorne’s vile demands had defeated her even more.
The memories sickened him, as they never failed to do when they slipped back into his mind. Was he any better? Did he use Gracie as Mother had been used, to sate his baser appetite?
Maybe. But Gracie knew the score. She was agreeable. She hadn’t suffered from his power. He hadn’t hurt her as Hawthorne and his father had hurt Mother.
No, he was different. He didn’t want a woman in his life, much as Gracie didn’t want a man in hers. He would stay away, refuse himself the love that, at times, he felt he needed. He wouldn’t be vulnerable to a woman’s softness and touch.
As if to seal the vow, he drew in a long, slow breath and held it inside him. Unbidden, the visage of a young, sable-lashed beauty thousands of miles away appeared. He hadn’t seen her for a couple of years, but her memory hovered ever near, haunting him when he least expected it.
Sonnie. His breath left him in a low groan, shattered the vow he just made, and sent the fragments hurtling toward the black Wyoming sky.
* * *
The Mancuso entourage, resonant with its jangle of harnesses and thundering horses, made an impressive entrance into the city of Cheyenne.
From wood-planked boardwalks, townspeople gaped openly at the outriders clustered closely about the polished stagecoach, their rifles in plain sight as they sat straight and somber in their saddles. Awestricken youngsters left their mothers’ sides to run behind, soiling their clothes with the dust raised from the rolling wheels and clomping hooves.
Cheyenne bustled with activity. Through the coach’s window, Sonnie took it all in, enthralled with the changes that had taken place in her absence. False-front buildings had given way to sturdier structures within the business district, and the residential areas she glimpsed bore elegant homes graced with landscaped lawns, wrought-iron fences, and stone walks. The massive cattle industry, despite hard times, distributed its wealth into the city, and Cheyenne benefited from the impact.
As did County Hospital. Newly built at the corner of Twenty-third and Evans, the rambling wood-and-brick facility was a far cry from its beginnings as the tent Sonnie remembered, set up to care for workers building the transcontinental railroad. The hospital would easily rival any in Boston, and she found herself duly impressed by its size and modem appearance.
The stagecoach halted at the front door. Doc Tanner, watching for their arrival, descended the stairs with a nurse at his side. Papa gave them a halfhearted wave and grumbled under his breath his displeasure at having to stay.
“Papa,” cajoled Sonnie, taking the afghan from his lap and setting it aside. “Doc knows what’s best for you. He’ll give you special care here. In a few days’ time, you’ll feel much stronger.”
“I could get stronger at the ranch,” he rasped, fighting back a cough. “Don’t have to come . . . all the way to the city for what I could get at home.”
“Promise me you won’t be difficult.” Her patience was strained from his stubborn repetition of the argument. “You’ll frighten the nurses.”
“Pah! Don’t need ‘em, anyway.”
“Papa!”
Lance opened the coach door, and Sonnie’s exasperated gaze met his. He glanced at Vince, then back at her, and his amber eyes glinted in silent understanding.
“I’ll help you down, Vince.” He extended a long, muscular arm toward him. “Doc’s waiting.”
“Indeed, I am,” the doctor said in a cheerful voice as he drew closer. He politely acknowledged Sonnie and nodded toward her father. “Have a good trip, my friend?”
“Fine, fine,” Papa mumbled. Leaning heavily on Lance’s strength, he managed the step down with slow care. Once on the ground, he frowned and rapped his cane against the wheelchair Doc brought.
“I’m not using that damn thing, Ed. I can walk in on my own feet.”
Nonplussed, Doc gestured to the smiling nurse, and she hastened to remove the offensive chair.
“Sure, you can.” He nodded, placating him as if he were an obstinate child. He took Papa’s elbow and, with the adroitness of years of experience with difficult patients, led him toward the entrance. “Have you had a tour of the hospital yet, Vince? Grand facility. When you’re feeling up to it, we’ll show you around.”
Both men headed toward the stairs. Sonnie accepted Lance’s assistance from the coach, and she contemplated Papa’s retreating back.
“He’ll have the staff in a tizzy before day’s end,” she said.
“They’ll know how to handle him,” Lance said, his low voice bearing traces of amusement.
“But he can be so overbearing. He’s not used to someone telling him what he can and can’t do.” She sighed and watched both doctor and patient disappear inside the hospital doors.
Lance made no further comment. Puzzled that he didn’t, she twisted and found his gaze pinned at some point in the distance.
Her own followed. From over her head, he studied two men on horseback, one of whom Sonnie recognized as Tom Horn. They drew closer, and the cluster of Mancuso riders parted, allowing them closer access.
Lance’s hand rested easily on the small of her back.
“Been expecting to hear from you, Horn,” he said, his tone crisp. “Where’ve you been?”
“Glad to see you, too, Harmon.” He ignored Lance’s demand and flashed an arrogant grin at Sonnie instead. He leaned forward. “My, you’re lookin’ especially pretty today.”
Her father expected her to treat Tom Horn in a demure-but decidedly feminine-manner. Still, Sonnie knew of Lance’s dislike of him. Indeed, she harbored no love for the man herself and refused to be swayed by his charms.
“Thank you, Mr. Horn,” she said and managed a smile.
He sat straighter in his saddle and indicated his friend. “John Coble, from the Iron Mountain Ranch. John, meet Sonnie Mancuso and Lance Harmon, from th
e Rocking M.”
Lance inclined his head in greeting. “We’ve met. Our spreads are next to one another. John, Sonnie is Vince’s youngest.”
“That a fact?” Coble asked, and touched a finger to his hat. “Glad to meet you, ma’am.”
“Likewise, Mr. Coble.”
“Been stayin’ up there with his outfit,” Horn went on in delayed response to Lance’s initial question. “Today’s the first I’ve left his place, else I’d ‘a gotten word to you sooner.”
“Good of you to find the time for us now,” Lance said, the taunt smooth and cool.
His eyes narrowed a fraction, but the gunfighter let it pass. “We got us a meeting to go to tonight, don’t we, Sonnie?”
Despite all the preparation she’d put in for this evening, she remained uneasy at the thought of being in his company. She quashed the feeling, for Papa’s sake.
“Yes, we do.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven. What hotel you stayin’ at?”
Lance’s hand slid up her spine and settled over her shoulder in definite masculine possession.
“The Railroad Hotel,” he said.
She didn’t mind him answering for her. His touch was most distracting, whether for its rarity or its pleasure, she wasn’t sure.
“Gonna be joinin’ us, Harmon?”
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
Sonnie glanced at him in surprise. He hadn’t mentioned going to the meeting before.
“Good enough,” Horn drawled. “We’ll make it a foursome.” His eyes found Sonnie and raked over her in brazen appraisal. Lance’s fingers tightened over her shoulder. “Until later, little lady.”
She inclined her head. “Mr. Horn.”
With that, he and Coble reined their mounts around the stagecoach and leisurely departed down the street.
“I didn’t know you were attending,” Sonnie murmured, watching the pair halt in front of the closest saloon, dismount, and saunter inside.
“You think I’d let you go alone? Horn’ll have you in bed first chance he gets.”
Taken aback, Sonnie stared at him, then tossed her head.
“Not if I have any say-so in the matter,” she sniffed.
“He wouldn’t give you a chance.”
“Papa knows I can handle him.”
“Papa knows to expect too much from you,” he retorted, and nudged her toward the hospital’s doors.
She pursed her mouth at his words. His presence would be valuable, she conceded inwardly. An asset. He would help if she needed it.
She considered him a moment. “Who are you taking?”
He shrugged. “I’ll ask Gracie.”
Gracie. He’d mentioned her once before to Papa as a woman better suited to accompany Tom Horn than she. Sonnie frowned.
“She’s a friend of mine,” he added, glancing at the sky, seeming to gauge the time of day by the sun.
“You’re hardly giving her enough notice.”
Lance’s mouth quirked. “She’ll be ready.”
“Do you have that effect on women, that they drop what they’re doing to go out with you?”
“Hardly,” he scoffed.
“It’d serve you right if she turned you down, Lance Harmon,” she declared airily, halting at the bottom step. “Any woman in her right mind would demand the courtesy of a proper invitation, with time enough to prepare herself.”
“Gracie’s not like other women.”
His quiet statement stopped her short. She peered up at him, wanting to question him further, finding herself inordinately curious about this unknown lady and the position she held in his life.
“Lance.” Charlie’s softly spoken call prevented it. “Look yonder.” He indicated a mealy-mouthed bay strutting down Evans Street.
Sonnie gasped. Clay Ditson.
Smoking a cigar as if he didn’t have a care in the world, he sat in the saddle like a pompous member of royalty. His clothes appeared new; fold creases were evident in his cotton shirt and dark, stiff-looking Levi’s. Seeing him again spawned a fresh wave of revulsion and brought back the memory of her recent encounter with Snake.
Lance’s eyes grew cold with contempt. Sonnie sensed his impatience, his need to take care of unfinished business.
“I’ll get Papa admitted and settled in his room,” she said.
He hesitated, clearly remembering what had happened in Silver Meadow.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, understanding. “I’ll see you at the hotel later this afternoon.”
“All right.” He nodded curtly and swept his glance over his men. “Cookie. Jake. Stay with her until she’s ready to leave her father, then get her checked in at the Railroad Hotel. Wait there. The rest of you, come with me.”
In sudden trepidation of what might lay ahead for him, Sonnie reached out her hand and caught his. A run-in with Ditson would only bode ill. “Be careful, Lance.”
He gave her a slow grin, one that was a little wild, a little reckless, but very sexy. “I will, Son.”
He squeezed her fingers in farewell, then mounted his sorrel. Taking the lead, he guided the men down Evans Street in Clay Ditson’s wake.
From the stagecoach’s box, Cookie jumped to the ground, then stretched his legs and arched his back. “They’re gonna be gone a spell. Reckon someone in that there fancy hospital has a cup of coffee fer an ol’ cowboy like me?”
“I imagine they would,” she said, her gaze clinging to Lance’s retreating back. She tugged it away and forced a smile for Cookie’s benefit. “I’d like one myself.”
“Hey, Jake,” he called to the younger man still on his horse. “Wanna join us?”
“Nope.” Jake tucked a wad of tobacco inside his lower lip. “Gonna stay out here with the rig.”
“Suit yerself.” Cookie shuffled closer to Sonnie. “Dadburned kid has an attitude problem,” he muttered in a disgusted whisper. “A right poor outlook on life.”
“He’s still sulking from Lance’s punishment, I think,” she said, but her thoughts followed a different course. “Cookie, who is Gracie?”
He appeared taken aback. “Gracie Purcell?”
“Is she . . . associated with Lance?”
He nodded. “Has been fer a long time now. She’s got her own place in town. An eatery.”
“Oh.” Sonnie’s spirits fell. She’d always held great admiration for independent women who ran business establishments. She straightened, tilting her nose a little higher. “Is she beautiful?”
He rested a scuffed boot on the bottom step. “She works at it.”
“I see.”
“Lance takin’ her to the Club with y’all?” Though he asked the question, he seemed to already know the answer.
“Yes.”
“Well, I wouldn’t feel left out ‘bout it, Miss Sonnie,” he soothed, patting her shoulder. “Lance isn’t a womanizer. He pretty much stays away from ‘em all. You and Gracie are nigh the only ones he cares fer, and I’d reckon yer at the top of his list.”
Despite his comforting words, Sonnie didn’t believe a single one. She couldn’t compete with someone who’d known Lance much longer, who held his affection, who was mature and respectable and knew life in the West far better than she.
Sonnie regretted the long years in Boston more than ever. True, there’d been her studies. Luxuries and travel. She’d met important people, attended extravagant parties, owned expensive clothes, things Gracie Purcell most likely would never do or have.
But regardless of all that, Gracie held the advantage.
While Sonnie was gone, Gracie had had Lance.
* * *
Cheyenne’s stockyards abounded with the cacophony of bellowing steers, squealing pigs, and bleating sheep, creating an atmosphere appropriate only for a parcel of land situated outside city limits. The noise blended with the stench of manure. Endless pens, loading chutes, and low-roofed sheds crisscrossed the sprawling yards.
Cattlemen milled everywhere. Some intended to increase the size of their
herds or improve their breeding stock; others planned to sell by cashing in on years of hard work and walking away with the profits.
As Clay Ditson intended to do. Only he hadn’t worked worth a damn. And the profits weren’t his to spend.
Lance flung aside his third cigarette in disgust and shifted his position on the pen rail. He was tired of waiting, and it was getting late.
After leaving County Hospital, he and his men followed Ditson at a discreet distance, then were forced to sit while he went into Sadler’s Dry Goods to buy the most god-awful hat any of them had ever seen. It was already eye-blinding in a brilliant shade of green; then he added an oversize peacock feather to the hat-band, and the effect sent them all tumbling into fits of suppressed laughter.
Ditson continued to meander through the city toward the stockyards, the outrageous hat making him an easy target to follow. Not realizing he was being trailed, he appeared to keep an appointment with another cattleman. Lance guessed him to be a foreigner, of English descent judging by his prim suit and jaunty bowler, and totally unaware Ditson attempted to sell him rustled stock.
Mancuso stock.
Lance immediately recognized the fatted Hereford steers and cows in the pen, and though he longed to strangle Ditson for the crime, he held back. He’d make his move when Ditson was ready to cinch the sale; a stay in jail would proclaim the message that Lance had had enough. Though Vince had little faith in the judicial system, Lance believed laws were made for a reason--to be enforced--and he vowed to see Clay Ditson and Snake prosecuted to the fullest extent possible.
“We’ve been waitin’ a long time now, Lance. I got things I gotta be doin’.”
Lance glanced over at Wayne Hitchler, Cheyenne’s police chief for the past six years. Experienced and dedicated, he was the key to stopping Ditson, and he’d passed the time as patiently as the rest of them. Until now.
“Hang on, Wayne. Just a little longer.”
“Lance.” The policeman cleared his throat and peered over the length of pens catawampus from where Ditson and the Englishman conducted their business. “I know how rustlin’ raises your hackles, just like it does every cowman in the country. But the truth of the matter is--.”