by Pam Crooks
“It’s a long story.” He sagged against the jamb and hooked a thumb into his waistband. His gaze roamed the room, dwelled briefly on the large metal tub and the clothing spread on the bed, then drifted leisurely over her from head to toe.
A crooked grin crept across his lips. “Ah, Sonnie. You are a sight for sore eyes.”
She was uncertain whether he meant to compliment her appearance or if his afternoon had been so harrowing, he was truly glad to see her.
She extended her arm and beckoned him inside. “You must hurry. Mr. Horn is here and has already called for me.”
He straightened and pulled the door shut behind him.
“Let him wait.” He tossed his hat into a nearby chair.
Her gaze riveted to him unbuttoning his shirt. Corded, bronzed flesh appeared beneath-the parted fabric. He pulled the shirt free from his waistband. Her pulse tip-tapped.
“I’ve readied a bath for you,” she said, needing to explain her presence in his room.
“I noticed.” He shucked the cotton garment and hurled it onto the chair with his hat. “Thanks.”
Muscles rolled and tumbled over his back and shoulders. Sonnie stared, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe around the odd tightening in her throat.
He reached for the top button of the Levi’s, and, knowing he intended to remove those as well, she sucked in a sudden breath.
“You won’t enjoy a bath in cold water,” she said, moving toward the door. “I’ll get a maid--.”
“Don’t bother.” His hand curled around her upper arm when she would have passed him. Her gaze flew upward to his.
The air sizzled with incandescent awareness. His touch ignited spirals of budding warmth deep inside her.
“I could get used to this, you know,” he murmured, the whiskey-shaded depths of his eyes darkening to a smoldering hue. “Having a beautiful woman waiting at the end of the day, ready to take care of me.” A corner of his mouth lifted, as if he were reluctant to make the admission. “I like having you here with me, Sonnie.”
She liked it, too, more and more with every ticking second. The pleasurable feel of his work-roughened palm upon her bare skin stole a proper reply. His scent surrounded her, a masculine scent of horse and leather and tobacco.
And a woman’s perfume.
Her lashes lowered, her chin lifted, and she pulled away. He’d been with Gracie, after all. The certainty stung.
“I only hoped to save you the time of doing it yourself,” she said, keeping her back to him as he stepped away. “I had no inkling when you’d return.”
“Ditson held me up.”
The mattress springs squeaked. The bootjack thudded upon the floor. Preferring his explanation of the afternoon’s events to thoughts of Gracie, she turned around again.
“What happened?”
He tugged off each boot, peeled away his woolen socks, and launched into a clipped explanation of the failed arrest despite the proof he offered to police Chief Hitchler. Frustration laced his words and drew her instant sympathy.
“You did all you could, Lance. This same case would have brought a swift conviction in Boston.” She lifted a shoulder helplessly. “It’s just different out here in the West.”
“A law is a law, Sonnie.” He rose from the bed. “No matter which part of the country it’s made for.”
He undid the rest of the buttons of his Levi’s, and her eyes widened at his disregard of his own modesty. She abandoned the conversation, spun, and faced the wall to preserve it for him.
“You are far too bold, Lance Harmon,” she exclaimed in exasperation and recognized the sound of denim dropping to the floor. “Stripping down buck naked in front of a lady is not the behavior of a gentleman!”
His mirth encircled her.
“I reckon if a lady is in a man’s hotel room when he’s dirty and hard-pressed for time, she wouldn’t mind if he used the bath she’s readied for him.”
From behind her, the water lapped and splashed against the sides of the tub.
“Damn!” He hissed a swift breath inward.
“I warned you it would be cold.” Her lofty declaration softened her embarrassment and carried a vein of amusement to match his.
She dared a peek in his direction. He sat in the water, his knees propped against the sides of the tub. He glanced at her wryly. “Since you find this bath of mine so funny, maybe you’d like to get in and help me warm the water?”
Her heart thundered at his implication. She couldn’t recall his speaking to her with such intimacy before.
This provocative side of him quite unsettled her.
“There isn’t room for both of us, and you are out of line in making the suggestion, Boss Man,” she said with a toss of her coiffed head. “I’d best leave while my honor is intact.”
He chuckled heartily, filling the air with the pleasant sound.
“Come on, Sonnie. Don’t go gettin’ uppity on me. Stay and tell me about Vince.”
She should leave. She truly considered it. Her staying in his hotel room would have thrown Aunt Josephine into a dead faint. Papa would’ve blasted her with a scolding and a fierce frown of displeasure.
But she could think of no man she’d be safer with than Lance. Or whose company she’d enjoy more.
She stayed. While he made short work of his bath and hair washing, she kept her gaze primly averted and busied herself at his dresser mixing shaving soap and water, laying out his razor, tooth powder, and brush.
She told him of getting her father checked into County Hospital and the care Doc Tanner intended to give him, the tests he’d make and the medications needed to treat the pneumonia. Lance listened, asking questions now and again.
Afterward he left the tub, dried himself, and padded barefoot to pause at her side. Their conversation ceased. Of its own accord, her gaze found the droplets of water lingering about his shoulders and chest and the areas he’d missed with the towel. His hair was tousled and wet. He smelled of freshness and soap.
Her pulse pattered a fast beat. She dropped her gaze even lower.
The scrap of linen he’d wrapped about his lean waist failed to hide the bulge marking his blatant masculinity. He wore nothing beneath, and the knowledge rocked her restraint. She knew a sudden, bold desire to pluck the towel from his body and give in to her virginal curiosity.
She took a step back and nearly stumbled on the brocade train. She couldn’t trust herself to keep from touching him in places she must not.
“Mr. Horn probably thinks I’ve deserted him. I’ve not yet finished my toilette, you see, so I really should return to my room now and. . . finish.”
His tawny brow quirked at her sudden move to leave.
“I’ll join you there in a few minutes,” he said. “We’ll go downstairs together.”
Managing to nod in agreement, she left. Once she was inside her own quarters, a ragged sigh escaped her, and she strove to mend her tattered wits.
* * *
A full half hour later, Lance knocked upon her door. She bade him enter, and at the sight of him, her newfound poise evaporated in a poof.
The worsted suit fit him with a tailor’s perfection, its black fabric and weave accenting his height and lean build. Beneath the vest, the white shirt looked crisp and stark against his tanned throat, and Sonnie feared that the evening would be far longer than she ever anticipated.
“Ready?” he asked, approaching with the agile grace so much a part of him. Indeed, the man was a pleasure to see in motion.
In his haste, he’d formed an uneven bow in the suit’s narrow black tie.
“Here,” she said, moving closer to pull it loose. “Let me fix this for you.” He stood perfectly still, keeping his chin tilted high to allow her access. Her fingers worked nimbly to reshape the bow, and she eyed the end result with satisfaction. “There. Much better.”
He gazed down at her with a burning intensity that held her frozen. The bay rum cologne upon his just-shaved skin swirled about her se
nses and restoked the desire she thought she’d banked. She longed to touch him, to run her fingers through his damp hair. She wanted to kiss him and feel him hold her tight against the rock-hard warmth of his chest.
But that was foolish. And there was no time.
“We have to go,” she said, her voice whisper soft between them. “Mr. Horn is waiting.”
“Yeah.” Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded.
He wanted to stay, too. He longed for the same things she did. She knew it as surely as if he’d spoken the words aloud.
He stepped away from her. “Gracie’s waiting, too.”
An ironic arrangement for the evening, Sonnie thought. Tonight she would be with Mr. Horn. Tonight Lance would be with Gracie.
A disappointingly ironic arrangement.
* * *
The gunfighter was not pleased with their tardiness.
In the hotel dining room, which was gaudy with mounted buffalo and mountain sheep heads, Sonnie used her brightest smile to coax away his irritation.
Lance offered a cool apology, took full blame, and ordered the proprietor to charge all Horn’s drinks to the Rocking M’s bill. The gesture soothed his ire, and they left the Railroad Hotel to pick up Gracie with the air cleared between them.
Cookie drove the stagecoach, and Horn staked his place on the tufted leather seat beside Sonnie, leaving Lance to occupy the opposite seat by himself. Under different circumstances, the man’s stubborn possessiveness would have forced Sonnie to keep a haughty distance, but this time she made an exception.
She had to, for Papa’s sake.
She allowed him to put his arm about her shoulders and hold her hand. She did not object when he leaned close and murmured suggestively in her ear. She did not pull away when his liquor-tainted breath stroked her cheek and neck.
Because Papa had asked her to. Because Papa needed her help. Because he needed Tom Horn, as much as the Rocking M needed him.
But, during the ride to Gracie’s house, she knew Lance’s displeasure, sensed his shadowed disapproval. He didn’t like the part she played any better than she did herself.
Therefore she kept her eyes averted from him. It was easier that way.
O’Neil Street ran along Union Pacific’s railroad tracks and delved into one of the poorer neighborhoods in Cheyenne. The elegant stagecoach seemed out of place among the shabby homes and scruffy lawns. Mongrel dogs raced beside the gold-trimmed wheels and barked their curiosity.
Cookie pulled up in front of a tiny house on the corner. Flower boxes along the two front windows provided color against the whitewashed siding. A fat tomcat sprawled on the top step of the miniature porch. The home’s tidiness suggested to Sonnie that Gracie, despite meager finances, worked hard to maintain a respectable appearance.
At their arrival, a curtain lifted at the window, then dropped back into place. Lance dismounted from the coach and strode toward the house. The tomcat scurried from his perch, and, without knocking, Lance went inside.
Sonnie glanced away on a surge of dismay. He needed no invitation. He entered Gracie’s home as easily as he entered the Big House.
Their relationship stirred a boiling pot of questions she longed to have answered. He was certainly entitled to Gracie’s company, she assured herself. They were friends, had been for a long time. It was perfectly understandable that he’d be comfortable enough to go into her house without a proper knock.
But how deep did their friendship go?
How intimate?
Lance emerged with Gracie on his arm. He assisted her into the rig, then eased his long frame into the empty leather seat beside her.
At once, the coach filled with her flowery perfume, the same scent Sonnie had noticed on Lance at the hotel. He made introductions, and Gracie, her red-lipped smile wide and appealing, reached over and shook the gunfighter’s hand first.
“Glad to meet you, Tom,” she said, slipping into the familiarity of using his first name immediately. “I hear you can pack a mean gun when you set your mind to it.”
Sonnie’s eyes widened at her forward way of speaking. But Mr. Horn laughed outright and held her hand longer than was necessary.
“My reputation precedes me, I see.” He tossed an ambivalent glance toward Lance. “Or has Harmon been talking me up to you?”
She pulled away and gave Lance a playful nudge. “Lance never tells me nothin’ he thinks I don’t need to know. I have an eatery in town, and I hear all about the rustlin’ problem from my customers. There’s some that’s hopin’ you’ll help the cattlemen.”
He shrugged, his expression vague. “Not sure yet. I’ll decide tonight.”
Gracie turned toward Sonnie. For the first time, Sonnie realized the woman was older than she’d assumed. Face powder and rouge accented the beauty lingering from her younger days. Gracie Purcell could hold her own with any man, and Sonnie could easily see her being a friend of Lance’s.
“Miss Mancuso.” The greeting unexpectedly formal, Gracie thrust a chapped, stubby-nailed hand toward her, and beneath Sonnie’s gloved one, it had a slight tremble.
Gracie was nervous, and Sonnie knew she was the cause.
“Please call me Sonnie,” she said softly, hoping to put her at ease.
“Been wantin’ to meet you for some time now,” Gracie said, pulling her hand away and clutching her fringed, crocheted shawl snugly about her generous bosom. “The boys from your pa’s outfit talk about you with real reverence. So does Lance.”
Sonnie’s glance slipped toward him. She wanted to ask Gracie everything he’d ever said about her. He leaned back in the corner of the coach, his long arm resting on the seat behind Gracie’s dark brown head. His brow rose at her questioning look.
“You’re too kind,” she murmured, returning her attention to the other woman. “I’ve been gone a long time.”
“I know. But that don’t stop ‘em from talkin’ about you.”
“I see.”
A tight silence followed. Sonnie doubted Gracie had ever lacked for conversation until now, and she felt responsible. They had nothing in common--with the exception of Lance--and Sonnie’s mind groped for a topic to talk about, but failed.
Mr. Horn dipped his head close to hers and indicated something outside the stagecoach’s window. His query forced her to concentrate on a suitable, flirtatious reply, allowed her to ignore how Gracie sidled next to Lance in what could only be described as a snuggle, and immerse in quiet conversation with him, but it could not help her forget that she would much rather trade places and snuggle next to him herself.
And, most startling, with every turn of the stagecoach’s wheels as they made their way to the exclusive Cheyenne Club, Tom Horn and Gracie Purcell made Sonnie realize she had fallen in love with Lance Harmon.
Chapter 13
Lance had often thought the prestigious Cheyenne Club should be located somewhere more affluent than the dusty, curbless corner of Seventeenth and Dodge. Unmindful of the ungraded streets and less pompous buildings surrounding it, the two-story clubhouse presided in regal splendor and offered an oasis of opulence, companionable pleasure, and dining in a Western frontier desert. Men of prominence paid lofty entrance fees and annual dues to have their expensive tastes satisfied, and they lingered long and often within its walls to be entertained and pampered in high style.
Though he found equal comfort with a bedroll in front of a campfire, Lance enjoyed going as much as anyone. The luxurious atmosphere provided a change of pace from the rigors of cattle season, and when not staying at the more humble Railroad Hotel, he took one of the sleeping rooms provided exclusively for members. Many times he and Vince had conducted lucrative ranch business with a glass of Rum St. Cruz in one hand and a Reina Victoria cigar in the other.
The stagecoach drew up alongside sleek landaus and broughams and parked. Through the window, Sonnie stared at the handsome redbrick structure with its numerous chimneys, mansard roof, and tower.
“So this is the Cheyenne Club,” she said
softly.
Lance had to smile at her awe. She must have frequented resorts of the same caliber during her worldly travels, and having been a part of the Club since its beginning, he felt ridiculously pleased that she found this one just as impressive.
“There’s nothing like it for miles,” he said.
“I’ve never been inside,” said Gracie, adding her gaze to Sonnie’s. “I’ve always wanted to rub shoulders with rich society people. Now here’s my chance.”
“So what are we waiting for?”
With a flourish, Horn opened the door and stepped down, lending assistance to both women.
“What time do you want me to come fer y’all?” asked Cookie, peering down at them from his perch on the box.
“Make it eleven,” Lance replied, the last to leave the coach. He tugged on the cuff of his shirtsleeve. “The meeting and dinner should be finished by then.”
“Okay, Boss. See you later.”
The old cowboy caught Sonnie’s eye and gave her an encouraging wink. Her glance skittered toward Gracie before touching upon Lance; then she looked away.
Lance wondered at their exchange. Horn took her elbow and led her toward the wide stairwell leading to the clubhouse entrance. Lance bristled at the gunfighter’s claim upon her as well as Sonnie’s calm acceptance of it.
From within the confines of the stagecoach, he’d been forced to watch them together. He knew her intent, her need to please her father, but how far would she let the man go?
And who the hell did Horn think he was that he treated her with the same familiarity as a lover? One overly bold move on Horn’s part would give Lance swift cause for a well-deserved punch. He’d deliver it with pleasure, and he didn’t give a damn what Vince wanted.
Gracie tugged on his arm and pulled him out of his resentment. He realized Sonnie and Horn waited on the veranda; he fell into step with Gracie to join them.
“She’s more beautiful than I thought she’d be,” Gracie declared quietly as they climbed. “She makes me feel like an old spinster.”
Lance saw Horn bend close and adjust the diamond-and-pearl ornament in Sonnie’s hair. She laughed softly at something he said, and Lance’s jaw tightened.