by Pam Crooks
“You mean Sonnie?” He tried to remember what Gracie was talking about.
“Yes, I mean Sonnie.” Exasperation flitted across her powdered face. “If you’d quit gawking at her long enough, you’d understand.”
“Sorry.” His hand covered hers in apology.
“Ever since you called for me, you’ve hardly taken your eyes off her.”
“I worry about her with Horn.”
“He’s been a perfect gentleman,” she defended.
“He’s not in her league. He’ll try anything,”
They reached the veranda, and Gracie snorted a disagreement but made no further comment.
“Shall we go inside?” Sonnie asked.
A cool smile tarried on her full lips. Her glance dropped to where his hand rested over Gracie’s. He heard the vague challenge in her too-polite query and pulled his hand away.
But before he could reply, Gracie stopped dead in her tracks.
“I can’t go in there.”
The three of them turned toward her in surprise.
“Look at the ladies,” she said with a hint of alarm, indicating the well-heeled couples milling about. “They’re dressed like queens. I’ll never fit in.” She appealed to Lance. “I can’t go inside. I can’t.”
“Oh, Gracie,” Sonnie murmured, moving closer. “You look lovely. Nobody will think--.”
“Yes, they will.” She wouldn’t budge. “I won’t know what to do or say. My dress is old, and I’m not near as fancy as you. I’m not wearin’ diamonds or furs or even a stupid pair of gloves.”
“Take mine then.” Setting her satchel on the veranda floor and tucking her tiny beaded purse under one arm, Sonnie began tugging off the ivory leather gloves finger by finger. “They’ll make you feel elegant. And look, all the ladies are wearing them.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t.” Gracie’s eyes were wide as saucers.
“I want you to keep them, truly. I have a dozen more pairs at home.”
“Miss Sonnie . . . ” Her voice trailed off in indecision.
Sonnie resolutely pried Gracie’s hands from their tight grip on her shawl.
“I’ll help you put them on. See? They fit you nicely.”
“I’ve never had a pair that go clear past my elbows before,”
“And they match the lace on your dress. Your shawl, too. They’re perfect.”
“Miss Sonnie.” Gracie was at a rare loss for words. “Oh, Miss Sonnie. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Sonnie seemed pleased with herself. “Don’t worry about how to act. Just watch me, and you’ll be fine.”
“I will.” She drew a big breath. “I guess I’m ready now.” Flashing a confident smile, she proceeded ahead of them. Horn hastened to open the doors, and the pair disappeared into the main hall.
“You’ve made a friend for life.” A soft scent of carnations drifted up to Lance’s nose. He longed to nuzzle her close and breathe her perfume forever.
She shrugged and picked up her satchel. “I think she was a little afraid of me at first. Maybe now she won’t be.” Her dark eyes considered him a moment. “Will you be nice to Mr. Horn tonight, Lance?”
His brow quirked. “Nice?”
“Civil,” she amended. “Engage in a normal conversation with him. The two of you hardly spoke the entire time we were in the stagecoach.”
He’d make no promises. “I wish you didn’t have to be with him tonight.”
Her glance flitted away. “And I wish you didn’t have to be with Gracie.”
His heart skipped a beat. The admission caught him off guard. She sounded jealous.
His grin must have looked downright smug, but there was no help for it. Gently he took her warm fingers and settled them in the crook of his arm. Feeling damned satisfied, he escorted her into the clubhouse.
* * *
A skylight breathed dusky illumination into the main hall, which was already brightened by glowing chandeliers. Thick carpets lined the foyer and two additional stairways that connected to a grand piazza graced with stunning Victorian French windows. Women in ball gowns and men in dress suits, many of whom carried drinks dispensed from silver trays by efficient waiters, filled the dining room or strolled about the piazza.
Sonnie murmured her pleasure at the scene. Lance paused and let her take it all in, pointing out now and then certain acquaintances of her father’s. Though Gracie noticed their arrival, she made no attempt to join them, seeming happy enough to converse with Tom Horn in Lance’s absence.
And that suited him fine. Sonnie’s beauty and dignity set her apart from the other women present. She was a picture of demure femininity, and Lance reveled in the opportunity to be with her.
From across the hall, the Club’s steward hailed them and rushed over.
“Ah, Monsieur Harmon. We have been expecting you,” he said, the greeting heavily accented with French. “I am so relieved you have arrived. Your journey went well?”
“Fine, Francois. We came in this morning,” Lance replied. “Is everyone here?”
“Yes. They are waiting for you to start the meeting. Please, mademoiselle. Let me take your wrap.” He helped Sonnie remove her gray-blue hooded cape, then stepped back and beamed in approval. “This is Vince’s daughter, no?”
Lance nodded. “Sonnie, Francois De Prato. He takes good care of all us here at the Club.”
“Enchante, Monsieur De Prato,” she said in French, and inclined her head with the salutation.
The steward exclaimed in delight and replied in turn. Lance, not understanding a single word, listened with fascination and marveled at Sonnie’s ease with the language.
“You two must hurry,” Francois said finally. “You will come to dine after the meeting, no? We have many delicacies on the menu.”
“We’ll be there,” Lance replied. “Is everyone in the reading room?”
“Yes. If you need anything, I will help you.”
“Thanks, Francois.”
After the steward left, Lance took Sonnie’s elbow.
“He’s smitten,” he said under his breath, guiding her toward Gracie and Horn. “Just like the rest.”
She blinked up at him in surprise. “You’re addled to say such a thing.”
“Just wait.” He chuckled wryly. “This place is full of men. You’ll conquer nearly all of them before the night is through.”
“Think so?” She lifted her chin pertly. “Too bad. There’s only one I’m interested in.”
Her retort blocked out any further thought. He was afraid to read his own wants and hopes in her words.
Most likely he would only be disappointed in the end.
* * *
Sonnie was the only woman seated around the reading room’s long walnut table. Straight-backed and proper, she retrieved Vince’s notebook from her satchel and acted as secretary of the Stockmen’s Association in his place, recording the Executive Committee’s minutes in a precise, competent manner.
Gracie had pursed her painted lips and declined to attend with them. She told Lance she’d rather not waste her precious time at the Cheyenne Club sitting through a boring meeting that had nothing to do with her, that she would much rather mingle and make small talk with the rich. It made her feel respectable.
Thus assured, Lance and Horn had escorted Sonnie in, and in the generous hour since passed, Lance conceded that the meeting had definitely taken a boring turn. Senator Hickman held the floor, centering his discussion around passage of a legislative bill he’d introduced and that Lance had long since lost interest in. They hadn’t yet touched on the subject of range detectives, and he could only hope the item was next on the agenda.
Tom Horn appeared equally indifferent. Since he was not a member of the Association, he couldn’t participate in the meeting, but as Lance’s guest he could sit in on the proceedings. He spent the duration fiddling with a toothpick; the other cattlemen fidgeted in their seats, dozed complacently, or simply stared out the heavy-draped windows. Only Sonnie
and the Stockmen’s Association’s president, John Carlisle, gave the senator their undivided attention.
Lance’s stomach growled its hunger, and he craved a drink. Past the point of unwillingness to disrupt the meeting, he leaned toward Sonnie.
“Want something from the bar?” he whispered.
She dragged her gaze from Hickman and smiled, seeming to understand his restlessness.
“Yes, water, please,” she whispered back.
On the other side of her, the gunfighter’s brow raised in curiosity. She discreetly repeated the offer to him; he gave Lance a comradely grin of gratitude, and Sonnie passed his reply back.
Glad for the opportunity to stretch his legs, Lance left his chair and headed toward the ornate bar set up in the back of the room. Generally, Club rules prohibited beverages in the reading room, but Francois made an exception for tonight’s meeting. As quietly as possible, he poured two shot glasses of whiskey, then reached for the carafe of water.
The door burst open and-Clay Ditson boldly walked in. Francois, looking aghast and frazzled, followed on his heels. All heads turned at the intrusion. Tom Horn sat straighter in his chair, and the senator’s lengthy oration sputtered to a stop.
Lance stood stock-still. What the hell? Ditson should be in jail. How had he posted bond so fast?
Because of Lance’s partially hidden stance behind the bar, Ditson hadn’t seen him. Prudently, Lance set the carafe down.
“I beg your pardon, sir!” the Association’s president said in a huff, rising from his chair. “We are conducting a meeting here!”
“I know it. I been waitin’ nigh an hour to get in so’s I can talk to you,” Ditson declared.
“Forgive me, Monsieur Carlisle,” Francois begged. “He would not listen to me. I could not stop him from . . . from barging in here like a stung bull!”
The group’s president thinned his lips in barely concealed outrage.
“Thank you, Francois. I think we have enough manpower to handle this . . . gentleman from now on. Go on with your duties.”
The steward was noticeably relieved to have Ditson taken off his hands. Seeing Lance at the bar, Francois rolled his eyes and shook-his head, then made a swift departure from the room.
Even from where he stood, Lance could tell Ditson needed a good wash. He still wore the same new clothes and the ridiculous green hat from earlier in the day, the very outfit he’d worn to the stockyards and later in jail, and now inappropriate in a place like the Cheyenne Club. Lance doubted the fool even realized it.
“Now, fellas, don’t go gettin’ your dander up,” Ditson said, his mouth curling in a semblance of a placating, gap-toothed smile. “I ain’t gonna stay long, unless you want me to. I just got a bit of business with you, is all.”
“I can’t imagine what kind of business you’d have with us,” said the senator with a sniff.
“I wanna join the ‘ssociation. Long’s I’m at it, I might as well join this here Club, too.”
A gasp of disbelief went around the table.
“Do you honestly think you can storm in here and demand such a thing?” Carlisle’s disdain got the best of him. “Who are you?”
“The man’s name is Clay Ditson, John,” Lance said, stepping from around the bar. “And I can tell you all you need to know about him.”
Ditson’s head jerked, and the feathered hat wobbled. His yellow teeth bared in a snarl. “Harmon, you son of a bitch.”
“Tsk. Tsk. Your first mistake, Clay,” Lance taunted. “Profanity isn’t permitted here.”
The weasel-like eyes narrowed. “I’m gettin’ real tired of you showin’ up every time I turn around. I’m a stockman, same as you and everyone else in here. I got just as much right to belong to the ‘ssociation. The Club, too.”
“You call yourself a stockman?” Lance snapped. “You’re a disgrace to the rest of us.”
“Is his brand registered?” Carlisle asked, more of Lance than Ditson.
“It is,” Ditson defended.
“An artful version of the Rocking M!” Lance retorted.
Collective brows shot up; suspicion set in among the other cattlemen. Everyone present understood what Lance insinuated.
Sonnie’s attention darted from man to man during the exchange. She gripped her pen tightly, her cheeks a tad too pale.
Lance moved toward her.
Tom Horn watched Ditson in amused fascination.
“Where’s your spread?” demanded Carlisle.
Ditson shifted. Beads of perspiration trickled from beneath the hat brim.
“I got me a right good piece of land for my herd out northwest way.” His glare sent daggers of antagonism at Lance.
“So tell them where you squatted , Clay,” he urged almost casually, propping a booted foot onto the padded chair seat next to Sonnie’s. “Tell them how you claimed Silver Meadow and a few hundred head of prize stock grazing there.”
“Perhaps they’d be interested in the poisoned cattle we’ve discovered, as well, Mr. Ditson,” Sonnie said coolly.
“Poisoned cattle!” one of the cattleman exclaimed.
“Silver Meadow?” repeated another. “Mancuso’s?”
“Mancuso ain’t entitled to all them acres of prime land, I’m tellin’ you!” Ditson said in a hiss. “And you!” He rammed Sonnie with his beady-eyed gaze and speared a dirty-nailed finger close to her nose. “Stay out of this!”
“Don’t get near her,” Lance said in a snarl and thrust the man’s arm from her. “Just stay the hell away.”
Several of the cattlemen bolted to their feet.
“What’s this about poisoned cattle, Harmon?” Carlisle demanded. “On the Rocking M?”
“Yes. We’ve lost a dozen head to yellow phosphorus poisoning.”
“There may be more we have yet to discover.” Sonnie speared Ditson with a haughty glare. “The Rocking M is a very large ranch.”
“You can’t pin no poisonings on me!” Ditson spat. “I ain’t done nothin’ of the sort.”
“But you know about them, don’t you?” Lance said softly.
Red fused the sallow, fleshy cheeks. “Don’t accuse me, Harmon, until you got proof, hear me?”
“Get out,” Lance said in a low growl. “You’ve rustled our stock and poisoned our beef. Those are crimes. Maybe the courts won’t put you away, but the Association has the power to destroy you as a cattleman in the state of Wyoming. You’ll never be one of us. Now get out.”
Clay Ditson swept a harsh glance over each person in the room. Slowly he nodded his head at Lance.
“All right, I’ll leave. But I ain’t through.” His voice rose steadily with every word until he nearly shouted his vow. “Y’hear me? I ain’t through till I’ve made you and Mancuso pay for all you’ve taken from the rest of us.” His lip curled in contempt, and he glared at Sonnie. “And that includes Mancuso’s little piece of fluff.”
She froze at his threat. Lance took a warning step forward, but Ditson spun and stormed from the room. Seconds later, the clubhouse door slammed.
“What a lowlife!” muttered Carlisle, easing back down into his chair with a grim shake of his head.
The cattlemen concurred grim agreement.
“Can you see, gentlemen, how we must have stronger laws to stop the rustling problem?” Lance demanded. “It’s industry-wide, not limited to the Rocking M. Juries are against us. Time is against us.” His glance settled on Senator Hickman. “And even the Livestock Commission, with all its power, isn’t enough. We have to take action now to guard our herds against theft. We need range detectives who are not afraid to enforce our laws and whose actions will teach the rustlers and squatters to stay off of our land.”
“Do you have someone in mind for the job, Lance?” the senator asked.
“I do.” From over Sonnie’s head, he looked pointedly at the man sitting next to her. “Mr. Tom Horn.”
The gunfighter steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair.
“Well, now,” he d
rawled. “After seeing Mr. Ditson, I’m wondering how this man can possibly be a threat to someone as powerful as Vince Mancuso.”
His words stunned Lance. “He is, Horn. Damn you.”
“No swearing in the Club, remember?” A lazy smile crossed the gunfighter’s mouth. “C’mon, Harmon. The man is a”--he pursed his lips as if he searched for the proper word without using profanity--“a buffoon.”
Lance leaned forward. “It isn’t just Ditson. He has an accomplice who is even more dangerous than he is. They don’t stop at rustling cattle or poisoning them. They attack stagecoaches, too.” He thought of Sonnie. Of Snake in the wildflowers. “Among other things.”
“One more point to consider, Mr. Horn.” Sonnie’s hand swept outward in a gesture to indicate their elite surroundings. “He managed to get in here, didn’t he? And the Cheyenne Club is very strict about their clientele.”
The room fell silent. A slow, arrogant grin curved Horn’s mouth. He stood, took Sonnie’s hand, and dropped a gallant kiss across her knuckles.
“Touché, little lady,” he purred. “You have a right clever way of swaying a man to your kind of thinking.”
“Is that so, Mr. Horn?” she cooed, playing his game.
“It is.” He straightened and extended his hand toward Lance. “Well, Harmon, I’d say you and your fellow cattlemen have a real problem.”
Lance held his breath.
“And I’d be right happy to solve it for you. “
* * *
Sonnie sipped a glass of Zinfandel Claret and reveled in the glory of the meeting’s success. Papa would be most pleased when she told him of Mr. Horn’s agreement.
She scanned the crowded dining room for Lance. He’d left her and Mr. Horn to search for Gracie, and in the time he’d been gone, the gunfighter had regaled her with stories of his past adventures with Apache Indians. Sonnie found the tales rather daunting, if not gruesome in parts; worse, they reminded her of Snake, the only real Indian she’d ever seen in her life, and he was quite enough. She had little desire to hear of others.
She listened with only half an ear and continued to watch for Lance. She missed him. She liked being with him. She preferred to sit or stand or talk to him more than any other man in the Club.