by Pam Crooks
The knowledge didn’t surprise her. A woman wanted to be with the man she loved. It was only natural and to be expected.
Except that tonight she had to share him with Gracie.
From the general direction of the piazza, he finally appeared with Gracie holding his arm. Sonnie’s heart did a funny flip-flop, and her gaze clung to him as he dodged chairs and people en route to their table.
He made a handsome sight. He would fit in anywhere, she mused. On the back of a horse riding the Wyoming range or among crystal chandeliers and plush carpets in the prestigious Cheyenne Club. He stood a head taller than most, and his grace and agility seemed in contrast to his strength and power. His tawny hair, swept back over his bronzed forehead, glinted beneath the incandescent lighting, and Sonnie’s palms tingled to run through the satiny thickness.
Her hand tightened into a fist. She had no right to want such things. He wasn’t hers to claim.
The oval-shaped table seated four, and he pulled a chair out for Gracie directly across from Sonnie, then settled his lean frame into the one remaining. Gracie, her eyes alight with excitement, sighed loudly.
“What a night! What a wonderful, wonderful night!” she exclaimed.
Sonnie smiled at her enthusiasm. “You sound as if you’re having fun, Gracie.”
“Fun don’t cover it, Miss Sonnie. I’ve never talked to so many hoity-toity people in all my days, and I loved every minute of it. People are actually nice to me! Leastways, polite. I love the ones with accents, those foreigners, you know? I never get them in my eatery. And even if no one wanted to talk, I’d be happy enough just to go around and look at the pretty furniture and rugs and--oh! I could stay forever.”
“Cookie is coming for us at eleven,” Lance reminded her.
“I know, I know.” She grimaced. “Is anyone as warm as I am?” She peered over her shoulder at the radiators along the wall and pulled the crocheted shawl from her shoulders. “They need to shut down the furnace in here.”
Perhaps the plunge of the magenta, lace-edged neckline made it seem as if Gracie possessed the most amply rounded, creamy expanse of bosom Sonnie had ever seen. She couldn’t help taking a discreet peek down at her own and making mental comparison.
Gracie won, no doubt about it.
Sonnie’s breasts were average, enough to need a corset, plenty to fill out a gown’s bodice, but not much more than that. The discovery tweaked her feminine pride. She squared her shoulders just a little to thrust them up a bit.
Men placed great importance on such things as a woman’s breasts, Sonnie mused, unable to stop the flow of her thinking. They found them enjoyable and exciting and pleasurable to touch.
Not that she knew firsthand. No man had ever had the privilege with hers.
But the longing was there more and more often of late. And the more she thought of Lance, the stronger the longing became.
She couldn’t help sliding a covert glance toward him. His gaze touched Gracie in the casual way anyone would make an appreciative perusal of a woman’s gown. Sonnie derived great satisfaction from his indifference.
Far bolder in his appraisal, however, Mr. Horn ran his gaze over Gracie with a lusty glint in his eye. Gracie seemed to know the course of his thoughts, indeed, even encouraged them; she leaned unnecessarily close to speak with him.
The waiter arrived and took their orders. After he left, an amiable mood descended upon them, one far more relaxed than the strained atmosphere in the stagecoach. Spirited conversation circulated about the table with ease.
Lance’s antagonism toward Tom Horn seemed to have faded. Sonnie sensed that his joining forces with the gunfighter against Clay Ditson was responsible, and she welcomed the bonding of their friendship. They would need it before the ordeal was over.
A portly gentleman entered the dining room. His bespectacled gaze scanned the crowd in an apparent search for a seat. After a moment his glance lighted on Lance, and his thick brows lifted.
“I think he knows you, Lance,” Sonnie murmured, trying not to stare at the man. “He’s coming over here.”
“I’ll be damned,” Lance grunted, less discreet in his scrutiny. “It’s that Englishman I told you about.”
“The one Clay Ditson tried to sell our cattle to?”
“The very same.”
“Oh, dear.” She feared another confrontation like the one at the Stockmen’s Association meeting.
“Mr. Harmon. Fancy seeing you here.” Unsmiling, the foreigner halted at their table. He seemed stiff and wary of Lance’s reaction.
Lance rose and extended his hand. “Name’s Lance. Didn’t expect to see you either. Are you staying at the Club?”
He took Lance’s hand in a firm clasp. “I am. As a guest of my friend, Hubert Teschemacher.”
“Ol’ Tesche, eh?” Lance grinned, and Sonnie recognized the name of the Cheyenne Club’s head officer. Papa spoke fondly of him. “Care to join us? We’ll find space at the table.”
The Englishman relaxed visibly. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “George Leighton, Lord Whitby, Baron of Kettleston, by the way.”
“Ooh, a lord!” Gracie said, awestruck.
“Quite.” The Englishman smiled.
Introductory small talk ensued, tableware shuffled, and everyone squeezed together to make room for a fifth chair. The arrangement placed Lance closer to Sonnie, Gracie closer to Mr. Horn, and Lord Whitby in between. With Lance’s shoulder always brushing hers in their tight quarters, Sonnie found the seating definitely satisfactory.
“About this afternoon,” Lord Whitby began, his tone colored with apology, but Lance shook his head.
“Forget it,” he said. “You didn’t know the cattle were stolen. Ditson thought you were an easy mark because you’re not from around here.” He paused. “I was a little rough on you. I apologize.”
“No, no, no. You acted as any man would. You were only defending what was yours.” The baron sighed. “Strange country out here, different from my native England. I’m touring some of the outfits I’ve invested in. I knew rustling was a problem, but I didn’t understand it was on such a bloody grand scale. Seeing it firsthand, I can tell you I’ll take greater care to investigate my purchases from now on.”
Gracie held up a hand, which was still sheathed in Sonnie’s leather glove. Her red lips curled in a pout. “Are cows all anyone ever talks about around here?”
Lord Whitby gave her a tolerant smile. “Forgive us, Miss Purcell. You have an eatery, not a ranch. Choose a topic, then.”
She batted her lashes in unabashed flirtation. “I love your accent, George.”
Sonnie cringed at the casual address, but the baron didn’t seem to mind. Through the lenses of his spectacles, his gaze dropped to Gracie’s ample cleavage displayed above the magenta neckline, and his smile widened.
“Tell us about England,” she said. “I’ve never been there and probably never will. I want to hear all about the place.”
Lord Whitby appeared happy to oblige. Sonnie recognized many of the areas he described, having traveled them herself. She offered items of interest to him, and in seemingly no time at all, the waiter returned with their meals.
Gracie and Tom Horn delighted over their choice of boiled leg of mutton with caper sauce; the baron complimented his roasted turkey and oysters. Lance had bypassed the more elegant fare and ordered a succulent steak with mashed potatoes, and Sonnie took note of his simple tastes. When they returned to the Big House, she intended to provide him with more of the same.
Lance glanced down at her plate, steaming with creamy macaroni au gratin. A corner of his mouth lifted.
“What?” he teased softly, his voice low so as not to interrupt Lord Whitby’s humorous anecdote of some bumbling ancestor in his noble lineage. “Nothing fancier than macaroni?”
She shook her head. “I’ve had my share of banquets and haute cuisine. Barbara used to fix this for me when I was a child. It’s still my favorite.” Her fork swirled in the cheese sauce. “We’
re really not so different, Lance, you and I. We both want the same things from life, I think.”
His brow furrowed. “Our backgrounds are different. Very different.”
“Yes, but our needs are not.”
“Needs? Ah, sweet Sonnie.” He emitted a soft, humorless laugh. Oblivious to the three sharing the table, to the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation in the crowded dining room, he reached out and cupped her cheek with his palm, a touch so rare, so tender, Sonnie held her breath for fear he’d pull away.
“I have only one need,” he said. His honey-gold eyes smoldered with want, with unspoken desire.
Sonnie’s heart pounded. She was afraid to hope, to read into his fervent words the same need burning inside her.
“One need, Sonnie. And that’s you.”
Chapter 14
“I don’t want to go home yet, Lance.”
Gracie’s heavy-lashed eyes pleaded with him to let her stay awhile longer. Lance hesitated, reluctant to pull her away from an evening that meant so much to her, but Cookie already waited with the stagecoach outside the Club entrance. Lord Whitby had long since bidden them good night. And Lance knew Sonnie was tired. He’d seen the yawns she had tried to hide throughout the late meal, and he himself had been up since long before dawn. He wanted to call it a day.
“I’ll see her home safely, Harmon,” Horn offered. “You won’t have to worry about her.”
“Please, Lance. There’s dancing on the piazza!” Gracie exclaimed.
As if that were reason enough to stay. Being the one to escort her to the Club, Lance felt duty-bound to bring her home again, but he admitted that the gunfighter could be trusted. A fragile code of honor had formed between them, an honor bound by mutual respect. Lance decided, in spite of his initial suspicions, that Tom Horn had his good qualities.
He finally gave in. Gracie squealed in delight and flung her arms about his neck.
“Oh, thank you, Lance!” She planted a wet kiss on his cheek, turned, and grasped the gunfighter’s arm. “Come on, Tom. The music has already begun!”
Both men chuckled, and Horn raised a hand in farewell. Within moments they had disappeared into the throng on the dance floor.
Lance took Sonnie’s elbow and ushered her into the main hall.
“Does it bother you to leave her behind?” Sonnie asked, her tone curious.
“No. I wouldn’t have agreed if it did.” He glanced down at her and wondered why she asked. “Does it bother you to leave Horn behind?”
“Heavens, no! I’d much rather be with you,” she declared, her eyes wide.
Lance grinned. She couldn’t have given him a better answer.
Several men mingled in the hall, among them C. W. Riner, legal counsel for the Association, and the Rocking M’s attorney as well. Lance thought of the yellowed envelope in his suit jacket pocket.
“Stay here, Sonnie.” He left her in the capable hands of Francois, who was waiting near the Club’s doors to assist her into the folds of her hooded cape.
“C. W., I have to talk to you.” Dispensing with preliminaries, Lance clasped the smaller man’s shoulder and firmly guided him away from the others. He halted beside a cluster of tall, potted ferns.
“What is it, Lance?” C. W. asked, his dignified features concerned.
“I need your advice.” Lance withdrew the envelope and handed it to him. “Read this. Tell me what you think.”
The attorney studied the piece of paper inside.
“I think this is most surprising,” he said with a perplexed frown. He scanned it again, then returned the document to the envelope.
“Surprising? Damned inconvenient is more like it,” Lance said dryly, placing the envelope back into his pocket. “Check into it for me, will you? Find out if everything is legitimate. Get back to me as soon as you can.”
“I will,” C. W. promised.
“How soon?”
“It’ll take a couple of days for the research. I’ll send out a few wires first thing in the morning.”
“Couple of days. Hell.” Lance hated to wait. He wanted answers now. “Let me know the minute you learn anything.”
“Of course.” C. W. hesitated. “What does Vince say about this?”
“Nothing. Not a word in all the years I’ve known him.”
“And you haven’t asked?”
“No. He’s too sick. Had a relapse; then pneumonia set in. He’s in County now. I found the envelope by accident.”
“Sorry to hear it, Lance.” His sympathy was genuine. “I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“Good. Thanks. And C. W.?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t talk to anyone else. Deal only with me.”
“Of course.”
The attorney stepped away from the privacy of the ferns and returned to his friends. Lance raked a hand through his hair and fought a sense of impending doom.
The devil take him if Sonnie ever found out.
* * *
The Railroad Hotel had long since quieted for the night. Subdued lighting guided Lance and Sonnie up the stairwell to their rooms. A single lamp in the hall shed a muted glow about the walls and created shadows upon the worn carpet runner lining the floor.
Sonnie glanced toward the block of rooms reserved for the Mancuso cowboys, the men who had escorted the stagecoach in from the ranch. Their rooms were silent, and she guessed they’d already turned in, with the exception of Cookie, who’d taken the rig to the livery.
Lance unlocked her door, opened it partway, and gave her the key. He seemed in no hurry to go to his own room; he leaned a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over his broad chest.
The softly lit hall, their seclusion, the quiet, all gave birth to a yearning that accentuated Sonnie’s reluctance to leave him, to end the evening in which she’d had to share him with so many others when she wanted him only for herself.
It all seemed unfair, somehow; to desire someone as badly as she desired Lance, yet be denied his love, his touch. He rarely touched her except in a polite or comforting manner. A fluttering of hopelessness welled up.
“Good night, Lance,” she said, and turned toward the emptiness of her room.
“Hey.” His low voice reached out to her. “Not so fast.”
She halted in mid-step. Fingers, gentle but firm, tugged her around until she faced him. His hand circled the back of her neck; his thumb stroked the delicate line of her jaw. The light caresses sent waves of tingles clear to her toes.
“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” he asked huskily.
“Once or twice,” she managed, the reply little more than a breathy whisper.
He trailed a leisurely eye over her features. “I’m not sure which way I like your hair better,” he murmured. “Piled on top all elegant with diamonds and pearls”--his gaze smoldered, as if he considered removing each of the pins holding her curls in place--“or down about your back and shoulders, thick and long and rich. Like black satin.”
The provocative tone of his voice held her captive. Her heart pounded wildly one moment, then stopped altogether the next.
It seemed her knees were filled with jelly; she swayed subtly toward him. His arm slipped about her waist and snuffed the distance separating them. He rasped her name, and she trembled with longing.
His mouth, moist and warm, found hers, played and seduced with an expertise that nearly shattered Sonnie’s composure. She parted her lips and invited his tongue. He accepted and explored the innermost cavern of her mouth, traced the curve of her teeth, stroked the soft underside of her cheek.
A shuddering moan escaped her. She’d expected a tentative response from him, controlled, restrained, as he always seemed to be. But this--this unbridled passion would be her undoing. If he followed her down to the floor and took her right there in the hall, she wouldn’t protest. Indeed, she wanted him to do just that.
He dragged his mouth aside and rubbed his jaw against hers, dropped little nibbles to the sensi
tive skin beneath her ear and groaned her name again. Sonnie clutched the lapel of his jacket; she needed his strength to stay afloat in the swirling pool of sensations into which he’d thrown her.
“Go, Sonnie,” he said, even as he rained kisses onto her temple and forehead. “While I can still let you.”
Reluctantly she pulled away and peered up at him with unfulfilled desire. With a fingertip, she touched the lingering dampness of his lower lip and debated asking him to her room.
Or following him to his.
“Go,” he repeated, as if knowing the way of her thoughts. The gentle command was followed by a rueful smile. “Or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
Sonnie’s lashes drifted downward to hide her regret. “You needn’t always be so gallant, you know.”
“Yes, I do.” His sigh sounded heavy with frustration. “Believe me, I do.”
He pushed the door open wider and nudged her into the dark room. Using the meager light borrowed from the hall, Sonnie located the nearest chair and dropped her satchel onto the seat while Lance found the switch to turn on the electric light.
He slid his fingers into the suit pants pockets, and she wondered if he used the gesture to keep from pulling her into his arms again.
“I’ll take you to County Hospital in the morning to see your father. About eight, okay?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.” She clasped her hands tightly behind her. “Sleep well, Lance.”
His grunted curse adequately indicated his opinion of that. “Lock the door behind me.”
Too soon, he left, and in the solitude Sonnie’s mouth dipped in disappointment.
How could he leave when he knew she wanted him to stay? A melancholy emptiness filled her heart. She secured the door, then regarded the bed and its cold, empty sheets.
I have only one need.
She remembered his words from the Club’s dining room, fervent in their low-spoken intensity, and how they’d tripped the breath from her lungs.
I have only one need. And that’s you.
Did he truly need her? She refused to hope. He would only deny her, just like he denied himself. Hadn’t he done so all along?