by Pam Crooks
Pensive, she undid the closures of the gray-blue cape and draped the wrap over the back of the chair. Cool air drifted over her bare arms, raising goose bumps, and she glanced toward the window. The midnight breeze blew inward, billowing the hems of the woven curtains, and she chastised herself for forgetting to close it sooner.
The lamp’s subtle glow barely reached the farthermost edges of the room. She moved into the shadows and tugged the window shut, then peered through the glass panes into the railroad yard below. Moonlight bounced off the twin ribbons of tracks lining the rear of the hotel. Union Pacific’s Round Hotel, bereft of workers long since gone home, loomed in the distance. An engine’s whistle wailed a lonely cry as it chugged toward the next station.
Only then did Sonnie remember.
She had closed the window--earlier, when she was waiting for Lance.
A prickle of apprehension raised the fine hairs on her neck. Bending closer to the glass, she strained to see the back porch roof skirting the entire second story of the hotel, checking it right and left just in case someone huddled in hiding. But she saw no one and breathed a little easier.
She yanked the curtains closed so not a wink of the outside peeked in. A shiver took her, a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill in the room, and she knew a sudden need to undress and retreat beneath the safety of the bedcovers.
A grimy hand clamped over her mouth.
The force of the grip hurled her backward into her captor’s chest and smothered the scream bolting to her throat. The stench of dank sweat filled her nostrils. Full-blown terror exploded inside her.
He came.
He came to wreak his revenge, just as he’d promised at the Cheyenne Club, revenge against Vince Mancuso or anything that was his.
Including his daughter. Especially his daughter.
Oh, God.
Panic clouded Sonnie’s brain and rendered her temporarily motionless. The heat of Clay Ditson’s body penetrated her gown; his liquored breath blew hot across her cheek.
“Yell and you’re dead, y’hear me?” he said in a hiss.
His grasp over her face prevented a nod. She attempted to speak, but the words came out muffled and useless.
“We’re gonna have a little fun, you and me.” He cackled in her ear, and Sonnie’s eyes closed in her dread. “Yep. A little fun. You’ll enjoy it, too. Just wait and see.”
His arm tightened about her waist, and he pushed her toward the bed. Her lashes flew open; she whimpered and dug her heels into the carpet. He swore and pushed harder.
“Don’t fight me,” he said in a snarl. “Git on the bed. You ever had a man before? A real man? Git on the bed, I said!”
He threw her onto the mattress and followed her down. In desperation, Sonnie twisted and writhed beneath his wiry frame, and in the struggle, Ditson’s fingers fell away from her mouth.
She gulped in a lungful of air and let it all out in a scream, but he clapped a hand over her mouth again.
“You little bitch! Try that again, and I’ll smack you so hard you’ll see stars!”
His rank breath billowed over her, and she gagged in revulsion. She flailed her fists, pummeled his arms, chest, and shoulders. He gripped all the harder. She sank her teeth into his palm, tasted the salt and dirty sweat on his skin.
He jerked away with a yelp, and she lurched toward the edge of the bed. He hauled her back, then struck her violently across the side of her face. She cried out, and tears sprang to her eyes.
“She-cat! Damn, you’re a fighter!” he said, panting.
“I’d rather die than let you touch me, you filthy bastard!” Her bosom heaved. All her senses laid in readiness to renew the fight.
“Bet you don’t say that to Harmon, that connivin’, lyin’ son of a bitch, do you, pretty lady?” He leered down at her, a glint of lust in his bloodshot eyes, and grabbed her breast roughly, kneading the flesh through the brocade bodice. “Even when he does this to you.”
A low, feral sound of fury erupted from her throat. Twisting, she raked her nails across his wrist and tried to gouge his face.
He laughed, stoking her wrath more.
“You’re too much woman for him, y’know that? He don’t deserve you.” He grasped one arm, held it above her head, and dodged her swinging fist.
“He’s more man than you’ll ever be,” she said in a gasp. “God, you sicken me!”
Her hissed insult struck a chord with him. His thin lips curled back menacingly. “Shut up!”
She tried to roll away from him, but he hung on to a section of her hair, loosening the diamond-and-pearl ornament from her coiffure. With a burst of adrenaline, she landed a punch to his belly.
The air left him in a grunt; his hold weakened. She plucked the frill from her hair and reached out wildly to scrape the comb across his cheek. She felt the tines break from the force of her strength. Her legs kicked within her skirts. Her knee connected with his groin.
He swore loudly and curled away from her with a howl of pain. She bounced from the mattress to the floor, landing with a thump. Scrambling to her feet, she sucked in huge breaths.
Some part of her awareness identified the sound of pounding, of someone calling her name, of the doorknob rattling fiercely.
Ditson left the bed, his cheek bloodied, his wrath spewing full-steam, and approached her.
“Stay away from me!” she warned, backing toward the chair. She stumbled over her train and hastily righted herself. “You’ll never get away with this. My father will--”
“To hell with your father!” he roared. “The high and mighty Vince Mancuso ain’t gonna listen to me unless I got you. You’re gonna be my weapon, pretty lady. My ace in the hole to get Silver Meadow.”
“No!” The chair halted her step, and she groped blindly behind her. Her fingers found the satchel on the seat and closed around the handle. She hurled it toward him; he lifted a forearm and blocked its flight. The case fell open and dumped her meticulous notes from the Stockmen’s Association meeting all over the carpet.
“Sonnie! God, Sonnie!”
Lance.
Sonnie wanted to call out to him, but Ditson had to be her focus. If she took her eyes off him . . .
“He ain’t gonna get in, not before I grab you,” Ditson warned, obviously knowing her thoughts. “I saw you lock the door.”
The pounding increased a hundredfold. The door quivered within its frame; the wall shook. It seemed Lance threw his whole body into trying to break inside.
“You’re a horrid man, Clay Ditson.” She licked her lips and fought down panic. Too soon he would have her cornered. Too soon he would win.
Throwing the satchel had deterred him little. He kept coming; she kept backing away. She bumped into the dresser and knew then there was nowhere else to go.
“Maybe I am,” Ditson said tersely. “But I’m plumb broke. Harmon took the last of my herd. I ain’t got nothin’ else.” His mouth snaked into a grin. “Nothin’ but you, pretty lady.”
Shouted commands rumbled in the hall, but only Lance’s voice penetrated her terror. Wood splintered and cracked, yet the door stood solid.
He would never reach her in time.
Ditson lunged toward her. She snatched a crystal perfume decanter from the dresser top and tossed the carnation-scented liquid into his eyes, into the raw gashes in his cheek.
He screamed and cursed and rubbed his sleeve against his face. Sonnie whirled and threw herself at the door. Her fingers fumbled, groped with the lock. And then Ditson had hold of her gown . . ...
Suddenly the door crashed open. Its edge clipped Sonnie’s shoulder and spun her with such force she tumbled to the floor in a tangle of petticoats and brocade. Stunned, she lay in a heap.
A blur of men rushed into the room.
“Sweet Jesus. Sonnie, are you okay?”
Lance’s strong arms pulled her into a sitting position, but it was the flash of a peacock feather that snatched her attention. Ditson had already opened the window and had
one leg on the sill.
“There he goes,” she cried.
Lance twisted. A growl thundered low in his chest. He leaped to his feet and shoved Stick and Charlie, wearing only their union suits, out into the hall.
“Go after him! Try to catch him in the back. I’ll follow from up here.”
Slipping on the scattered papers in their haste, the barefoot cowboys bolted from the room. Lance ran to the window and maneuvered his tall frame through to the outside.
He paused on the slanted roof and darted a glance into the dark night. He nearly missed seeing Ditson’s feathered hat disappear below the roofline. Lance grasped the roof’s shingled edge, and swung his body over. He wrapped his legs around a sturdy wooden column bracing the porch roof and slid to the ground. He searched the blackness in front of him, behind him, and all around.
Nothing.
Only silence.
He hissed a frustrated breath. Like a clever weasel, Ditson had escaped.
Again.
Damn.
Charlie and Stick rounded the hotel at a full run, Cookie right behind them.
“Find him, Boss?”
“No.”
“He can’t be far. We’ll get a posse or somethin’.”
“No.”
It was too late for that. Ditson would make sure he wouldn’t be found. Lance scanned the railroad yards and knew there were a thousand places the bastard could hide. Besides, he didn’t want to leave Sonnie for the hunt.
He raked a hand through his hair. “Thanks for trying, boys. Might as well go on back to your rooms and try to get some sleep.”
“Come for us if you need us. We’ll do what we can to keep Miss Sonnie safe,” Stick vowed.
The three men left, shaking their heads and murmuring their concern over Sonnie’s ordeal. Grimly, Lance set his hands on his hips and studied the porch roof.
Ditson had found her so easily.
He stepped onto a ceramic planter placed at the base of the wooden column. Giving a little jump, he grabbed the roof’s edge and heaved himself up and over. The ease with which he managed it explained Ditson’s break-in from the rear, but as he scanned the long line of windows, Lance wondered how the wily man knew which one was hers.
He reentered Sonnie’s room in the same manner he left. He found her on her knees with the proprietor’s wife, picking up Vince’s notes and her own and placing the sheets in neat stacks. She glanced up. Their eyes met, and her lower lip trembled.
Lance scooped her into his arms, pressing her tightly to his chest. His fingers splayed in the sable thickness of her hair. She buried her face in his shirt.
“You okay?” he demanded against her temple.
“I am now,” she said, the words muffled. She drew back slightly. “He got away, didn’t he?”
His mouth tightened. He hated telling her. “Yes.”
“He’ll be back.”
“Yes,” he said again, without fanfare.
She sighed heavily, accepting it. Her troubled gaze swept the room, the rumpled bed, the overturned chair, toilet articles scattered over the dresser top.
“This place is a mess,” she said, and frowned at the ruined door.
“It doesn’t matter. We’re not staying.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’ll get a room at the Club.” He kept his voice low. Secrecy was paramount. “Throw a few things together. I want to leave now.”
She nodded, and he released her.
Within moments the satchel bulged, and she was ready. Lance picked her cape up from the floor and draped it about her. He noticed a rip in the shoulder of her gown; the brocade kept slipping, dipping the neckline low over her breasts.
Sweet Jesus. What she’s been through.
“Let’s go,” he said roughly. He took her elbow and led her briskly from the room. Trying to keep up, she considered his haste with a dark brow raised. She couldn’t know the demons of regret, of pain, that haunted him, and he couldn’t help hauling her against him and pressing a swift, hard kiss to her lips.
He released her and headed toward the stairwell. Several hotel guests in their nightclothes lingered in the hall, talking quietly about the incident that had awakened them. The proprietor and his wife assured everyone the scare had passed, and asked them to return to their rooms.
Lance ignored them.
“Mr. Harmon,” the proprietor called. “The damages--”
His step never slowed. “Put ‘em on my bill.”
“Yes, sir,” the other man said.
Lance hustled Sonnie down the stairs. The protection of the Cheyenne Club called to him; he couldn’t wait to get her away from the hotel. It was as if Ditson had tainted the entire establishment.
Hurrying through the lobby and out the door, they encountered Charlie, Cookie, and Stick lingering over a last cigarette before retiring. The cowboys looked up in surprise.
“We’ll be at the Club,” Lance said, knowing he could trust each of them with their whereabouts. He lifted the hood of Sonnie’s cape over her head, the effect offering her a measure of obscurity. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Sure, Boss,” Charlie said, understanding. “Want to borrow my horse?”
“No. It’s only three blocks. We’ll walk.” He urged Sonnie forward again. As an afterthought, he halted and took a mental head count. “Cookie, who’re you bunking with tonight?”
“Stick,” the old cowboy said without hesitation.
“Charlie, how about you?”
“Jake.”
McKenna. Jake McKenna. Suspicion coiled in Lance’s belly. “You seen him lately?”
Charlie seemed taken aback by the question. “Come to think of it, no. Left him at Kapp’s Saloon. Haven’t seen him since supper.”
Lance’s eyes narrowed. “Sonnie, when you reserved the block of rooms this afternoon, were any assigned? Or did everyone choose their own?”
She frowned. “We chose our own. No specific names were listed in the hotel registry, just the Rocking M’s. I simply charged all the rooms to the ranch’s bill and left it at that.” Her eyes widened. “Lance, you don’t think--.”
“Who brought you back from the hospital?” he demanded.
“God Almighty, Jake did,” Cookie said tightly. Lance’s head jerked toward him. “I stayed behind fer a round of checkers with Mr. Mancuso.”
“So McKenna would’ve known Sonnie’s room number.”
Lance released a slow breath. He forced himself to stay cool, to sort methodically through the evidence, to keep from jumping to conclusions.
“Cookie, stay with Vince tonight. I want someone at the hospital at all times in case there’s trouble. I’ll spell you in the morning. Charlie, if Jake shows up, don’t say anything. I might be wrong.”
But he knew he wasn’t. He was right as hell, and by the looks on the others’ faces, everyone agreed.
The Rocking M, long known for its loyal men, now had a traitor in its ranks.
Chapter 15
Virtually all of the guests had departed the Cheyenne Club, leaving the place unusually subdued. Even the orchestra on the piazza had quieted, with the remaining dancers enjoying a final drink in one of the public rooms before going home. A few men lingered over games of chess and billiards, but for the most part, no one noticed Lance and Sonnie’s arrival.
They stepped into the main hall and spied Francois talking to Lord Whitby. The steward’s graying brows shot up, and he exchanged a surprised glance with the Englishman.
“Monsieur Harmon! Mademoiselle Mancuso!” he exclaimed. “I did not expect to see you again this evening. Are you here for your friends--er, the gunfighter and Mademoiselle Purcell?” His tongue clucked in dismay. “I am afraid they have already left.”
Lance lifted a hand and waved aside the older man’s mistaken notion. “No. I need a favor, Francois.”
“A favor? Just ask.”
“We need a room. Now. Tonight.”
“A room.” Francois swallowe
d and paled. “But forgive me, monsieur. We have no sleeping rooms available. They are all taken.” Panic and chagrin circled his face. “We can fashion something in one of the others, the reading room, perhaps.”
Lance shook his head. “No. Not good enough.” He wanted protection for Sonnie. Privacy from the mainly male clientele. “I’ll pay whatever it takes.”
“I say, that won’t be necessary, Lance,” Lord Whitby piped up. “Take mine.”
Their attention swung to him.
“After our wonderfully pleasant dinner, I went upstairs and wrote a number of letters, but I’m afraid indigestion has set in since then. Ghastly affliction.” He rubbed his portly stomach with a grimace. “I’d best not lie down. A chair and a pillow will be my bed tonight. Please take the room.”
From beneath the gray-blue hood, Sonnie peered up at Lance. He hesitated, sensing her unwillingness to boot the baron out of his own quarters, yet he knew that if he were in the Englishman’s place, he would make the same offer.
After a moment he nodded. “I owe you, sir. Maybe someday I can return the favor.”
The baron’s gaze twinkled beneath his spectacles. “Give me another chance to buy some of your bloody fine livestock. Then we’ll be square.”
A side of Lance’s mouth lifted in a grin. “Deal.”
Moving closer, Sonnie rose up on tiptoe and kissed the baron’s cheek. “Thank you, my lord,” she said quietly. She pivoted, then glanced at him over her shoulder. “Perhaps Francois will prepare an infusion of sage for you. It will help the indigestion, I think.” A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips as she turned and patted the steward’s arm. “Just a few leaves in a cup of hot water, Francois. Make sure he drinks it all.”
Francois bowed, an adoring expression on his dignified features. Lord Whitby beamed in spite of his malady. And Lance had never loved her more.
* * *
The Club had spared no cost in furnishing its six sleeping rooms. Heavy, well-crafted furniture in polished walnut sat upon plush carpets. Marble topped the commode and dresser, and though each contained fireplaces graced with lovely mantels and grates, radiators provided the inviting warmth.