In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “No,” he said when she would have slid onto her back, bringing him with her. “Stay here, and I’ll teach you a new way to ride.”

  She spread her knees on either side of him, and he gently guided his manhood into her. He filled her, filled her to the brink in a way she never thought possible, in a way that stole her breath and kept her heart thundering inside her chest.

  She began to move, tentatively at first, to keep the excitement. He joined her, and they learned the beat, catching the excitement together. Their hips moved, pumped fast, faster, until their beat cried out in its fever, and they rode the peaks, rode them and rode them, until together they crested in joyous victory.

  Spent, fulfilled, and deliciously sated, Sonnie crumpled on top of Lance. He laughed softly in her ear and circled his arms tight about her, shifting his weight so that they both rolled to their sides on the mattress.

  He buried his fist into her hair and kissed her long and deep. Hardly an inch separated them anywhere on their bodies, and Sonnie thought she’d never tire of being this close to him.

  “I love you, Son,” he murmured.

  “I know,” she purred on a happy sigh and nuzzled his chin.

  “Does it bother you when I call you that?” He rubbed strands of her hair between two lean fingers.

  She paused, remembering the times he’d shortened her name, turning it into a nickname of sorts. In the past she’d suspected her father gave her a distinctly unfeminine name as a result of his disappointment at failing to sire a male. She recalled, with regret, the instances when she’d turned her resentment toward Lance.

  “No,” she said truthfully. “You make it sound like an endearment. It doesn’t trouble me.”

  “Good.” He sounded relieved, and Sonnie glanced up at him. In the darkness, she found his lower lip and traced it with her finger. He drew the tip into his mouth. “Tired?”

  “Mmmmm.” She liked his warm tongue licking her skin. She thought of the nightgown stuffed in the satchel and decided against retrieving it, finding the idea of lying naked with Lance for the entire night much more appealing.

  She slid her knee in between his thighs and drew contentment from the pleasing heaviness of his body. Her lids drifted closed. Sleep hovered only wispy seconds away.

  Lance made her feel needed for the first time in her life. His love, honest and true, held her fast within its grip, and she glowed from the glory of it.

  She would not think of the morning with its worries of Papa’s health, of Silver Meadow, of turmoil that would inevitably come.

  Turmoil reeking of revenge from a weasel of a man named Clay Ditson.

  Chapter 16

  The persistent hiss and ping of the radiators dragged Lance from the depths of a blissful sleep. Mentally resisting the noise, he shifted and became aware of the delicious, silken warmth cuddled next to him.

  Sonnie. The love of his life.

  They’d slept together in a tangle of arms and legs and a plethora of sable tresses. The scent of her perfume lingered on the bedclothes and on his skin, reminded him of how she’d come to him once more in the night. He’d shared his body as she shared hers, taught her new ways of loving, of tasting, of giving and taking, until dawn lit the horizon.

  He opened an eye. Sunshine filtered through the sheer curtains beneath the drapes, and he could only guess at the time, instinctively knowing a good portion of the morning had already passed. His eye shut again anyway, and he burrowed closer against Sonnie’s body.

  But his promise to Cookie to relieve him from guarding Vince at the hospital kept him from falling back to sleep. He resisted the lure of his responsibilities. He didn’t want to get up, didn’t want to abandon the addictive need to keep Sonnie close.

  Her love freed him from his fears and shattered the debilitating vulnerability of his past. She strengthened him when he would have been weak; she made him want to love, to touch, when before he would have stayed away. She gave him peace.

  Movement in the hall--the clatter and clink of dishware outside their door--persuaded Lance to give up sleep altogether. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he removed his arm from around Sonnie’s waist and slid his leg out from beneath hers. He dropped a tender kiss to her temple before slipping out of bed.

  She stirred and stretched provocatively; her dark lashes fluttered open. Her sleepy gaze found him, and a gentle smile curved the fullness of her lips. He knew she remembered their loving, just as he had, and he couldn’t resist going back for another kiss, this one longer, deeper, and infinitely more ardent.

  “Mornin’, beautiful,” he murmured, and rubbed his stubbly chin lightly across her cheek.

  She laughed softly and pushed him away. “Why are you up so early?”

  “It’s not early. Someone is trying to wake us up, I think.” Regretfully, he left her and strode across the room toward the door.

  She scrambled to sit up and pulled the blankets up over her breasts.

  “Who? Lance, you’re not dressed.” She hastily combed her fingers through her hair to tame the tousled mane.

  He plucked a towel from the commode as he passed and barely had the fabric wrapped about him before he unlocked the door and opened it wide.

  “I thought so.” A wooden cart, laden with fresh strawberries, golden croissants, and a bottle of Giesler champagne in a silver-plated ice bucket, waited in the hall. The latest issue of the Boston Sunday Herald rested against a crystal vase filled with red roses. “A gift from Francois.”

  Sonnie exclaimed in delight. “How wonderful! What a dear man!”

  “He’s smitten, didn’t I tell you?” Lance declared wryly. He recognized his leather case sitting on the floor and brought both items into the room before relocking the door. He wheeled the cart next to the bed.

  It seemed Charlie had sent over the remainder of Lance’s clothes from the Railroad Hotel. The cowboy included a scrawled note reporting that he and the others from the Mancuso outfit would be waiting at Kapp’s Saloon until Lance came for them. At his--and Miss Sonnie’s--convenience, of course, and Lance had to smile.

  He shucked the towel and pulled on a pair of clean Levi’s. Shirtless and barefoot, he sprawled on his side next to Sonnie on the bed and propped himself up on an elbow. She handed him a buttered croissant and half of the newspaper.

  “Eat quickly, my love,” she urged, pouring two glasses of the sparkling champagne. “We have to go to the hospital to see Papa.” She glanced at the clock on the dresser and clucked her tongue. “It’ll be noon by the time we get over there. He’ll wonder what’s happened to us.”

  Despite her words, Lance was in no hurry to leave, to end their stay at the Cheyenne Club, with all its sweet memories of the night they’d shared together. He reached over and curled his fingers behind her neck, bringing her closer for another kiss.

  “I want to ask Vince for your hand, Sonnie. Okay?” He nuzzled her jaw, then nibbled on her earlobe.

  “I’d be most thrilled if you would,” she whispered, then turned slightly and pressed her mouth to his in a fervent acceptance of his proposal.

  Apprehension misted the sensations she brewed within him and overshadowed his happiness. He grew wary of those things over which he had no control.

  “Suppose he’ll agree?” he asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?” She shrugged, an impish light in her eyes. “If not, I’ll marry you anyway.” She kissed the tip of his nose, drew back, and picked up one of the stemmed glasses. “You worry too much, Boss Man.”

  He took the proffered champagne. He had to settle for her answer, but he wished he possessed the same beguiling innocence and trust that she did.

  He couldn’t wait to talk to C. W. Even more important, he had to talk to Vince. Either man could give him the answers he needed.

  Answers that would tell him if the past would destroy his future.

  * * *

  Sonnie finished the front-page article she’d been reading in her half of the Herald, took a bite of a plump str
awberry, and gave Lance the rest to finish. She’d dallied long enough; she simply had to get dressed.

  Engrossed in a lengthy editorial, Lance’s hand trailed her arm in an absent caress as she slid from the bed and sank her toes into the thick, wine-colored carpet. From the satchel, she pulled out a navy blue shirtwaist with a puritan white collar and articles for her toilette. She took care not to interrupt Lance in his reading and garbed herself in relative haste, then washed her face and cleaned her teeth.

  Her glance sought him in the mirror while she brushed her hair. He’d abandoned his part of the paper for hers and studied it intently. Sonnie guessed he didn’t often read so leisurely, and she hated to rush him now.

  “I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes, Lance,” she said. “You’d better hurry.”

  He grunted and turned a page. “You’re sounding like a wife already, Miss Mancuso.”

  His teasing remark invited her indulgent smile, and she decided to give him a little longer, knowing a man needed far less time than a woman to dress. After pulling her hair back with an elaborately scrolled tortoiseshell comb, she determined that their room needed a definite tidying-up before they left.

  The heap of clothing at the foot of the bed brought a rush of memories; she blushed, remembering how quickly the garments had been shed the night before. The brocade gown was in shambles--wrinkled and torn beyond repair, and she’d never wear it again. It would only remind her of Clay Ditson and his frightening attack. She balled the gown up and stuffed it into her satchel; her delicate underthings and patent-leather shoes followed with considerably more care, and only Lance’s worsted suit remained.

  She folded the pants along their crease and set them aside, righted his boots, and reached for the jacket. In her attempts to smooth the wrinkles, a yellowed envelope slipped out from an inside pocket.

  In an instant, Sonnie recognized the paper from her father’s office and how she’d discovered it only seconds before his heart attack. She’d completely forgotten about it in the chaotic days that followed.

  But the old curiosity returned full force. She removed the document and started to read. Children’s Aid Society, New York. She frowned. An orphanage? 1876. Her mother had died a few years earlier. Sonnie would have barely started school. Vince Mancuso . . . Why would Papa be in contact with an orphanage so far away? . . . hereby presents his petition to adopt Lance Harmon . . ..

  Her hands began to shake.

  . . . orphan train . . . Missouri . . . Old Opera House. Omaha, Nebraska . . . territory of Wyoming . . ..

  The tiny printed words blurred together in a legal jumble. She blinked furiously, but forced herself to keep reading. She focused on Papa’s familiar, clipped handwriting at the bottom of the page. Next to his signature was another’s, smudged and difficult to decipher, a reverend whose name she didn’t even want to know.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Her choking cry jerked Lance’s attention. She dropped the horrid paper as if it had burst into flame and pressed her fingertips to her mouth. His gaze flew to her face, followed the paper’s descent, then jerked back upward.

  “Sonnie. ” The Herald fell from his grip. He sat up slowly, warily, and eased from the bed.

  “You knew about this, didn’t you?” she accused, stepping back when he would have stepped closer.

  He froze.

  “Yes. No. Sonnie, you have to listen to me.”

  “You knew, but you made love to me anyway. Again and again.”

  “Sonnie, I didn’t know--.”

  “My father adopted you, and you didn’t know?” Her voice raised to a shrill pitch. She wavered on the edge of hysteria.

  “I swear on my mother’s grave I did not know anything about this!” He hissed the words desperately, frantically, through his teeth. “I only found the damned document a few days ago.”

  “And you asked me to marry you anyway. God, I’m such a fool.” Her chin trembled. She prayed for the strength not to break down in front of him.

  “Sweetheart, I’ve got C. W. checking on it to see if everything’s legal.”

  “Legal? It’s notarized, Lance, for pity’s sake!”

  He drew in a terse breath. “He’ll find out the truth for me. For us.” He exhaled and raked a hand violently through his hair. “We’ll go to the hospital now. We’ll ask Vince. I don’t care how sick he is. He’ll tell us. We’ll make him tell us, but by the grace of heaven, he never told me a thing.”

  “No. I don’t want to see my father.”

  She wouldn’t compete for his affections any longer. He had Lance to love, didn’t he? She whirled and scooped up her satchel, glad the bag was packed and sitting a fair distance away from where Lance stood.

  “I will never be good enough for him. He wanted a son twenty years ago, not another daughter. I don’t care if I ever see him again.”

  “Sonnie, come on. Please.” Lance’s tone turned pleading. “We’ll work this out together.”

  She steeled herself against his masculinity, against the love she felt for him and the nearly overpowering desire to throw herself into his strong arms and feel him hold her tight.

  Because she hurt so badly she thought she’d never heal again.

  “He did it for his precious ranch and rangeland and stupid cattle. My sisters and I were never worthy enough for him. But you, obviously, were.” Her lip curled in disdain; her wounded rage drove her onward, stabbing Lance with the resentment that boiled within her. “Fine. Keep it all. I don’t want anything to do with him or you or this horrible country and its problems.”

  She lied, and Lance knew it, and she couldn’t go on. Breaking into an agonized sob, Sonnie bolted toward the door, but in an instant he held her arm in a death grip, preventing her from moving another inch.

  Without thinking, without feeling, she lashed out and struck his face. He took the blow, not making a sound, not even a curse of surprise; then abruptly, unexpectedly, his grasp loosened, and she fled.

  * * *

  He let her go.

  The sting in his cheek spread like a roaring wildfire over his skin and into his heart, but left him cold and dead inside.

  He let her go.

  He never thought she would find out. He’d been so careful. From the time he first found it, he wouldn’t let the document out of his sight, carrying the damned thing with him always so she wouldn’t discover it somehow when he wasn’t there to prevent it.

  He let her go.

  And now she was gone.

  He stood where she left him, feet spread, fists clenched, chest heaving with every burning, painful breath.

  How would he live without her?

  She’d been hurt more than he ever thought possible, even in his worst nightmare. He understood how she felt, how unneeded she must think she was. He never dreamed it would come to this or that he’d be responsible.

  She’d be alone now, without him or her father or the Rocking M to love. She lost everything, and all because a lousy piece of paper took it all away.

  He loved her with his life, and like a coward he let her go.

  A coward in the worst way.

  His mind screamed in protest, refusing to allow it to happen. His aching heart infused him with a surge of strength and raw determination to go after her, to hug and kiss the hurt away and keep loving her forever.

  He had to find her and bring her back, even if she hated him and never loved him again. He had to try. Hell, he had to do at least that.

  He broke into a run toward the door, then remembered he wore no boots, no shirt. Swearing mightily, he ravaged the leather bag, yanked out something to wear, and grabbed his boots. Balancing on one leg and then the other, he pulled them on, and after a second’s thought, clamped his holster around his waist.

  He’d hold a gun to her head if he had to.

  He plunged down the stairs two at a time while shoving his arms into the shirt and a hat onto his head.

  Francois, wringing his hands and looking distressed, met him a
t the bottom. “Monsieur, is everything not all right? Mademoiselle, she was crying.”

  “I know, I know.” Without a break in his run, he left the steward to fret in the main hall and lunged out the Club’s doors.

  Lord Whitby stood out front stroking the neck of a saddled, fine-blooded stallion hitched along the row of posts. He lifted a chubby leg into the stirrup, but Lance grasped a handful of his tailored riding jacket and pulled him away. The Englishman stumbled backward; Lance hastily righted him, then lifted his own foot into the stirrup.

  “Do you mind? I’m in a hurry,” he said and swung himself up.

  The baron sputtered, taken aback by Lance’s erratic behavior. Lance took the reins and nudged the horse into a turn.

  “I say, I was just going after Miss Sonnie. She was bloody upset about something--I say, Lance, where are you going with my steed?”

  “After her. Which way did she go?”

  The Englishman didn’t appear to know what to make of it all.

  “Which way did she go?” Lance repeated through clenched teeth.

  “That way.” He pointed a finger toward the south.

  The train depot. Sonnie was going back to Boston.

  He kicked the horse into a hard gallop. The stallion’s hooves clawed up clumps of dirt and dust all along the several-block ride to the Union Pacific train station. A massive black engine pulling a dozen cars squealed to a stop, spilling passengers into the crowd waiting on the platform. Skillful maneuvering through a snarl of rigs and horses brought Lance as close to the depot as he could get.

  So many people. What if he couldn’t find her?

  Twin sets of tracks held trains headed in opposite directions. Curling wisps of steam trailed in the sky from an engine already on its way east. A knot of fear formed in his chest. Had Sonnie already left?

  He dismounted and entered the throng of men, women, and children packed in among the clutter of trunks and baggage. His height allowed him a view most would envy, and, frantic, he scanned the crowd for the raven-haired beauty who’d stolen his heart.

  He found her at the ticket window.