by Pam Crooks
Relief almost buckled his knees, and he elbowed his way over to her. Mel Timms, the railroad clerk, took the bills Sonnie handed him from inside her small beaded purse, then turned away to make change.
“You’re not going anywhere, Sonnie,” Lance said in a growl close to her ear.
She started at the sound of his voice. Their gazes clashed. The surprise in her tearstained eyes froze into flashing shards of black ice.
“Yes, I am. You’ll not stop me, Lance.”
The clerk slipped the ticket and a small bill under the iron-barred window. He acknowledged Lance with a polite nod. “Howdy, Mr. Harmon. There you are, miss. Train leaves in twenty-five minutes.” He peered over the edge of his rimless spectacles to the matronly woman wearing a hat with a bird nest on the brim. “Next?”
“Keep the ticket, Mel. She won’t need it,” Lance said, and slid the printed pass back to him before Sonnie had a chance to protest.
Mel glanced from Lance to Sonnie and frowned. He pushed the ticket back under the bars again, this time holding both it and the bill until Sonnie could take them. “Reckon it’s hers, Mr. Harmon. She paid, fair and square.”
“Thank you.” Sonnie smiled sweetly at the clerk before turning and glaring at Lance. She kept a firm grip on the scrap of paper while she returned the money to her purse, picked up the satchel, and spun on her heel into the crowd.
Striving for patience, Lance took off after her. “I’m not going to let you leave, Sonnie.”
“You can’t stop me.”
He emitted a humorless laugh. “I’ll throw you over my shoulder and take you back home. I’ve done it before.”
Her step faltered; her wary glance considered him as if she pondered whether or not he’d carry through with his threat. She bumped into an elderly gentleman and apologized.
“I’ll scream and make a scene, then.” She continued over to a row of benches to await the train. “Don’t think I won’t.”
“Go ahead. Damned if I care.”
“I have the ticket. See?” She waved the pass under his nose. “I’m getting on the train--.”
He snatched the ticket from her unresisting fingers and tore it into pieces before tossing them all into the air. “No, you’re not.”
She watched the tiny scraps drift down to the platform floor like confetti at a parade. Her back straightened, her chin lifted, and she stood up with stilted dignity.
“Very well.” She began to retrace her steps back to the ticket window.
His patience nearly at an end, Lance shook his head and followed her. Again.
“Sonnie, you are the most exasperating, stubborn woman I’ve ever met,” he said, and stepped around a toddler hanging on to his mother’s skirts.
“And you are the most pigheaded, arrogant, deceitful man to walk the face of the earth.” Once more at the window, she leaned around the bird-nest woman doing business with Mel. “May I have another ticket, please? Mine seems to have been destroyed.”
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Lance carefully but firmly pushed the indignant older woman aside. “I never meant to deceive you, Sonnie. You know that.”
“That’ll be thirty-two dollars, miss.” Mel’s lips thinned in annoyance.
“I don’t know what to think anymore.” She rummaged inside her purse, frowned, then dumped the contents onto the counter. Counting under her breath, she gathered all the bills she had into her fist. “I don’t have enough money,” she said in frustration.
“Too bad. Sorry to bother you, Mel.” Lance quickly swept her belongings back into her bag, took Sonnie’s elbow, and pulled her away from the window. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sweetheart.” She tried to jerk away. “I’m not your anything.”
His grip tightened; he debated throwing her over his shoulder after all.
“You’re going to be my wife as soon as I can get you to a church. Now shut up. People are starting to stare.”
She stumbled over somebody’s trunk, but Lance’s hold kept her from falling. He continued pulling her toward Lord Whitby’s horse.
“I’m going back to Boston. That’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it, Lance? To get me out of your life?”
“Not anymore. I’ve changed my mind.”
They wound their way around a paint-worn springboard wagon. The stallion waited a short distance away,
“I want to marry you, and you want to marry me, and if you weren’t so damned stubborn, you’d admit it.” He halted in the street and turned her about to face him. “I need you, Sonnie. I love you. I want you to have my babies, to build a life with me. A future.”
Her chin trembled, her ebony eyes glistened with a new set of tears, and he sensed the moment her apprehensions broke free. “Oh, Lance.”
Those luscious lips quivered, and he lowered his head to taste their sweetness, to give her comfort, to offer silent reassurance that he would do everything in his power to make her world perfect and right.
The satchel dropped to the street, and she wrapped her arms snugly about his neck. His arms tightened, enfolding her to his chest. His mouth opened and sought her tongue in a familiar quest. She accommodated him, flirting and teasing, fulfilling her own need to be consoled, to bring him pleasure within the strictures of broad daylight and crowds of people and propriety. Fire flowed in Lance’s veins with every thrust and curl, and he knew a burning need to take her back to Lord Whitby’s room.
Suddenly, Sonnie was wrenched from his embrace with an unexpectedness that dulled his reflexes and numbed his brain. She cried out, as surprised as he, and before he could think, before he could react, someone stronger and larger whipped both his arms behind his back, yanking them as high as they would go, until Lance was sure they’d be pulled straight from their sockets.
He hurled a curse from the innermost cavern of his chest. Clay Ditson cackled back at him, his scrawny arm clutched around Sonnie’s shoulders, a Smith & Wesson revolver pressed to her temple.
Where seconds before love and yearning had swam in Lance’s veins, now only hatred curdled. He fought the man who held him, tried with every muscle he possessed to break free of the powerful grip. He ignored the pain, the very real threat that both his arms could be broken, and that Snake was a hell of a lot stronger than he would ever be.
The Indian muttered a harsh word in Shoshone and pressed a blade to Lance’s throat. The glinting, sharp edge pricked Lance’s skin just enough to draw blood, deep enough to give him warning. Beads of crimson trickled down his neck.
“Let her go, Ditson.” Lance’s lungs heaved. He strove for control.
“Huh-uh. No way.” Ditson’s yellow teeth bared in a devilish, valiant grin. “I gotcha now, don’t I, Harmon? I’m gonna win this time. And you can’t do nothin’ about it.”
Sonnie’s face had paled. Her skin looked luminescent above the prim collar. She stood stiff, frozen in Ditson’s clutch, as if afraid to move for fear he’d pull the trigger.
Lance’s heart twisted. God, he wanted to spare her this.
“Let her go, y’hear?” He sounded frantic, on the edge of control, but he couldn’t help it. “Take me instead,”
“Don’t reckon I want either one of you real bad.” Ditson leered. “It’s Silver Meadow I want, but I need her to be my ace in the hole against her pa.”
“Silver Meadow? It’s yours. We’ll sign the land over to you.”
Even as he made the proposition, Lance knew it would never work, that the offer would be too easy, that Ditson wasn’t gullible enough to take the range and live happily ever after. He would make them all bleed first.
“Y’think I’m stupid?” Ditson roared, and Sonnie flinched. “The old man ain’t gonna give Silver Meadow up without a fight. And me and Snake’ll be ready for him.” He turned slightly, revealing the rows of scabbed-over scratches on his cheek, and Lance knew Sonnie had been responsible. “Besides, I got a score to settle with the pretty lady.” He started to drag Sonnie away, backing her up one step
at a time toward his rangy-looking bay. “Come on, Snake. Let’s get outta here.”
Desperation exploded inside Lance; he feared what Ditson would do. He writhed in the Indian’s iron-like hold. Pain shot through his shoulders and down his back. He thought of the Colts strapped to his waist and despaired over his inability to reach them.
“Lance, I’ll be okay. You hear me? I’ll be okay.”
Sonnie’s plea reached out to him as she moved farther and farther away. He loved her for trying to reassure him in the midst of her own struggle, for her courage to face what lay ahead, and he had never felt so helpless in his entire life.
“Sonnie, no!”
Again he tried to yank himself free; he pitted his strength against the Indian’s brawn and found himself hopelessly outmatched. Wildly he scanned the crowd, hoped, prayed someone would come forward to help, to end this nightmare, to save Sonnie when he couldn’t save her himself.
But no one did. A few men watched with wary fascination on their weathered faces; worried mothers fled with their children in tow, and others merely went about their business, preoccupied with their lives and unconcerned with anyone else’s.
And Lance despised them all.
Clay Ditson shoved Sonnie toward the bay; she stumbled. He jerked her back up again with a leer curling his gap-toothed mouth, and soon, so soon, she would be gone.
“I’m going after her, Snake,” Lance grated out, unable to take his eyes off of her, his chest heaving from the exertion of trying to break free. “You know that, don’t you?”
Snake grunted and said something in Shoshone, the guttural sounds indicating acceptance, as if he expected little else. Abruptly the knife’s blade left Lance’s throat, Snake’s grasp loosened, and he spun Lance around so fast, Lance almost lost his balance.
The Indian’s big fist reared up, then bore down with a force that sent Lance hurtling into the dirt. Fiery pain, white-hot and searing, erupted over his jaw. Bright lights flashed and blinded his vision.
Sonnie. Sonnie, my love.
And then everything went black.
Chapter 17
Lance clawed his way through the throbbing, whirling blackness toward the hazy gray cloud of consciousness. From far away, a woman’s voice reached him, gentle but persistent. He clung to the sound; the tones gave him focus, something to concentrate on during his fight through oblivion.
Someone tapped his cheek over and over and over. He moaned, wanting them to stop, to go away and let him rest until the pain in his jaw disappeared.
“Come on, mister. Wake up. You’ve got to wake up now. There you go. Come on.”
His eyes opened. The haze cleared, faded in and out, and he blinked. A pair of hummingbirds in a nest sat on a hat, a woman’s hat, amid a garish creation of velvet loops and grosgrain ribbons.
“He’s coming to,” the woman said, relieved.
Lance remembered the hat--gaudy, downright ugly. He remembered it from the train depot when Sonnie had tried to buy a ticket.
Sonnie.
Christ, he had to find her.
He groaned and tried to sit up, but strong hands pinned him down.
“Whoa, Boss. Take it easy. Not so fast.”
Lance swallowed. Drawn to the familiar voice, he swiveled his head in the dirt and squinted at Charlie. Their faces somber, Stick, Red Holmes, and Frank Burton peered over Charlie’s shoulder.
“Let me up,” Lance ordered, his voice thick. “They . . . took Sonnie.”
“I know. I heard. So did half the town. But you gotta give yourself a little time. You ain’t gonna be able to go after her when you can’t even see straight.”
“That Indian hit you pretty hard, mister. Didn’t think you was ever gonna wake up,” the woman said, her plump, kind features showing worry. “Get yourself together real quick. Your wife needs you.”
“She’s not my wife . . . yet.”
He shrugged free from Charlie and pushed to a sitting position. His world swam; he cursed the dizziness and managed to stand up. In unison, the others rose with him, ready to catch him should he fall. Lance touched his jaw gingerly, working the joints to make sure nothing had been broken.
“They rode into the yards over there.” The woman’s chubby finger pointed in the general direction of the railroad tracks. “I saw the whole thing. I felt real bad this had to happen, mister, just when you were gettin’ things patched up with your lady.”
He narrowed an eye toward the area she indicated. Driven by the need to find Sonnie, Lance felt his strength return by quick degrees. Clear, rational thought followed. He pivoted, wobbled, and headed toward Lord Whitby’s stallion.
“Sure you’re up to a fast ride, Boss?” Charlie asked, scrambling with the others to follow him
Lance tossed him a black glare to show him the folly of his question.
“No tellin’ what Miss Sonnie’s been through by now,” Stick muttered, anguished.
Lance settled unsteadily in the saddle and laced the reins around his fingers. He fought down the nauseous worry churning in his stomach.
“She’s a fighter. She’ll hold her own until we get to her.”
His gaze swept over the cowboys, each mounted and ready for his command. His men--Mancuso men who loved Sonnie almost as much as he did. Their loyalty filled him with pride. Never had he been as thankful to have them with him. They’d die for Sonnie if they had to.
“I sent for the police,” the woman said, brushing the dust off of Lance’s hat and handing it to him. “They should be here real soon.”
“I’m not waiting.”
He didn’t need them anyway. He and his men would take care of Clay Ditson their own way.
Raking a hand through his hair, ignoring the ache in his jaw, Lance pushed the hat onto his head and nodded his gratitude to the woman. He vowed to learn her name and thank her properly later, but for now, only Sonnie mattered.
“Anyone can see how much you two are in love,” she called out. The curious crowd parted. Lance and the others maneuvered their horses through. “Bring her back safe, y’hear?”
* * *
Lance ran an irritable glance over the wide expanse of Union Pacific Railroad yards. Years ago Vince had taught him to read sign, to track down cattle or horses that had strayed from their home range, but the skill proved worthless to him now when he needed it most. Coal and rocks strewn about the ground, which was already packed from the railroad’s heavy equipment, prevented any prints from being left behind, and they’d wasted too much time in the search.
“Sons of bitches could’ve gone any which way,” Charlie muttered.
“Yeah.”
Lance knew Ditson had fully intended to slow their hunt by fleeing through the yards, and the tactic had worked. Restless and anxious, he shifted in the saddle.
He knew of only one man better at tracking than he.
“Let’s go to Gracie’s,” he said, reining the stallion into a turn.
“What the hell for?” Charlie demanded.
“I’m guessing we’ll find Tom Horn with her.”
O’Neil Street rumbled with the pounding of hooves from their swift ride to Gracie’s little house. As they drew nearer, Lance removed his Colt from the holster and fired two shots into the air. Their horses halted on the front lawn, and the gunfighter, wearing nothing but his Levi’s, stepped onto the porch with a final buttoning of his pants.
“Harmon, what’re you tryin’ to do? Wake the dead?”
“Ditson and Snake took Sonnie. I’d be obliged if you’d help me get her back.”
Horn’s expression hardened. “Hold on till I get dressed.”
He retreated into the house. A few moments later, Horn returned fully clothed with his gun belt strapped around his hips. Gracie emerged with him, fastening a purple satin robe about her.
“You said Snake was part of it?” he asked, all business. At Lance’s affirmative reply, he nodded in satisfaction. “His horse’ll be unshod, then. Makes him easier to track. Where would t
hey hide out?”
“Who knows? Could be anywhere in the damned state.” Impatience swirled through Lance. “But I’d reckon they’d head to Silver Meadow first.”
Horn climbed on top of his horse. “Might be a place to start. If Ditson had any sense, he’d know that’s where we’d check first.”
“Who says he has any sense?” Lance said in a growl.
The miles to Silver Meadow, normally easy to manage, suddenly loomed long and frustrating, and he could hardly wait to get riding again. The stallion pranced from the lawn and onto the street; the other horses followed his lead.
“Lance, I’m sorry about Sonnie,” Gracie called. Concerned compassion filled her features. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Get word to Vince. He’ll want to know.”
She nodded and waved and ran back inside, all in one motion. With Horn on one side and Charlie on his other, Lance kicked the stallion’s ribs, and the grimly determined posse broke into a hard run toward Silver Meadow.
* * *
“Gonna be dark soon. She don’t have a coat.”
Jake McKenna tied the ends of the neckerchief covering Sonnie’s mouth into a tight knot, then pushed her down onto a charred log. Her hands and ankles were bound with ropes, and she landed with a painful thump to her tailbone. She speared him with a haughty glare.
“So?” Clay Ditson challenged. “That’s her problem.”
He moved about what little remained of the burned-out cabin and rooted through scattered dried leaves and debris in search of kindling. A brisk breeze blew over the rubble once claiming to be the structure’s walls; grass grew freely up to the foundation. Using blackened chunks of wood, he lit a fire in the sooty potbellied stove standing forlorn among the ashes.
“Why do we have to gag her, anyway? Nobody’s gonna know if she hollers all the way out here.”
Ditson slammed the stove’s door shut in a fit of temper.
“Will you quit your whinin’, McKenna? Shit! That’s all you bin doin’ since we left Cheyenne.”
“We’re miles from anybody, Clay. And she ain’t had nothin’ to drink or eat. What’s it gonna hurt?”