by Pam Crooks
“I don’t want her screamin’ or tryin’ nothin’ stupid. Silver Meadow ain’t that far from the main spread. What if somebody thinks they hear somethin’ and comes to check us out? ‘Sides, I don’t trust her. She’s a Mancuso, or did you forgit that?”
“I didn’t forget.”
The trace of sympathy McKenna had for Sonnie disappeared. She could hardly believe he was the same man who had playfully goaded her into a game of seven-up the night she’d slipped into the bunkhouse. His betrayal stung.
Jake sneered down at her. “Your old man ran us off our land when I was just a kid. But I remember like it was yesterday. We had our own herd, bought and paid for clean, and we was stayin’ in a cabin this side of the Iron Mountain. Mancuso claimed the land and everthin’ on it was his. Shot my pa down in cold blood when he tried to defend the place.”
Sonnie’s eyes widened in disbelief. Papa would never act so ruthlessly. Through the neckerchief, she attempted a denial. McKenna ignored her.
“I promised Ma the day we buried my pa I’d get even. The old man didn’t recognize me when I came back. Bastard don’t have a forgivin’ bone in his body. And I don’t either, not anymore. Not when it comes to Vince Mancuso or his uppity kin.” He loomed above her, his bowlegged stance rigid, his mood vengeful. “Poisoning a few of his precious cattle don’t cut it, though. But now I got you.”
Sonnie shivered from the loathing in his eyes. Abruptly he pursed his lips and hurled a stream of spittle into her face. Startled, she stiffened; the warm droplets slid from her cheek onto the navy blue shirtwaist. Pride kept her dignity intact, her chin up. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her humiliation, and she met his venomous gaze evenly.
“You don’t know what the old man is really like, do you, Miss Sonnie? You been off livin’ a life of luxury wearin’ your fancy clothes and expensive jewelry while me and my brothers and sisters been near starvin’. Ma died way before her time workin’ harder’n she should.” His chapped mouth curled with disgust. “Clay’s right, you know? We’ll let you spend the night cold and hungry. See how it feels.”
Ditson snorted and rammed the tip of a knife into a can of beans.
“You still complainin’ over there, McKenna?” he demanded, wrenching the blade until the tin parted. He set the container onto the hot stovetop and reached for a second. “I’ve heard your sob story too many times before.”
“It don’t hurt for her to know the way it is,” Jake said with a snarl. “Besides, you do your share of complainin’, same as me.”
Ditson dropped the can and bolted toward Jake. A flash of fear leaped into Jake’s eyes a split second before Ditson backhanded him with a savage stroke. The cowboy spun to the floor, and Ditson grabbed for him again.
A sharp, harsh call stopped a subsequent blow. Ditson twisted around toward Snake. The Indian snapped a few words in Shoshone. Ditson swore and let Jake fall.
“I near ‘bout had it with you, McKenna,” he said. “Now that we got Mancuso’s brat, I don’t have much use for you anymore, so keep your mouth shut from now on. You rile me another time, you’re dead.”
Jake wiped the blood oozing from his lip with the cuff of his coat and kept silent. Ditson returned to the stove and the can of beans, showing no more remorse than if he’d scolded a recalcitrant mule.
Sonnie’s pulse pounded from the exchange. Violence had never been a part of her life. Her puny strength would provide little protection against three armed men, and she dreaded the darkening of the night.
Lance would come for her. She knew it with the certainty of her love. But when? Snake had struck him so hard. She’d seen him fall, and her heart had cried out in anguish.
Throughout their hectic flight from Cheyenne, Sonnie thought of little else but him. She kept him close in her mind; he gave her courage, the will to hang on until he found her.
She strained against the ropes holding her wrists and hated her helplessness. Her eyes lifted. Snake, his long, coarse hair scattered about his shoulders, his angular features cast in shadows, stared at her mockingly.
They would use her tonight, as violently as Ditson had attempted to the night before at the Railroad Hotel. She vowed to fight them with every muscle she possessed. They would use their lust to punish her for her father’s actions; they would make her suffer with the degradation of her body.
Snake pulled his black-eyed gaze away and, with hands still bloody from the rabbit he’d skinned, turned the roasting meat impaled by a spit over the campfire. Succulent juices sizzled over the flames; the smells taunted Sonnie’s stomach.
Dusk had fallen, and the autumn breeze pulled her hair and nipped her with a chill. She squirmed on the log, and her aching limbs screamed in protest. She scanned the Wyoming horizon, remembering how beautiful Silver Meadow looked with its swaying grass and colorful wildflowers. Only yesterday, the rangeland had brought her pleasure; tonight, apprehension and dread dulled its appeal.
In the distance, a dog barked. Sonnie’s ears pricked; her senses heightened.
A spoonful of beans stopped midway to Ditson’s mouth. Unease emanated from him, and he set the can down, then reached for the Smith & Wesson revolver. The Indian and Jake studied the darkness not reached by the campfire’s light.
“Someone’s out there,” Ditson said and strode to the edge of the cabin’s foundation. He cocked his weapon.
The bark came again, this time closer. Ditson shot in the direction of the sound. The deafening pop cracked the silence, and Sonnie flinched.
The dog halted, wary of Ditson’s aim, then boldly loped toward them, his tongue lagging to one side. In the fiery light she recognized Moose, and his arrival from the ranch brought a measure of comfort. Ignoring Ditson, he trotted right up to her, his tail wagging excitedly; she would have petted him in welcome had her bound wrists allowed her. Ditson leveled the revolver at him, and she held her breath in alarm.
“Hold on, Clay,” Jake said in a hiss. “No more shootin’. You want to bring Harmon down on us? Stupid mutt’s probably just hungry.”
After a moment of deliberate consideration, Ditson lowered the gun and shoved it into his waistband. Receiving no affection from Sonnie, Moose meandered toward him, paused, and growled low in his throat.
“Git away from me, you stinkin’ mongrel,” Ditson said, and kicked at him.
Moose sidestepped the kick; his growling suddenly stopped. His long nose lifted in the air and sniffed voraciously of the roasting rabbit’s aroma. He whimpered and scampered closer to Snake. The Indian swung a muscular arm and swatted him away with an epithet.
“Come here, Moose.” Jake scooped out the beans in his can and dumped them in the grass. “Eat, you dumb dog,” he said, and left.
In a few swipes of his red tongue, the beans were gone. Moose licked the grass clean and moseyed over to Sonnie, sighed, and rested his head on top of her shoe.
The three men squatted on their haunches around the campfire and devoured the meat. They talked quietly among themselves, ignoring Sonnie and the dog.
She longed for her gray-blue cape with its hood and warm folds. The cold had become almost unbearable. Seated too far away from the fire to receive any heat, shivers racked her body, though she tried to hide them. Rumbles of hunger escaped her stomach, and she tried to hide those, too.
She didn’t want the men to know of her discomfort or her fear. She didn’t want to think of the hours ahead, of the struggles and humiliation she would endure. She didn’t want to be Ditson’s pawn in his plan to seek revenge against her father.
Her thoughts turned to Lance and fused into new worries. Why didn’t he come? Her despair raged fresh and strong, and she pulled at the rope wrapping her wrists; the raw flesh stung and burned with each effort.
Moose’s head lifted from her foot. He whined, a slight sound from his throat that no one but Sonnie heard. His tail, once still, wagged fast and furious.
He recognized something, someone, in the rangeland’s shadows. Sonnie’s heart stepped up its b
eat; she darted a glance toward the men. A bottle of whiskey kept them occupied; she was sure they hadn’t noticed anything to rouse their suspicions.
She braced herself for disappointment as her gaze searched the darkness. What if Moose saw only a squirrel or a fox?
Then her eyes found Lance.
He crept through the grass, his stealth hushed, determined, yet reckless. He seemed unbearably far away. She wanted to run to him. Their eyes met for long moments. It was as if he touched her, spoke to her, reassured her everything would be okay.
Yet everything could go wrong,
He held a finger to his lips. She nodded slightly, careful not to give him away with her action. He disappeared into the darkness.
She hated not being able to see him. She waited, fidgeted, worried--and hoped Moose would stay still. The cold night failed to chill her skin anymore; her blood raced hot with trepidation. The seconds dragged by like hours. Where was he?
A twig snapped, and Sonnie ventured a peek to the side of the cabin’s foundation. There, amid the rubble, the skeleton of a springboard wagon stood in the darkness. Lance hunkered beside it and pulled a bowie knife from its sheath; he dropped soundlessly to his belly and shimmied through the weeds toward her.
A round of whiskey-laced laughter erupted from the campfire, and Lance froze. Sonnie’s breath hitched, but none of the men glanced over. She swallowed down her anxiety, and he continued toward her.
Sheer willpower kept her from squirming, and then he was there, in front of her, slicing the knife’s blade through the ropes around her ankles, then behind her to cut through the ones about her wrists. Moose, in his excitement, wiggled and twitched; his tail thumped the cabin’s floor. Sonnie feared he would start barking at any moment.
She knew Lance’s impatience with the dog and the very real possibility that Moose would give them away. Lance tossed his knife aside. With one hand, he clamped Moose’s jaws closed; with the other he fumbled with the neckerchief, tied so tightly that the corners of Sonnie’s mouth ached. Her arms, numb from lack of circulation, lifted to lend assistance, but the binding proved unexpectedly stubborn.
Moose pulled away and began to yip and dance and proclaim Lance’s arrival with maddening exuberance.
Shouts exploded from around the campfire. Lance hissed a curse, gave a final yank, and the neckerchief fell away. He pressed a pistol into Sonnie’s hand and jerked her to her feet.
“Get out of here!” he yelled over the chaos and pushed her away.
“Harmon! You slime-bellied bastard!”
His teeth bared in a snarl, Jake McKenna stood wide-legged with a raised gun pointed at Lance’s back. His finger moved; Lance spun and lifted his own weapon. McKenna’s body jerked from the force of the striking bullet, blood spurted over the front of his chest, and he fell dead in a sprawled heap.
Sonnie cried out, but no one seemed to hear. Shrieking like a hyena, Snake leaped forward and hurtled through the air toward Lance. The Indian’s brawn toppled him, the force knocking the gun from Lance’s grip, and the two men rolled and scuffled in the grass.
“Move, Snake, damn you!” Ditson shouted, waving the Smith & Wesson in his agitation. “Get off him. Let me kill him!” He ran closer, pointing the revolver’s barrel scant feet from the wrestling men. “Give me a clear shot, y’hear?”
Moose growled with a ferocity Sonnie had never before heard. His sharp teeth protruded from his open mouth, and he vaulted toward Ditson, clamping his jaws firmly around a scrawny forearm. Ditson screamed and tried to push him off. Moose held on all the tighter, and man and beast tumbled over the cabin’s floor.
Fear for Lance’s life choked the air in Sonnie’s lungs. The pistol’s cold metal burned her palms; she lifted it higher. She must shoot and save him, but he wouldn’t hold still, wouldn’t stay in one place to give her a chance.
Dear God, what if she missed Snake and hit Lance instead?
From out of nowhere, the Indian pulled out a knife, its ominous blade already stained with blood. His powerful body straddled Lance’s; his muscle-thewed arm shot upward, fingers curled around the handle, the deadly tip turned downward. His chest heaving, Lance gripped Snake’s wrist to prevent its descent. His muscles quivered from the effort; perspiration beaded his forehead. He was at a terrible disadvantage; he wouldn’t outlast the Indian’s strength much longer.
She had to shoot, or Lance would be lost to her forever.
Nothing in her tender upbringing had prepared her for this moment. She leveled the pistol at Snake, held it with both hands, and pulled the trigger. The Indian grunted, and he fell forward in a heap on top of Lance.
Tom Horn burst through the shadows. Stick and Charlie. Red Holmes. Frank Burton. Lance sucked in mammoth breaths before shoving Snake’s lifeless body away. He staggered to his feet, dirty and disheveled, but blessedly alive. A sob rent Sonnie. The pistol fell from her hands, and she flew into his arms.
Ditson sliced the night with a mighty curse, and another shot exploded. Moose yelped and whined, bounded off of him, and limped into a corner to nurse the graze on his flank. His features demonic, Ditson cackled in gap-toothed glee, and ran toward Lance and Sonnie.
Firelight jumped off the revolver’s barrel. As if in slow motion, Ditson kept coming closer, closer. His wild, triumphant screams echoed in Sonnie’s ears, but they sounded far, so far away.
A bullet whined. Ditson’s back arched, but still he kept coming. Looking stunned, Tom Horn, Charlie, and all the Mancuso men whirled to search the darkness behind them.
Ditson bettered his aim. He was frighteningly close, but Sonnie couldn’t move, couldn’t scream in warning. Lance yelled and twisted, putting himself between her and Ditson’s gun, shielding her from what was to come. His arms tightened about her; she buried her face into his neck and waited to die.
Bullets pelted--three, four, five, six in succession. Blood spattered over their clothes, and Ditson dropped dead with a final gasp.
* * *
The haze of spent gunpowder hung over Silver Meadow like an acrid cloud. The well-stoked campfire brightened the darkness and illuminated the sheet-draped bodies lying in the coroner’s wagon. Dancing, flickering flames chased away the autumn nights chill, warming Sonnie and the group of men huddled around the cabin’s abandoned shell. Their voices, subdued but relaxed, softened the range’s stark silence. Moose, his hind leg duly bandaged, basked in the limelight of attention and care.
Sonnie watched Lance fill a tin cup with black coffee and hand the steaming brew to her father, seated near the fire. Looking gaunt yet animated, Papa wore a hospital robe beneath his suede coat; a woolen blanket covered his lap.
“Another two seconds, Vince, and Sonnie and I would have been goners,” Lance said wryly, moving next to her and slipping his arm around her waist. She snuggled closer and shuddered from the memory. “What the hell took you so long to shoot?”
“I wanted to savor the pleasure.” Papa slurped loudly, winced, and swallowed. His eyes gleamed, as if he were reliving the moments just before Clay Ditson died. “After Gracie came and told us about Sonnie’s kidnapping, I couldn’t get out here fast enough. I’d waited a long time to get Ditson off of Mancuso land my way. I had to make it last, eh?”
He clearly derived great satisfaction from the act. Sonnie wondered if he’d worried about her at all.
“If I’d known you carried a weapon into my hospital, Vince . . ..” The words trailed off of Doc Tanner’s tongue threateningly.
Papa shrugged. “A cattleman must protect what is his, Ed. He can’t do it without a gun.”
A cattleman must protect what is his. Did he, as her father, mean to protect her, as well?
Sonnie couldn’t be sure, and that saddened her.
She recalled Jake McKenna’s story of how his father had died under Papa’s gun. Throughout the long years she’d been gone, Papa had evolved into a different man--harder, ruthless, driven. Had he lost his capacity to love his own flesh and blood?
Nor
could she forget the yellowed envelope with its shattering document inside.
A spasm of coughing took him, and Doc Tanner rose, waiting patiently until the spell passed.
“We have to get you back to Cheyenne, Vince. This cold and excitement will be the end of you yet.”
“I’ll sleep good tonight, eh?” Papa smiled and allowed the doctor to take his elbow. He turned. “Are you coming back with us, Sonnie?”
“No. I’ll stay at the Big House tonight.”
A flicker of surprise passed over his features, but he nodded. “Suit yourself , mia bambina.”
“I am not your baby, Papa.” Her simple statement, softly spoken, yet firm, emphatic, and more than a little rebellious, raised his brow. “I am a woman now. But, more important, I am your daughter. Or have you forgotten?”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten,” he said, frowning sternly. “Why would you say that?”
She pulled away from Lance, even though he tried to hold her near him. “Did you adopt Lance, Papa?”
Her point-blank question startled him. He glanced at Lance, then back at her. “You found the paper, then.”
“I did.”
His nostrils flared slightly, as if he disliked explaining his, actions. “I gave him my love, but not my name, Sonnie. I intended to go through with the adoption, but I never made it to probate court.”
“Why not? Then you would have had the son you always wanted.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her tone.
“Yes.” He showed no regret, no apology, no sensitivity to her wounded feelings. “He was very young when I brought him out here. He was hungry. He needed a home. I would have filed the legal papers to keep him on the ranch with me, but he loved the country so much. He thrived on the land, the work. He couldn’t get enough of the fresh air. Soon I could see he would never leave.” Papa spoke of Lance as if he were in the next county instead of only a few feet away, listening intently. “Besides, after you came home that first time, I could tell he had fallen in love with you. I knew he would marry you, and then he would always stay, because you loved the ranch, too. I was right, eh?”