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Scanlin's Law
Susan Amarillas
Kidnapped!The word tore at Rebecca's heart. Her child was gone. And standing before her was Luke Scanlin, U.S. Marshal, the only man who could save her son. But how could she trust him again when she knew that Luke held the power to ruin her life forever?Luke had thought no woman could ever hold him, yet the memory of Rebecca had haunted him for years. He had passed up their chance at happiness once before. But this time he wasn't going to let her out of his sight until she realized that she belonged with him - forever… .



Scanlin’s Law
Susan Amarillas






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Barbara Musumeci, a dearest friend who is far away but close to my heart. This one’s for you. There’s nary a horse in sight.

Contents
Chapter One (#u56c0feaa-bf4e-5409-88a8-0cbe8af14111)
Chapter Two (#u24208fd7-213b-5938-a3c3-6c29c113f776)
Chapter Three (#ucedc9330-8faa-5b5d-9770-2ed5ba2fac40)
Chapter Four (#u729fa3a2-624e-50e2-b178-0987288e88b4)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One
San Francisco
October 1880
What the hell was he doing here?
Luke Scanlin swung down off his chestnut gelding and looped the reins through the smooth metal ring of the hitching post. Storm clouds, black and threatening, billowed overhead. Rain spattered against the side of his face. It caught on his eyelashes and plastered his hair to his neck. He shivered, more from reflex than from cold.
Three days. He had been in town three days. It had been raining when he finally stepped off the train from Cheyenne, and it was raining now. Aw, hell, he figured it was destined to rain forever.
Fifty feet away, the house, her house, stood like some medieval fortress. It was gray, and as intimidating as any castle. Three floors high, it was as impressive as the other Nob Hill mansions that lined both sides of California Street.
A wry smile played at the corners of his mouth. A princess needs a castle, he thought. But if she was a princess, then what was he? Certainly Luke Scanlin was nobody’s idea of a prince.
That blasted rain increased, trickling off his drooping hat brim and running straight down his neck. “Damn,” he muttered as he flipped up the collar of his mud-stained slicker. He was cold and wet and generally a mess, and still he stood there, staring up at the house.
His hand rested on the hitching post, two fingers on the cold iron, three fingers curled around the smooth leather reins. He ought to mount up and ride away, logic coaxed for about the hundredth time in the past hour. His muscles tensed, and he actually made a half turn, then stopped.
This was pathetic. Here he stood like some schoolboy, afraid to go in there and see her.
Well, she wasn’t just anyone.
When he rode away that day eight years ago, he’d been so certain he was right.
The breeze carried the scent of salt water up from the bay, and the rain intensified, soaking the black wool of his trousers where they brushed against the tops of his mud-spattered black boots. Oak trees rustled in the breeze, sending the last of their golden leaves skittering along the street.
Beside him, the gelding nickered, his bridle rattling as he shook his head in protest at being out in the storm.
“Quiet, Scoundrel.” Luke soothed the animal with a pat and stared up at the house once more.
Well, what’s it going to be? You going to stand here all day?
He sighed. What was he going to say to her after all these years? Pure and simple, this was flat-out asking for trouble. Leave well enough alone.
But trouble was something Luke had never shied away from. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. In fact, he and trouble were old friends.
He started toward the house.
* * *
Rebecca Parker Tinsdale strode into the parlor of her home shortly past nine in the morning. The distant rumble of thunder accompanied her arrival. The storm-shrouded sunlight gave the white walls a grayish tinge, and the rich rococo-style mahogany furnishings only added to the dark and ominous feeling of the day. A pastoral painting by Constable hung over the fireplace, but the scene—a picnic on a bright summer day—seemed inappropriate, given the ominous dread that permeated the house.
She managed to keep her expression calm. Inside, fear was eating her alive. Her hands shook, and she buried them in the folds of her dark blue dress. The faille was smooth against her fingers.
In four carefully measured steps, Rebecca crossed the room to where Captain Amos Brody, chief of the San Francisco police, waited near the pale rose settee.
“Have you found Andrew?” She spoke slowly, struggling to hold the fear in check. Even as she asked, she could tell the answer by his grim expression.
If anything happened to Andrew... If he was hurt or...
Steady. Don’t fall apart. Andrew needs you.
“Well, Mrs. Tinsdale...” Brody began, his rotund body straining at the double row of brass buttons that marched down the front of his dark blue uniform, “I’ve had two men searching all night. They’ve looked everywhere, and I’m sorry to say there’s no sign of the boy.”
“Keep looking, Captain.”
“Oh, you can rely on us,” Brody returned in an indulgent tone. “I’ll personally tell the men on the beat to keep an eye out.”
Rebecca stiffened. She and Brody made no secret of their mutual dislike. That series of articles she’d been running in the Daily Times on police corruption was leading a path straight to Brody and half of his department. Still, he was in charge and, like it or not, she had to deal with him.
“Captain, I expect you to do more than keep an eye out. This isn’t a lost kitten you can dismiss and hope it eventually finds its way home. This—” she emphasized the words, as though to drive them into his thick balding skull “—this is my son. And you will help me find him.”
She saw him bristle—saw his Adam’s apple work up and down in his throat.
They faced each other, the refined lady and the harsh man, each appraising the other. Rebecca had wealth, and she published a small newspaper. That gave her power. A mother’s fear gave her determination. She knew Brody was the one who ultimately made the assignments, determined how and when and where things were done. It galled her to have to ask the man for help. If Brody chose to make only a halfhearted effort because of their feud, she might not know until it was too late for her—for her only child.
Outside, the rain spattered against the lace-curtained front window, drawing Rebecca’s attention. Silvery streaks of water cascaded down the glass. Andrew was out there somewhere, cold and afraid. He was only seven, so small, and so fragile since his illness last year. Terror, stark and real, swept through her, and she advanced on Brody. “Whatever it takes, Captain. Send more men, ten men, a hundred—”
“I’d like to do that, Mrs. Tinsdale, but I can’t.” Brody punctuated his statement with a nonchalant shrug that pushed her rapidly rising temper up another notch. “Finding one boy is small compared to the job of protecting this city. With less than two hundred men on the force, well, I have an obligation to all the citizens of this fair community,” he finished, in a pious tone that would have made her laugh at any other time. “As it is, I’ve taken men from other areas to search, and—”
“I don’t care about other areas.” Condescending bastard, she thought as she paced away from him, her rage too great for her to remain still. She talked over her shoulder. “I don’t care about other citizens.” She turned back, her hands balled into tight fists, feeling the perspiration on her palms. “I don’t care about anything or anyone but finding my son. I’ve been out there all night myself. Dammit, Captain, I expect you to do the same.”
Brody nodded and held up his hand in a placating gesture that only aggravated her dangerously short temper.
“Mrs. Tinsdale, I know you’re upset and all, but I’ve handled this sort of thing before and I know what I’m doing.”
Rebecca closed on him, contemplating serious bodily injury. “Captain Brody, either you do your job or I’ll ask the mayor to find someone who can.” It was a hollow threat since the mayor was a strong supporter of Brody’s, but she made it just the same.
“Now look here, lady,” he sputtered. “I know you’re upset, but don’t tell me how to do my job. Before you start ordering me around, you might as well face facts. The boy’s probably run off, is all. It’s only been since last night.” Maliciousness sparked in his blue eyes. “Sooner or later he’ll get tired and hungry, then turn tail and head for home...” He paused thoughtfully. “Unless someone’s taken him. Then, of course, it’s another matter.”
Her blood turned to ice. It was that thought that had circled in her mind all night, the way a wolf circles in the shadows of a camp. In a voice that was barely audible, she spoke the terrifying words. “Someone has taken my son?”
Brody gave a one-shoulder shrug, then picked up his cap, as though he were about to leave. “It’s possible.” He turned the dark blue hat absently in his pudgy hand. “I’ll do the best I can, but you gotta remember this is a big city. It can be a mean city, too, and people, including children, disappear here all the time. Ships go in and out of this harbor with all kinds of cargo, if you get my meaning.”
She did. God help her, she understood his meaning all too well. Her knees buckled, and she sank down in a chair. Brody was wrong. He had to be wrong. Andrew was lost. He’d gotten too far from home and become confused. Yes, that was it. That had to be it. To think otherwise... To think of some depraved person with her son, scaring him, hurting him, kil— No!
With sheer force of will, she refused to think that and, looking up, saw that Brody was still talking.
“—figure out who the boy is, what he’s worth.” She saw him glance around the elegant room, as if to confirm his appraisal. “Maybe they’ll make a try for ransom, otherwise th—”
Brody broke off in midword, and she saw that his gaze was focused on the doorway behind her. Still seated, she turned.
An eerie silence fell as Rebecca and Brody stared at the powerful man standing two feet inside the parlor. He looked every inch the outlaw, dressed as he was in range clothes and a slicker. For a breathless moment, Rebecca thought Brody’s prediction had come true.
The man was tall, with broad shoulders, and his dark countenance seemed in stark contrast to the refinements of a San Francisco drawing room.
She was about to demand his identity when her gaze flicked to his face and she looked straight into dark eyes, bottomless eyes, familiar eyes.
Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Oh, no...” The words were a thready whisper. She felt the blood drain from her face.
Speechless, Rebecca stared at him. Luke Scanlin. His mere presence emanated a power that surged through the room faster than lightning.
So he’s finally here. The odd thought flashed in her mind.
“Hello, Princess,” he said, in a husky tone that sent unwelcome and definitely unexpected shivers skittering up her spine.
What in God’s name was Luke doing here? Not once in nearly eight years had she seen or heard from him, and now he strolled in here as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Well, it wasn’t the most natural thing, not in her world. Never mind those delicious shivers. He was firmly and irrevocably in her past.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Brody take a menacing step in Luke’s direction. “Mister, just who are you, and how did you get in here?” he demanded with an appraising stare. “Do you know something about this?”
“Name’s Scanlin,” Luke returned, with an impudent Texas drawl. He walked slowly into the room, his steps muffled by the thick flowered carpet. “I saw you through the window. When no one answered the door, I let myself in.”
Luke never let a little thing like a closed door stop him from getting what he was after. What he was after right now was perched on the edge of a chair about five feet away.
Absently he sized the other man up and quickly dismissed him, keeping his gaze focused on the object of his visit.
Becky.
She was more beautiful than he remembered, and he remembered very, very well. A little thinner, perhaps, and obviously upset. He’d only caught the tail end of the conversation. “What’s going on?”
“Scanlin?” Brody rubbed his chin thoughtfully and ignored the question. “You by any chance Luke Scanlin, the one who brought in Conklin?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“I’ve heard of you. Thought you were with the Rangers down around...San Antonio, wasn’t it?”
“Amarillo,” he replied. “I’m not with the Rangers anymore.”
Luke closed on Rebecca, stopping in front of her. Dark smudges shadowed her blue eyes, and her skin was winter white. Her hair was the same, though, golden, and done up softly, tiny wisps framing the fine bones of her face. He’d remembered her hair down and loose around her shoulders, remembered it gliding like silk over his bare chest while he—
He gulped in a lungful of air and stilled the direction of his thoughts. Damn. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but this wasn’t it.
Rebecca stared at him as he dropped down on one knee in front of her. Absently she noted that his slicker left a smudge of dirt on the carpet.
“Becky? Princess? What’s happened?” he asked, in a tender voice that was nearly her undoing. Oh, Luke don’t do this to me. Not now.
All her defensive instincts were screaming that she should move, get up, walk away. She didn’t. His face filled her line of vision.
He looked at her, his eyes as black as sable and just as soft, and her heart took on a funny little flutter. She had to stop herself from reaching out and brushing his cheek.
The years had been kind to him, she thought. He was as handsome as ever, maybe more so. His chiseled face was all high ridges and curved valleys, the sternness softened by the tiny lines around his eyes and mouth that showed he was a man who liked to smile. She remembered that smile, roguish and charming enough to melt granite. The other thing she remem-bered was that way he had of looking at her, lover-soft. The way he was looking at her now.
“Rebecca?” he said, his tone coaxing.
“Hello, Luke,” she managed to say, surprised that her voice sounded so steady. “What...what are you doing here?”
Purposefully Luke plopped his rain-soaked hat beside him on the carpet and raked one hand through his hair. She looked so forlorn, like a lost kitten, and it was the most natural thing to want to wrap her in his embrace and protect her from whatever the hell was wrong. All things considered—things like his timing, and the fact that they weren’t alone—he reluctantly decided on a more formal approach.
“My apologies for dropping by unannounced, but I—”
He fired a glance at the police officer, who was watching them with open interest, then back to Rebecca’s worried face. Concern won out over formality, and he cut to the point.
“Somebody want to tell me what the devil is going on? I heard something about a boy being missing.”
“That’s correct,” the policeman replied, in a tone tinged with an arrogance that rankled Luke. Arms folded across his chest, the man leaned one shoulder against the white marble mantel.
Luke reined in his infamously short temper and said, “And the boy is...”
“My son,” Rebecca supplied, so softly he might not have heard if he hadn’t been looking straight at her.
Holy sh—
Luke sank back on his heels, his slicker pouching out around his knees. Becky had a child, a son. All these years he’d never thought of her having a child. He’d known she had married. He’d also learned her husband had died last year. That was part of the reason he’d taken this assignment.
“Aw, hell, Becky, I’m sorry,” he said, with real sincerity. And that need to protect prompted him to cover her hands with his, his thumb rubbing intimately over her knuckles. Her skin was ice-cold, and he felt her tremble. “Is the boy your only child?” he asked, as much from curiosity as from concern.
Rebecca’s heart seemed to still in her chest, then took off like a frightened bird. A surprising reaction. She was not given to flights of fancy, and Luke Scanlin was definitely a fantasy—a young girl’s fantasy. “Don’t, Luke.” She slipped her hands free and stood. “Yes, Andrew is my only child.” She moved clear of him, survival instincts finally coming to the fore. “What are you doing here?”
He mirrored her stance, thinking it was such a simple question. Up until five minutes ago he’d been sure he knew exactly why he was here—to see her, talk to her and, yes, convince himself that she was merely one of many women he’d known.
Trouble was, five minutes ago he hadn’t seen her, hadn’t touched her, hadn’t looked into those liquid blue eyes of hers, the ones that were making his breathing a little unsteady.
Faster than ice dissolves when touched by a flame, his reasons vanished, and he told her honestly, “I came to see you.”
“Why?” she asked, and instantly regretted the question. It didn’t matter why—or did it?
“I came because—” his voice dropped to a husky timbre “—because I couldn’t stay away any longer.”
His voice, his closeness, it was all too much, and she felt cornered. Moreover, she didn’t like the feeling, not one bit. In fact, she resented Luke for making her feel this way. She feigned thoughtfulness as she took refuge behind the settee. “I have no time, Luke. My son’s missing, and I have business with Captain Brody here. So another time, perhaps.”
He recognized the dismissal. Oh, it was formal and polite, but it was a dismissal all the same. Luke wasn’t buying. He was here and he was going to stay, though he still wasn’t quite sure why. Missing children were hardly his line of work, not unless they held up a bank along the way. Maybe it was his lawman’s curiosity. Maybe it was that the policeman annoyed the royal hell out of him. Maybe it was that he wanted to see her smile, once, for him. Whatever it was, he said simply, “I prefer now.” He unfastened the buttons on his slicker and tossed it on the floor near his hat.
Brody spoke up. “Mrs. Tinsdale, would you like me to show him out?”
Luke straightened. A slow smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, pulled up one corner of his mouth. “Captain, you couldn’t if you tried.”
Brody shifted away from the mantel and took a threatening half step in Luke’s direction. Luke did likewise. Who the hell did this son of a bitch think he was?
“Stop it!” Rebecca ordered hotly. “I won’t have this in my house!”
Luke turned on her. Anger flashed in his black eyes. That short temper of his had shot up faster than a bullet, and he wasn’t used to backing down. But this was her house, and—
“All right,” Luke muttered, with a slight shake of his head to dispel the anger.
Brody, too, gave a curt nod and retreated to his place by the hearth.
Luke dropped down on the settee, making clear his intention to stay, in case there was still some doubt in someone’s mind. “Okay, someone tell me what happened.”
He was arrogant and self-involved as ever, Rebecca thought, her own temper moving up a notch. Looking at him sitting casually on her sofa, for the briefest moment she was tempted to recant and let Brody escort Luke out.
Who did she think she was kidding? Brody throw Luke out? Not hardly. Not without a scene. There was only one way to make him budge, and that was to give him what he wanted.
“My son disappeared yesterday,” she told him flatly. And it’s all my fault. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew it must be. Her guilt added to her anguish.
“What time?” Luke leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Her mind wandered back to the terrible moment when she’d realized he was really gone. Disbelief had turned to shock, then fear. It was the fear that was twisting noose-tight in her stomach as the minutes slipped past. “What? Oh...” She began to pace again, her hem brushing the carpet as she walked. “Luke, I’ve already gone over this with Captain Brody.” She nodded in Brody’s direction, and he responded with a smug sort of nod.
“Well, tell me, then we’ll all know,” he said, his tone a mix of sarcasm and demand.
She was so astounded by his firm tone that she was more surprised than angry. And maybe that was the best thing. People made mistakes, said things better left unsaid, when they were angry. She needed all her wits about her when dealing with Luke.
She halted by the grand piano and looked out through the lace-curtained window. Rain sheeted on the glass, the lawn and the street beyond, casting blurred shadows, dark and menacing as the vivid fears she had for her son.
With sightless eyes, she continued to stare out as she spoke. “It was about four in the afternoon. I’d let him play in on the porch until dinner was ready. When I went to check on him, he was gone.”
“Any sign of a struggle, of any...injury?”
She turned sharply. “What do you mean, injury?”
“Blood?”
“Dear God, no!”
“Could he have run off?” he countered quickly, not wanting to upset her more than necessary. “Maybe he’s gone somewhere he isn’t supposed to go? Boys have a way of doing that sort of thing. Maybe he’s afraid to come home.”
“No.” She shook her head adamantly. “Andrew’s not afraid of me. He knows, no matter what, I love him. Besides, I’ve checked with his friends, and no one has seen him. The only family we have is my mother-in-law, Ruth. She lives with us. She’s out there now searching...like I should be, would be if—”
He held up a placating hand. “Just a couple more questions.”
Luke stood and faced Brody directly. So the boy had been missing all night. He was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. Still, there was no sense jumping to conclusions. “All right, Captain, what have you done to find the child...Andrew?”
“Listen, Scanlin, this is none of your business,” Brody flung back at him, obviously still smarting from the earlier challenge.
Luke didn’t give a damn. “Becky’s child is missing. I’m making it my business.”
Brody slapped his cap on his head and made as if to leave.
Luke blocked his path.
“I asked you a question, mister, and I want an answer. What have you done to find this child?”
Brody took a couple of steps back and looked up at Luke. Rage colored his blue eyes. “Look, Scanlin, you don’t have authority here, and I—” he thumbed his chest, near his badge “—don’t answer to you. I’m handling this just fine.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Luke said, without an ounce of remorse in his voice, “but I do have authority here.” With thumb and forefinger, he peeled back the edge of his gray wool vest to reveal a small silver badge. “U.S. marshal for this region, as of last Monday.”
Brody puffed up like an overstuffed bullfrog. “So?” he sputtered. “This ain’t a federal crime. This is local, and that means it’s my jurisdiction.”
“I wouldn’t let a little thing like a technicality get in the way. Becky’s in trouble. Her son’s in trouble, and that’s all the authority I need. This is personal.” And it was, he realized with a start—very personal.
Brody’s gaze flicked from Luke to Rebecca and back again. “Personal, huh? You and `Becky’ old friends?” he said smugly, in a way that implied something illicit. It implied something that could ruin a lady’s reputation.
Luke grabbed a fistful of blue uniform and yanked the man up close, so close their faces were only inches apart. “I don’t think I like your tone...Captain.” He spit the words out harshly. “The lady and I are friends. You wanna make something more out of it?”
Brody covered Luke’s hand with his own, trying to pry it loose. His pudgy fingers cut into Luke’s knuckles. Luke responded by giving the man a shake. “Now either watch what you say, or you and I can step outside and discuss this more vigorously.”
“Luke, for heaven’s sake,” Rebecca cut in. Luke ignored her this time. No way was he letting this bastard make a remark, start some gossip. He didn’t know much about society, but he knew firsthand how hurtful gossip could be.
Brody’s cheeks were mottled with red. His eyes literally bulged in his face. Through clenched teeth, Luke continued, “Well, what’s it gonna be?” He saw Brody’s gaze dart around the room, as though he were looking for help or an escape.
Luke’s mouth pulled up in a crooked smile that held no warmth, a smile that said there was no escape.
Helplessly Brody bobbed his head up and down like a puppet on a string. “You and her—”
“Who?” Luke demanded.
“Mrs. Tinsdale! You and Mrs. Tinsdale are friends.”
“Damned straight,” Luke snarled. “If I hear anything to the contrary, you and I are gonna tangle, Brody.” Luke released his hold so suddenly the man stumbled back a couple of steps before regaining either his balance or his composure. “Now, answer my question. What have you done to find the boy?”
This time Brody did answer, though to say it was curt would have been an understatement. Luke listened to Brody’s half hearted excuse for a search plan. The man couldn’t find his hat in a room full of spurs. Good thing Luke had spent the past three days looking over the files in the office, the map of the city, police rosters and the like. It was always his habit to familiarize himself with a town. Luke had never thought he’d need his knowledge so quickly, or for such an unhappy reason.
Without hesitation, he said, “Pull the patrolmen from the residential areas. Those are low-risk and can spare the men. Leave the business districts and the, ah...entertainment areas down by the docks at full staff. If there’s any trouble, it’ll be there first. Have the men here within an hour.”
Brody smoothed his rumpled uniform over his belly. “Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here—”
“I think I’m the man who’s gonna find that boy.” If it wasn’t too late, he thought but didn’t say. Becky looked upset enough, without him adding to it, especially if it wasn’t necessary.
Brody made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. “The men won’t like being pulled off duty to search for some kid who’s probably holed up somewhere, laughing his head off at all the excitement.”
Rebecca spoke up. “Andrew would never—”
Luke cut across her words. “I don’t want to hear your opinions, Brody. Do what I’m telling you, and do it now, dammit!”
Brody slapped his cap on his head and stormed toward the front door. “I’ll see the mayor about this, Scanlin.” He disappeared around the doorway.
“Yeah, well, tell him to wire President Hayes if he’s got any complaints,” Luke snarled. There were some advantages to being a U.S. marshal. Being a presidential appointee was one of them.
Quickly he called out, “Right here, one hour—or I’ll come looking for you.”
The door slammed with glass-rattling force. With an anger he didn’t mean to take out on Rebecca, Luke whirled and said, “I’ll need a room.”
“What?” she muttered. She was still trying to assimilate the fact that Luke was a U.S. marshal. Of all the places in this country that needed a marshal, why did he have to be here—now?
Suddenly his demand penetrated her thoughts. “What do you mean, you want a room? Don’t marshals get offices and quarters?”
“Offices yes, quarters no—”
“Well, you can’t stay here.” she said, meaning more than in this house and more than this minute. She wanted him gone.
“Becky, my room is way the other side of town. The search area is here. I need to be close to the trouble.”
He obviously wasn’t going to go quietly. “Look, I appreciate you helping me with Captain Brody, and I appreciate you wanting to help with the search, but I hardly think you need to stay here.”
She started for the hallway. Luke followed, not bothering to bring along his hat and slicker.
She could be just as determined as he was. Lifting her coat from the mirrored hall tree, she pulled it on. The black wool was expensive and cashmere-soft against the side of her neck.
Luke positioned himself between her and the doorway. “Are you deliberately trying to make this difficult?”
“I’m not.” It was already more difficult than anything should be. With both hands, she pulled her hood up to cover her hair. “Staying here isn’t—”
“Do you want the boy—”
“Andrew.”
“Andrew,” he said with a nod. “Do you want him back or not?” He ran both hands through his hair, leaving furrows in the inky blackness.
“Of course, but—”
“I’m telling you, I need to be here. I need to coordinate with the police, and I can’t do that if I’m running back and forth most of the time. Look, if it’s so troublesome, I’ll camp in the damned front yard. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been cold and dirty.”
She looked up then, saw the determination and the concern mirrored in his grim expression. Was there some plan to make her life as difficult as possible? She desperately needed help, had prayed for help, but not from Luke Scanlin. Anyone but Luke Scanlin.
Logic warred with fear—fear of herself and him and the sudden flare of pleasure she’d felt when he first walked in here. What kind of a woman was she to have even the barest trembling of desire when her son was missing?
Without thinking, she took a retreating step back. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you need me.”
“I don’t need you,” she countered emphatically.
“Well, you need someone, ‘cause even I can see that Brody’s not getting the job done. I do this for a living, and I’m damned good at it.”
That she had no doubt about. It was the needing-him part that was grating on her already raw nerves. She needed Luke Scanlin like she needed to be trampled in a stampede, but it all came down to this: Brody was next to useless. Luke had managed to get more from the man in the past few minutes than she’d managed since last night. Andrew was out there, and if it would help her get her son back, she’d dance with the devil himself. Looking at Luke’s hypnotic black eyes, she had a sinking feeling that the dance was about to begin.
“There’s a guest room at the top of the stairs.” She gestured with her head. “I’ll have the maid show you.”
“I can track down a guest room.” He smiled, and this time he touched her shoulder, very lightly.
It was the second time he’d touched her. The second time those familiar shivers had skittered up her spine. No! She wouldn’t give in to him. Not this time. Not ever again. Needing distance, she moved away. “Third door on the left.” She fumbled with the ebony buttons on her coat. “The bed’s made, and I’ll have towels brought in when I return. The housekeeper’s been sick. She’ll be back tomorrow. My mother-in-law will be here tonight.”
Luke smiled. It was a lopsided smile, filled with enough roguish charm to melt the coldest heart. If she stood here looking at that smile much longer, her knees were going to melt, that was for certain.
“I’ll be back later.” She was reaching for the shiny brass doorknob when his hand on her shoulder turned her to face him again. His dark brows were drawn together in a frown.
“Back? What do you mean, back? Where are you going?”
“Out.” She made a show of tugging on her kidskin gloves while she slipped free of his touch. Darn those goose bumps.
Luke’s expression drew down. “Out? Why, for heaven’s sake? The police will be here in an hour, and then—”
“I’m going now.” She turned the knob and pulled the door partially open. The rain dripped from the roof and made noisy plick-plops on the wooden planks of the porch. The sudden draft felt blessedly cold against the side of her face.
“Look,” he started to say with a nod—a gesture Rebecca suspected was meant to pacify rather than to indicate agreement. He grasped the edge of the open door, holding it firmly, and looked at her in a way that was all too familiar, a way that brought better-forgotten memories rushing to the surface faster than lava in a volcano, and just as hot.
“This is crazy. We’re gonna cover the same ground in an hour.” He pushed on the door.
Rebecca held fast, as though this were a test of wills between them. Accepting help was one thing, surrender was another. This felt like giving in. “I’m going.” She pulled, and he released his hold on the door.
She slipped out and pulled the heavy oak door closed behind her. She knew he was watching her through the clear etched glass. Until thirty minutes ago, she had thought she’d closed the door on Luke Scanlin just as easily. It seemed she was wrong.

Chapter Two
Rebecca took the front steps in five firm strides. She was angry, and it wasn’t until the rain splattered against her cheeks that she realized she’d forgotten to take an umbrella. Clenched-jawed and angry, she kept going. She’d drown before she’d go back in there. She’d had enough of him for now. She’d had enough of him for good.
Raindrops clung to her eyelashes, and she swiped them away with the back of her gloved hand, then yanked her hood farther forward—not that it did much good. It was raining like hell. By the time she turned through the gate, her coat was soaked and the wet had penetrated through to her dress. Goose bumps were prickling across her shoulders, and a shiver was inching down her spine.
She made a sharp left turn that would have been the envy of any military cadet. Thunder rumbled, but failed to silence the steady click-clack of her heels on the concrete sidewalk. Her coat flopped open with each step, further drenching her dress. Nothing and no one was cooperating—not the police, not the weather, and not even the good Lord, it seemed. She cast her eyes upward. “How could you do this to me? Luke? You sent me Luke?”
With a sigh of resignation, she increased her pace, and promptly stepped in an ankle-deep puddle for her trouble.
“Thanks,” she muttered, and kept going.
She passed the Johnson mansion, four colors of clapboard and geegaws in the latest style. Circus tent was the thought that flashed in her mind as she paused long enough to scan the yard and porch for the third time since Andrew had disappeared. The Hogans’, next door, was more sedate—plain, white siding and blue trim, the usually pale green roof shingles now forest-dark from the rain.
A delivery wagon rumbled past, splashing her with more water. “Hey!” she hollered, but the driver kept going. So did she, scanning the yard yet again.
All the while, she kept thinking that Andrew was out here and Luke was back there. She wished it was the other way around. She wished Luke was gone—back to Texas or Wyoming or Timbuktu, anywhere but here. Part of her wanted to deny it, pretend it wasn’t true, pretend that Luke Scanlin, the man who had changed her life forever, the one man who unknowingly had the power to ruin her life, wasn’t sitting in her parlor.
She stopped still. He’d be there tonight. He’d be sleeping down the hall. He’d talk to Ruth. Oh, no! Oh, no, this wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t going to take this kind of risk, not again.
When she got home, she was going to send him packing. That was all there was to it. She didn’t have to explain or justify herself to him. In fact, the more she thought on it, the more she thought she didn’t even need him.
Brody’s going to find Andrew, right?
Sure. “I’ll have the men keep an eye out,” he had said. Yes, that would go a long way toward finding Andrew, she thought, her heart sinking as she faced reality.
Okay, so Brody was unreliable. Luke’s take-charge attitude obviously was going to get the job done, she admitted—only to herself, and only because she was alone.
Since she was admitting things, she’d also admit she should have stayed at the house, should have waited for the search parties he was organizing. And yes, dammit, she was grateful for his help.
A smile tickled her lips. It had been something to see, watching Luke put that pompous Brody in his place. One side of her mouth actually curved upward in a sort of smile—not a real one, though. She wouldn’t give Luke that much.
Water splashed and soaked up her stockings as she stepped off the curb and crossed the street. What are you getting all worked up about? she asked herself. You can handle Luke Scanlin. You’re not affected by him anymore, remember?
Not affected by Luke Scanlin anymore? Yes, she remembered. That first year, she’d said it to herself more often than a nun would say the rosary.
She was entirely different from the way she had been at eighteen, a young girl whose head was full of adventure and romance. A young girl waiting for her knight in shining armor to whisk her away to his castle.
There were darned few knights in San Francisco, but a real Texas cowboy had come awfully close. She’d met Luke Scanlin at a party. He’d been a guest of Lucy Pemberton’s brother, Tom. The rumor had quickly circulated that Luke was a war hero, on his way to join the Texas Rangers.
He had been tall, dark and handsome—and forbidden. At least by her mother, who had reminded her that he didn’t have any social position, any name. In short, he wasn’t somebody.
Luke hadn’t seemed to know or care about such things, and that had made him all the more exciting. He’d been the stuff of Miss Pennybrook’s romantic novels—the ones respectable young ladies were not supposed to read.
Never mind that she had been practically engaged to Nathan Tinsdale. Never mind that she had been expected to marry and settle down to a respectable life that had been all planned out for her since the day she was born.
Nathan had been older than she by nearly twenty years, a man who had chosen to forgo marriage in order to pursue business. He hadn’t been nearly so appealing to a young girl as a cowboy who enticed her with word and touch until she surrendered to him.
Her hands shook, and it was from the memory, not the cold rain. She stopped still as feelings that were both deep and delicious washed over her. She remembered being in his arms. Her fingers brushed her lips as she remembered the sensation of his mouth on hers.
Excitement exploded in her like a shot. Despite the rain, her mouth was desert-dry. Her eyes fluttered closed.
Luke.
As quickly as the feelings had come, they were gone, replaced by guilt, gut-wrenching guilt. Dear God, what was the matter with her? How...how could she even think of anyone or anything else when her son, her baby, was missing?
She shook her head to clear away the cobwebs, send the ghosts back to their graves. What she and Luke had shared had been over a long time ago. Nathan was gone, but she had Andrew, and that was all she needed, would ever need.
It had been a fearful thing when she learned she was expecting. But somehow things had worked out, and from the first moment she set eyes on her baby, she’d thanked the good Lord for giving her this child. Andrew was a joy in her life, sometimes the only joy. Her world was built around him. Without him, there was a giant emptiness where her heart should be.
You’ll find him. You’ll get him back.
With a great sigh, she started walking again, startling a blackbird perched on a nearby picket fence. She watched as the bird took flight, and wished she could fly away from her troubles as easily.
Light gray clouds warred with darker ones, and it didn’t take an expert to know this storm wouldn’t be letting up anytime soon. She skirted a parked carriage whose shiny blue wheels were dulled by mud and crossed the street, turning left on Taylor.
She scanned the area, but she already knew Andrew wasn’t there. She had covered this whole section twice yesterday. Still, she called out. “Andrew! Andrew, are you there?”
No answer.
She focused on the narrow houses that lined the street like ornately painted dollhouses. Straining to look between them, she clung to the faint glimmer of hope. Perhaps...
A mother’s instinct told her that he wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere she’d searched already. Brody’s admonition about Andrew being kidnapped circled in the shadows of her mind, and she held it off with the bright light of hope.
They needed a methodical search of the area, not some ragtag hit-or-miss stroll through the neighborhoods. And yes, Luke was right.
He’d been here less than an hour and already he was taking over. Luke had a way of taking over, she thought, remembering how it had been with them.
He’d taken over her life back then. She’d wanted to be with him every minute, and when she wasn’t she’d been thinking about him, planning how to slip away to be with him. Then, two days after they made love, Luke Scanlin had gotten on his horse and ridden away. Just like that. A brief note saying he was off to Texas. He hadn’t even come by in person to tell her.
Her heart lurched as she remember the devastation, the hurt. She’d feigned illness and locked herself in her room for a day. It had seemed that most of that time she spent crying, or cursing his name, or praying it was a mistake and he’d return for her.
A month later, she’d given up on that idea. She’d known the truth then, about Luke, about trusting him.
Well, she thought, her chin coming up a notch in a defiant gesture, she’d done a lot of growing up that month, and she’d made some difficult choices.
Thunder rumbled, and a single bolt of lightning slashed across the sky, seeming to dive into the bay.
It had rained the day she married Nathan. What a dear, sweet man he’d been. Even if theirs had not been a marriage of passion, it had been a good marriage. She’d cared for and respected Nathan. She was eternally grateful to him.
She could still remember how frightened she’d been when she told him...everything. He’d been so understanding, telling her that he was not so free of sin that he could judge her. At that moment, Rebecca had felt her life was beginning anew, and she’d been grateful to Nathan for giving her that chance.
They had spent their honeymoon in Europe, and it had been a wonderful time, spent visiting wondrous museums in England, dining at romantic sidewalk caf;aaes in Paris, going to the opera in Italy. Then they’d returned to San Francisco, and she’d moved into the home he shared with his mother, Ruth. A warmth came over her at the thought of Ruth. She was the dearest person Rebecca had ever known. She’d welcomed Rebecca to the family with a love and affection that had never failed through all the years since.
Then a slick street, a steep hill, a horse that lost its footing, and Nathan’s carriage had turned over, killing Nathan, the driver, and two pedestrians. It had been an awful, tragic time. This only a year after her father’s death. When it seemed things couldn’t get worse, her mother, too, had passed away, only six months later.
It had been more than she could bear. Confused, overwhelmed by it all, she’d withdrawn into herself, refusing to leave her room, refusing to see anyone, refusing to eat or sleep.
It had been Ruth who had stood by her, forced her to eat, sat with her while she slept, cared for Andrew when Rebecca wasn’t up to the task. It had been Ruth who gave her hope and love and slowly brought her back and, yes, it had even been Ruth who insisted that Rebecca keep and run the small newspaper that was part of Nathan’s estate.
Somehow Ruth had known that working would give Rebecca the focus, the purpose, she needed. With that purpose, she’d recovered, devoting her life to Andrew and Ruth and the paper.
They were her world, and they’d been there for her through it all, good and bad.
She owed Ruth her life, and the debt was more than she could ever repay.
She pushed a lock of water-soaked hair back from her face and stopped, staring hard at the dark silhouette of a woman standing near the corner on the opposite side of the street. Dressed in a black coat and holding an equally black umbrella, she was a dark form against the gray-black sky. Rebecca took another step and saw the woman sway, then clutch an oak tree for support.
“Ruth!” she yelled. Hitching up her skirt, Rebecca ran flat out to help. Jumping over the rivulet of water near the curb, she grabbed Ruth by both arms. “Are you all right?”
Ruth looked up. She was cold, soaked to the skin, and her whole body seemed to be shaking with the force of a small earthquake. It was the painful, frantic beating of her heart that was scaring the devil out of her. At seventy, a body had to expect such things, she supposed. At least that was what that quack Doc Tilson kept telling her. Trouble was, she kept forgetting that she was old. In her mind, she was still twenty, and she had a lot to live for, like her grandson and Rebecca.
So, gulping in a couple of deep breaths, she forced a shaky smile and said, “I’m fine. Just a little winded.”
“Sure you are!” Rebecca obviously didn’t believe her for a minute. “Stay here. I’m getting the buggy.”
Rain trickled down from the oak tree, spattering on the walk.
“No.” Ruth shook her head. “I’m fine, or I will be. I need a minute to catch my breath.” She straightened to prove her point, and was rewarded with a sharp pain that started in the center of her chest and shot down her left arm, making her fingers tingle. She clenched her teeth, refusing to reveal the pain. Rebecca had enough to worry about.
“Come on,” she said firmly, reaching out. “I’ll just take your arm.”
“No chance. I’m getting that buggy, then we’re calling the doctor.” She made a half turn to leave.
“I’m not helpless.” Ruth started walking. Her steps were slow and measured, but she was determined to keep going. Rebecca had no choice but to snatch up the umbrella and fall in step with her.
“At least let me help you,” she chided gently. “You’re more hardheaded than...than...”
“A mule,” Ruth put in with a smile that was forced. She took Rebecca’s offered arm.
“Than a mule,” Rebecca returned. Holding up the umbrella, she managed to give them both a little protection from the steady downpour. They stepped off the curb and crossed Taylor Street. “If anything happened to you, I—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Ruth told her, knowing what Rebecca was going through. She loved Rebecca like a daughter. Rebecca had been exactly the right one for Nathan. She’d been patient and kind and loving to Ruth’s only son. Since Nathan had died, they’d been through a lot together. “Believe me. Nothing is going to happen to me. I’m too old and too cantankerous to die.”
“You shouldn’t be out here,” Rebecca chided gently. Wet leaves, stirred by the breeze, clung to their shoes and the hems of their dresses. “You know the doctor said you should rest and—”
“Dr. Tilson’s an old worrywart.” She didn’t have the strength to smile this time. “Besides, you can’t think I’d sit at home when Andrew is—” pain clenched in her chest like a vise, and her step faltered, but she recovered and continued on “—out here lost.” She gulped some air. That pain was increasing. Maybe she really had overdone it this time.
They turned onto California Street, and the house came blessedly into view.
Only half a block. Only half a block.
Ruth said the words over and over, counting the steps in her mind. Pretending she knew how many it was to the house made her feel better. All she needed was to sit down for a few minutes, maybe a cup of strong tea, and she’d be right as rain.
Poor choice of words, she thought, glancing up and getting a faceful of water for her trouble. Her dress was wet from the hem up and the shoulders down, the only dryness somewhere in the middle. She was cold clear through, and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.
Rebecca paused. “Slow down, there’s no hurry.”
But there was. Ruth was afraid that if she stopped she might not get started again. All she wanted was to get home. Funny how home was the ultimate remedy. And yet, with the house in sight, she was anxious. “Let’s keep going. This rain is getting worse.” She pressed on. One foot in front of the other. The pain was a constant now. “Tell...me about...Andrew,” she managed, a little breathless.
“The police didn’t find anything.”
Ruth nodded her understanding. “We’ll find him.” She ground out the words firmly, needing to believe them as much as she needed Rebecca to believe them.
Rain cascaded off the tips of the umbrella in delicate rivulets. Rebecca covered Ruth’s hand with her own in a reassuring gesture. They turned through the gate and up the walk. Ruth took the stairs slowly, one step, then the next, then the last. It hurt to breathe.
“I think...I’ll lie down for a little while,” Ruth said as Rebecca tossed the umbrella aside and started helping her with her coat. “If you’ll help me up the stairs.”
At the sound of the door, Luke glanced up from the large hand-drawn map he had spread across one end of the long, narrow dining room table. He wasn’t alone. Three policemen had arrived about five minutes ago, with a less than friendly attitude, which he was ignoring. He’d also rounded up several of the neighbors, who were more than willing to help and had brought as many of their household staff with them as possible. All in all, there were nine of them.
Keeping an eye on the doorway, he said, “Now, gentlemen, what I want is a complete and thorough search of these areas.” He pointed to the map, his fingers tracing the outline of an area approximately ten blocks square.
The policemen glared. “We covered that area,” one of them snapped.
In a voice filled with concern, Luke said, “Did you cover it as though it was your son out there?”
The policemen all looked sheepish.
Luke turned to the others. “I want a complete search, under every porch, inside every stable loft, behind every outhouse. Look in chicken coops, doghouses and tree houses. Look anywhere big enough for a boy to hide. Remember, he could be hurt, could be unconscious and unable to call out. It’s up to us to find him.”
Everyone, including the policemen, nodded, and Luke felt confident that he’d get a thorough search this time.
They were finishing, and he kept expecting to see Rebecca appear in the doorway. He was still angry—well, annoyed, anyway—that she’d gone out, but he figured that now that she was back, she’d want in on this discussion. When she didn’t come in, he said, “Excuse me a moment,” and, edging sideways between the police and the mahogany table, he strode for the hallway, his footsteps muffled by the carpet.
One hand resting on the door frame, he paused to see Rebecca and another woman. Obviously someone she knew. The woman was short, barely over five feet, he guessed. Her black dress made her seem more so. Her white hair was pulled back in a knot at the base of her neck. She looked pale and shaky.
“Becky? Everything all right?”
Her head snapped around. “Luke, help me.” She was struggling to help the woman out of her drenched coat. “Ruth isn’t feeling well, and—”
“I’m—” Ruth swayed slightly, then collapsed like a rag doll.
“Ruth!” Rebecca screamed, making a grab for her.
Luke was there instantly and caught her. He lifted her limp body in his arms. At the sound of Rebecca’s scream, the other men came thundering into the tiny hallway.
“What’s happened?”
“What’s wrong?”
Luke was already moving toward the steep staircase. “Where’s her room?” he demanded.
“Top of the stairs, first door on the left.” Rebecca hitched up her skirt to follow, but she hesitated long enough to address the neighbor standing closest. “Mr. Neville, please send someone for Dr. Tilson.”
“Of course. Is Mrs. Tinsdale—”
“I’ll let you know. Please hurry.” She turned and took the stairs as fast as her confining skirt would let her.
Careering through the doorway, she skidded to a halt as Luke put Ruth’s motionless body on the four-poster bed.
“I’ve sent for the doctor.” She started unbuttoning the tiny buttons down the front of Ruth’s high-necked dress. The foulard was wet and clingy, making the work difficult. “We’ve got to get her out of these wet things.”
He was already slipping one of Ruth’s shoes off. “Stockings?” he questioned.
She nodded and, lifting Ruth’s skirt slightly, he pulled off her silk stockings, then helped Rebecca remove Ruth’s dress and petticoats and corset. The woman was ill. This was no time to stand on formality. “What happened?”
“Bad heart.” She pulled up the coverlet and glanced frantically at the door. “Where’s that doctor?” It was a rhetorical question, born of desperation. She took Ruth’s hand in hers. “Ruth...” Rebecca rubbed her cold hand, trying to bring some warmth back. “Ruth? Can you hear me? Oh, Luke, she’s like ice. If anything happens to her, too...” She rubbed her other hand. “She isn’t moving.” Her voice rose. Wild-eyed, she turned on him. “Why isn’t she moving?” Terror welled up in her. “Oh, God! She isn’t—”
Luke touched the woman’s face, then checked for a pulse. “No, honey, she isn’t dead.”
Muscles relaxing, Rebecca swayed into him. “Thank God.” He held her, and she leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body, feeling the hard muscles, feeling secure. “She can’t die,” she murmured, and felt his fingers tighten on her shoulder.
“She’ll be all right, honey,” he said, with such confidence that she believed him.
She angled him a look, seeing the sincerity of his expression, and she was tempted to stay here in his partial embrace. It felt so good, too good. It would be too easy to give in to it.
She couldn’t. She couldn’t trust him, or herself, evidently. Dragging in a couple of lungfuls of air, she straightened slightly, and he released his hold, leaving her feeling strangely alone.
“Okay?” he asked softly.
She forced her chin up a notch, shoved the wet hair back from her face and said, “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he said, and headed for the warming stove near the window. He made quick work of starting a fire.
Rebecca tucked the comforter more securely around Ruth and dragged a Windsor chair over to the bed.
“You oughta get out of those wet clothes yourself,” Luke said as he closed the stove door with a bang.
“As soon as the doctor comes.”
“You’ll catch your— You’ll catch a cold.”
“Soon,” she murmured, holding Ruth’s hand. “Where the devil is that doctor?”
Luke crossed back to stand at the foot of the bed. “I take it this isn’t a new problem.”
“It’s her heart. She’s had trouble the last couple of years, but nothing like this.” She craned toward the doorway. “Why doesn’t she open her eyes?”
“Well, I’m no doctor, but I do believe that the Almighty has a way of taking care of things. As long as she’s asleep, she’s not moving around and she’s not in pain.”
Rebecca nodded her understanding. “This is awful. I feel so responsible. She hasn’t slept since Andrew disappeared, and—”
“Neither have you I’ll wager, and you aren’t responsible for her, or for whatever has happened to Andrew,” he said firmly.
She was only half listening, her gaze focused on Ruth. “I should never have let her go out there. I should have insisted.”
“You take on a lot of responsibility. Seems to me the lady had something to say about things. You didn’t push her out the door, you know.”
She sighed. “I know you’re right, but...”
The crackle and pop of the fire seemed to warm the room as much as the actual burning log. The sweet scent of pine saturated the damp air.
“Where’s the extra blankets?” Luke broke the silence.
“Cedar chest.”
Luke retrieved a heavy blue quilt and covered Ruth with it.
Rebecca kept staring at her mother-in-law, rubbing first one hand, then the other. “Ruth. You’ll be fine.” She said it like an order, or perhaps a prayer.
Luke watched from the foot of the four-poster bed, one hand wrapped around the smooth, cool mahogany. “This is your mother-in-law, right?”
Rebecca nodded. “It was too much for her.” She turned to him with soulful eyes. “It’s Andrew. She loves him so. He’s her only grandson. They’re very close—best friends, I guess.”
Luke closed on her, rubbing her shoulder in a familiar way. “Don’t give up on her.”
“Never,” she said firmly, glancing up at his downturned face. “She’s my best friend, too.” Her voice cracked, and she swiped at the tear that suddenly slipped down her cheek. “I feel so helpless.”
“I know, honey. Why don’t you come over here and get warm, at least?” He gently led her the few steps to the stove.
The pale green drapes were pulled back, and she could see the storm continuing in all its fury outside. Lightning flashed across the morning sky, followed by a clap of thunder so loud it made her jump.
Her gaze swung back to Ruth, who didn’t move. “Does it look like her color is coming back?” she asked cautiously.
“A little,” he agreed.
She dragged in another deep breath, as though she hadn’t breathed at all since they’d walked into the house.
The warmth of the stove reached her skin through the water-stained fabric of her dress. She instinctively turned and rubbed her hands together, letting the warmth inch up her arms. When she glanced up, he was staring at her.
Their gazes locked. His was dark and knowing, as though he could see inside her mind, as though he could touch her soul. Feeling awkward, she asked, “Why are you here, Luke?”
“I told you. I came to see you.”
Absently she rubbed her hands together, this time refusing to look at him. “Why now?”
He seemed to consider her question, then said, “Truth?”
She stilled. “Truth.”
“Because I had to know if the reality was as good as the dream.”
“What dream?” She slanted him a look, not trusting herself to do more.
He crooked one finger under her chin and turned her face fully toward his. She looked into his eyes, eyes that were bottomless, soft, inviting. He brushed a wisp of hair back from her face, and her skin tingled from his touch. He was so close. Her control seemed to be slipping away.
His gaze rested on her lips. His voice was a husky whisper. “You, Princess. You haunt my dreams.”
His words were explicit. Tiny sparks of electricity skittered across her skin, warm, exciting, stirring a familiar longing much too quickly.
Stop this—now! The words ricocheted in her brain, but her body refused to move, somehow refusing to give up the nearness of him. The air was ripe with sudden anticipation.
His mouth pulled up in a slow, lazy smile. “I’ve missed you.”
Rebecca didn’t move, held as she was by his hypnotic gaze. Her breathing got a little ragged. At least she thought she was breathing. She wasn’t actually sure. He was too handsome, too charming, too dangerous. Oh, yes, he was very, very dangerous.
It was the danger that sparked her to say, “I haven’t missed you.”
If he took offense, he didn’t show it. In fact, he seemed amused.
“Never play poker, honey. You can’t bluff worth a darn.”
The man was too arrogant for words. But she was about to try anyway, when there was a knock at the door. Almost in the same instant, a voice, a male voice, called, “Mrs. Tinsdale?”
Her chin came up a notch and, with a little smile of her own, she turned and called, “Yes, Doctor, in here.” She went to meet him.
Luke introduced himself to the doctor and quickly left. She didn’t even bother to glance up. If he thought she was at all bothered by him, well, he was wrong.
Never mind that she was distracted enough that she had to ask the doctor to repeat a couple of questions. What was wrong with her? Guilt twisted knife-sharp in her stomach. Ruth was lying in a sickbed, and here she was thinking about Luke.
No, she wasn’t thinking about Luke. She was wishing he’d go to—well, to wherever it was marshals went to.
In the meantime, she had to get her mind back on the people who mattered.
Twenty minutes later, the doctor was ready to leave. He had prescribed bed rest, and laudanum for pain—which Ruth, who had awakened shortly after his arrival, adamantly refused to take.
“All right,” she finally said, in a tone that reminded Rebecca of Andrew when he had to take a bath. It was good to see her awake and snapping at the doctor. It was good to have her back.
Feeling much relieved, she walked the doctor to the door.
“Now try to keep her in bed,” he admonished quietly.
“I heard that,” Ruth called, and they both smiled. “She’s gonna be all right, Mrs. Tinsdale,” the doctor said, with a reassuring grin and a pat on the shoulder. “She’s gonna be fine.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Rebecca grinned. “Do you mind letting yourself out?”
“Not at all. Not at all.”
Still smiling, Rebecca turned to find Ruth sitting—not lying—in the bed. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” She crossed the room, pausing long enough to get Ruth’s nightdress from the closet.
“I’m getting up, of course.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Rebecca countered, with an emphatic shake of her index finger. “We’re going to finish getting you undressed and then get you back into bed.”
Ruth screwed up her face in protest, but she did put on the flannel nightdress. “What about finding Andrew?” She fumbled with the bone buttons, and Rebecca helped her.
“I’ve got help.” She pulled back the covers and coaxed Ruth to lie down.
“What help? You mean Brody? Bah!” She fussed with her pillows until she was propped up.
“No, not Brody.” Rebecca smoothed the covers. “Someone—”
“Can I come in?” a decidedly male voice said from behind her. She didn’t have to turn to know Luke was there, in the doorway. She sucked in a breath and mustered her best formal pose. She needed all her composure when it came to Luke.
“Come in, Marshal Scanlin.”
Rebecca was sitting in the Windsor chair and holding Ruth’s hand. She was still wearing her navy dress, and Luke could see that she was drier now, though he figured that she was soaked to the skin underneath.
She should have changed, but she was stubborn to the end.
“Why, thank you, Becky.” He used her familiar name, disregarding her formality. He saw the irritation flash in her eyes, and he had to fight the smile that tugged at his lips.
He stopped at the foot of the bed. “Ma’am,” he said politely. “I’m glad to see you are feeling better. I saw the doc downstairs, and he said you were doing better, so I thought it would be okay for me to stop by.”
For a long moment, Ruth didn’t speak, didn’t even move. She just stared at Luke. Feeling uncomfortable, he shifted his stance and raked one hand through his hair. “Ma’am, is something wrong?”
Ruth blinked, then blinked again. “No...Marshal, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Luke Scanlin. I’m the marshal for this region.” He gave her his best smile.
“Have we met before, Marshal?” She kept on studying him. “You look like someone...” She shook her head, and Rebecca stilled.
Luke arched one brow in question. “Who?” He shoved one hand through his hair again.
Ruth’s face drew up in a puzzled expression. “I...” Slowly her eyes widened. “So it’s you...” Her gaze shot to Rebecca, then back to Luke. The color drained from her face.
Rebecca surged from her chair. “Ruth? Are you all right? Shall I send for the doctor?”
Luke made a half turn, as if to do just that.
“No.” Ruth’s voice cracked. “No,” she repeated, holding up one hand. “I’m all right.”
“Maybe I’d better go,” Luke said.
“No, Marshall, stay,” Ruth countered, more firmly. She adjusted her position on the propped-up pillows behind her back. Rebecca helped her.
“So it’s me what, ma’am?” Luke asked.
“What? Oh, so, it’s you who helped me to my room,” Ruth answered quietly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The marshal is new in town,” Rebecca said, smoothing the covers before sitting down again.
“Well, that explains a great deal.” Ruth’s tone was thoughtful. “Under the circumstances, Marshal, I think you know me well enough to call me Ruth. `Ma’am’ sounds so old, and—”
“And old is twenty years older than you are...Ruth,” he filled in, grinning.
“Marshal, I think I like you. I always did have a weakness for charmers.”
“Not me. I’m telling the truth,” he teased innocently.
Ruth laughed. “So this must be the help you said you had.”
“Yes” was all Rebecca said.
“Well, Marshal, we are thankful for all the assistance we can get. Aren’t we, Rebecca?”
“Grateful. Yes.”
Luke came around to stand close to Rebecca. “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances. I hope I can help find Becky’s boy. Actually, one of the reasons I came up here was to tell you that the search parties have gone out and I’m going myself, right now.” He touched her shoulder lightly in a familiar gesture. “They’ll come back here as soon as they’ve covered their assigned areas.”
Rebecca spared him a look that didn’t last as long as a heartbeat. “Thank you.”
He headed for the door.
Ruth’s voice stopped him. “Marshal Scanlin.”
“Yes.” He didn’t turn, only looked back over his left shoulder, one hand braced on the edge of the door frame.
Her expression and tone had turned serious. “It’s very important that you find Andrew.”
“Yes, ma’am. I know.”
“I wonder if you do,” Ruth said gently.

Chapter Three
The Barbary Coast was only a few short blocks from Nob Hill, but it might as well have been the other side of the earth. The Coast was several square blocks of the seediest, raunchiest real estate anywhere. It was the reason San Francisco was the most dangerous city in America.
Sin was for sale on the Barbary Coast. A man could name his pleasure and be certain to find it. He could lose his money in the gambling halls and saloons, lose his virtue in the brothels, or lose his life in the opium dens along Pacific Street. All in all, there were over five hundred concert saloons serving alcohol, and anything else, to the unsuspecting.
The good people of San Francisco gave the Barbary Coast a wide berth. The trouble was, so did the law. “Enter at your own risk,” said some. “Let ‘em kill each other, and good riddance,” said others.
So it was only natural that when a man wanted something done that was, well, less than lawful, he’d come to the Barbary Coast.
That was exactly what Frank Handley had done last week, and tonight he was back, seated at a table near the back wall of Fat Daugherty’s.
It wasn’t much of a saloon, he thought, taking in the long, narrow room. The ornate mahogany bar took up all of one wall, and the mirror behind the bar had a couple of cracks as big as earthquake fissures. A bartender with a handlebar moustache and greasy hair was serving rotgut that the patrons didn’t seem to mind consuming.
Cigarette smoke grayed the air, and the planked floor was sticky from too many spilled drinks and too much tobacco juice.
The place was doing a brisk business, though, he noted with a bit of surprise. Nearly two-thirds of the tables were taken, by groups of sailors—whalers, most likely—and wide-eyed farmers and cowboys in town to “see the elephant” before going home flat broke, if the cardsharps had their way. They usually did. Hell, Will and Finck were actually putting out a catalog of devices for the professional gambler who didn’t mind using a little sleight of hand to ensure that he won. Yup, cheating was an industry, he thought, somewhat amused.
A man dressed in denim pants and a buckskin shirt edged past on his way to the bar, bumping into Frank with a thud, then glaring at Frank as though he were the one doing the bumping.
“Sorry,” Frank muttered.
“Yeah,” the man growled, and blessedly continued on his way.
Frank released the breath he’d been holding. He felt as out of place as a rabbit at a wolf convention. But he was here now, and he had business, so he leaned back in his chair and tried to look calm and composed.
The chair wobbled pretty much like Frank’s confidence. One of the back legs was shorter than the others, so he leaned forward again, forearms on the edge of the table. His finely tailored gray suit was in sharp contrast to the stained and gouged surface of the square table.
He was waiting for the Riggs brothers, who were late. Where were they? All he wanted was to say his say and get the hell out of here. This was not his sort of place, after all. Frank had finer tastes. He preferred saloons like the one on Montgomery Street—slate billiard tables, gilt-framed paintings and glittering chandeliers.
If it weren’t for his job, he wouldn’t spend five seconds in a place like this.
Music started up from the out-of-tune piano. An argument broke out at the table next to him. A man shouting at another about fixed dice in a game of high-low-jack. The two lunged for each other, and Frank shrank back against the wall, praying he wouldn’t get involved, or hurt.
The bartender scrambled over the bar, wielding an ax handle, and effectively and efficiently ended the dispute with a resounding blow across the shoulders of one man. Frank winced as the man sagged to the floor.
“I ain’t puttin’ up with no fightin’ in here,” he snarled, the saloon suddenly quiet. He waved the ax handle in the air to punctuate his order. Grabbing the unconscious man by the shirt collar, he dragged him toward the door. His boot heels left trails on the filthy floor. For the span of two heartbeats, no one moved. Then, as if nothing had happened, everyone went back to doing what they had been before.
Heart pounding, Frank slid back into his wobbly chair. If the Riggs brothers didn’t show up soon, he was leaving. Instinctively he patted the envelope that was making a small bulge in his jacket pocket. Damn. He couldn’t leave.
But, hell, he was a lawyer, not some street ruffian. Oh, sure, there were some who’d put his profession close to a criminal’s, but they’d be wrong, emphatically wrong.
Lawyers were hired by someone to do a job that that same someone didn’t want to do, or couldn’t do themselves. And that was exactly what Frank was doing. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t exactly legal, or ethical, but it paid well, very well, and no one got hurt. Frank had his code, too. It was simple. In business, everything was fair as long as no one got hurt—physically hurt, that is. Financially, well, that was another story.
Frank nodded to himself, pleased with his code of ethics. Across the saloon, a ruddy-faced man in a lopsided top hat kept pounding out music on the badly tuned piano. One of the saloon girls, dressed in nothing but white pantaloons, black stockings and a bright yellow corset, decided to sing along. The sound was reminiscent of fingernails on a chalkboard, and made his skin prickle and his ears ache.
He craned his neck, searching the room. God, where were they? He scanned the crowd again and flinched as the singer hit a particularly painful note that didn’t exist on any known musical scale.
It was reflex that made him pour a glass of whiskey from the bottle he’d ordered when he came in. Good sense stopped him from drinking it. The liquid was the color of a polluted stream and smelled like the contents of a chamber pot. He grimaced.
He’d take Irish whiskey any day. Still, he toyed with the glass, hoping he looked at home. Where the hell were the Riggses? Five minutes. He’d give them five minutes, and boss or no boss, he’d—
“Evenin’,” a male voice said, and Frank jumped at the sound, it was so close.
“We scare you?” Bill Riggs chuckled as he and his brother Jack circled around each side of him in a flanking maneuver. They dragged up chairs opposite him and sat down.
“You’re late,” Frank told them, feeling more than a little intimidated by the two hard-looking men.
“Sorry. I was—” Bill glanced at his brother, then back to Frank “—detained.” He lounged back. “Upstairs.”
Frank grimaced. “Take care of that stuff on your own time. Did you finish the job I hired you to do?”
“Sure.” Bill smoothed the lapel of his rumpled brown suit. His white shirt was open at the neck and had no collar.
Jack leaned forward, his lean face grim, his blue eyes hard as winter. “You got the money?”
With a furtive glance at the nearest table, Frank discreetly slipped the envelope from his pocket and placed it squarely in front of him, his fingers resting lightly on the edges.
“This is half of the money. You get the rest after the exchange is made.”
He pushed the envelope toward them. The white paper seemed to gleam against the dark pine table.
Bill pried the envelope partway open and ran his thumb across the stack of greenbacks before carefully slipping it in his jacket pocket. He looked up with a broken-toothed grin. “We’re right pleased to do business with you, Mr. Handley.” Elbows on the edge of the table, he looked at Frank Handley with a ferret-eyed gaze. “Just how’d you choose us for this job, anyway?”
Frank toyed with the full shot glass in front of him. Whiskey spilled over the top onto his fingers, making them sticky. “I needed someone who wasn’t...squeamish about such things, and you boys—” he looked first at one, then at the other “—you have that reputation.”
This time both men grinned, as though they’d just been congratulated for perfect attendance at Sunday school, instead of for being immoral thieves and worse.
“Nice to know a man’s reputation is worth somethin’ these days,” Jack told him, then elbowed his grinning brother. “We’re always lookin’ for a little work...of one kind or another.”
Yeah, Frank thought, he knew all about the brothers and their reputation. He’d asked around for someone who’d ask no questions and whose scruples declined in direct proportion to the amount of money paid. Everyone he’d talked with had mentioned the brothers, and they’d been right.
At the mention of kidnapping, they hadn’t blinked an eye, just asked when and how much.
“So...” Jack reached across to help himself to the untouched glass of whiskey. Tossing back the brown liquid in one gulp, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What next? You want us to get rid of the kid? ‘Cause that would be easier, and—”
“No!” Frank quickly glanced around to see if anyone else had heard his sudden outburst.
“No,” he repeated, more softly, but just as firmly. He drew the line at murder. “No harm is to come to the boy. He’ll be exchanged for the money tomorrow night.”
“Why not tonight?”
“Because we want to give the mother a chance to worry a little. That way, she’ll have to—” Frank broke off, then started again. “Just make the exchange tomorrow night. Nine o’clock, in the alley on Kearney, behind the So Different. I’ll make arrangements for the ransom note to be delivered.”
The brothers eyes him intently, and Frank could practically see them calculating, trying to figure how to make more out of this than he’d allowed for.
“And just how much money is the woman putting up for her brat?”
Frank frowned. “Don’t get any ideas.” His fingers trembled slightly, and he carefully hid them under the table. “Just do the job.”
“Sure. Sure.”
“I’ll be across the street, at the Bella Union. Bring me the bag, and you’ll be paid the balance owed you.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” said Bill, with a casual wave of his grimy hand. “We understand.” He cleared his throat and winked at his brother. “Don’t we understand, Jack?”
There was a smugness to his tone that made Frank’s stomach clench nervously.
“Sure, Mr. Handley. We understand,” Jack said.
The two men stood, almost in unison. “By the way, are you expectin’ any trouble makin’ the exchange?”
“Trouble?” Frank mirrored their stance, already eyeing the door. “What kind of trouble?”
Jack shrugged. “You know—law, for one, or them decidin’ not to pay, that sort of thing.”
Frank shook his head. “No, there should be no trouble. I’m certain she’ll pay. She may come herself, or send a messenger. Either way, take the bag and turn over the boy, and no one is to get hurt.”
“Okay. Okay. We’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
He started past Frank, then stopped when Frank said, “Don’t mess this up. If you do, if you get caught somehow, you’re on your own. If you tell anyone that I’m involved, I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
The two men didn’t seem to take offense, and they certainly didn’t seem concerned. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Handley. We’re not gonna get caught, and nothin’s gonna go wrong.”

Chapter Four
The sun was nothing but an orange glow in a gray sky when Luke got back to the house. That damnable rain had moved on about twenty minutes ago, and the clouds actually showed signs of breaking up.
He took his horse to the stable. It was white clapboard outside, dark stained pine inside. The place was fancier than half the hotels he’d stayed in, and this just for a horse.
“Well, boy,” he said with a chuckle, “enjoy it, but don’t get used to it.”
Four stalls lined each side. The familiar scent of hay and the acrid scent of horses greeted him. A pair of chestnut carriage horses peered at him over the wooden stall gates. A couple of saddle horses also poked their heads out to check out the visitor.
A young stable hand of about fifteen hurried to meet him. “I’ll put him away for you, sir,” he said, his sandy hair falling across his left eye. He shoved it back.
“No thanks. I always take care of my horse.” Spotting an empty stall, he asked, “This one okay?”
“Fine. Help yourself to whatever you want. Oats is there—” he pointed, “—and water’s over there. I’ll be in the back, working on some harness. You need anything, sing out.”
“Will do.”
With that, the boy turned and ambled away.
Luke stretched, trying to ease the tension out of tired muscles and joints. He shrugged off his slicker and tossed it over the gate.
It had been a hell of a day, and it wasn’t over yet, he thought as he unsaddled his horse and hefted the saddle over the partition. The stirrup banged into the wood, and he actually checked to see if he’d scratched it.
“Hell of a place to keep a horse,” he muttered.
Becky was waiting for him up at the house. He was stalling for time. He picked up a curry brush and set to work, but all the while he kept thinking about her.
It wasn’t the first time. Now there was an understatement. Since the day he’d ridden out all those years ago, hardly a day, or night, had passed when he didn’t think about her or dream about her or curse himself for leaving her. For a while there, he’d tried to convince himself she was just another woman, nothing more and nothing less than the others he had known.
It didn’t work. Knowing other women didn’t work. Nothing worked. It was always Becky.
Becky of the luminous want-to-drown-in-them eyes. Becky of the throaty voice that brushed his skin and his nerves like warm velvet. Vivid memories merged with lush fantasies, and all of them had to do with her naked in his arms.
He stopped dead, letting the sudden desire wash over him, enjoying the feeling.
Yeah, Scanlin, you’ve got it bad. There’s a name for “it,” you know.
Lust. That was it. Lust.
Sure, Scanlin. Sure.
His mouth pulled down in a frown. He went back to work, making long downward strokes with the brush. The horse shivered and sidestepped.
“Hold still, will ya?” Luke snapped, and ducked under the horse’s neck to rub down the other side.
Being with Becky was getting more complicated by the minute. First off, he’d never figured on her having a child. Second, he’d never figured on her son being in trouble. And no way had he counted on the sudden intense feelings, the fierce need to comfort her, the drive to protect her, and the desire—oh, Lord, the desire that heated and swirled in him every time she got within ten feet of him.
He stilled, remembering her today. She’d been so proud, so controlled, this morning. Most women—hell, most men—would have fallen apart under the strain of a missing child.
She hadn’t. She was strong, and he admired her strength. It was tough enough raising a child these days. Raising a child alone, a son, without a father to help her—that must be real tough.
The lady had courage.
But did she have enough courage to hear what he had to tell her?
He could tell her he hadn’t found the boy, apologize, then turn it over to the local authorities again. He’d be out from under.
Scared, Scanlin? Gonna run out on her again?
Jaw clenched, he curled his hands into fists. He was here, and he was staying. She needed him. This was his chance to convince her. This was his chance to assuage some of his guilt.
You looking for absolution, Scanlin?
Perhaps.
Or perhaps forgiveness had nothing to do with why he was staying.
Thirty minutes later, he knew he couldn’t stall any longer. He swung his worn saddlebags over his left shoulder. Slicker, bedroll and rifle clutched in his other hand, he headed for the house—and Becky.
His boots made watery puddles in the grass. The last of the rain dripped from the corners of the house. A blackbird, perched on the edge of the roof, watched his progress intently.
The evening air was as fresh and clean as it can be only after a rain, and it looked as though a fog bank was building over the bay. The street in front of the house was quiet, and as he rounded the corner he saw a light go on in the parlor.
Okay, Scanlin, what are you going to tell her?
Dragging in a couple of gulps of air, he reviewed the possibilities in his mind. Regrettably, there weren’t many.
If kids wandered off, they were usually found within a couple of hours, playing somewhere they weren’t supposed to be or with someone they weren’t suppose to be with. Becky had said they’d checked. There was one more possibility. The boy could be dead—accidentally or not. That would explain why there’d been no trace of him.
That very unpleasant thought didn’t sit well. Seeing a dead child—gunned down in a cross fire, killed in a Comanche raid—that was one thing he never got used to.
Besides, this was a city. Gunfights and Indian raids were pretty remote, especially in this neighborhood. He glanced at the mansion. In his work, he knew people did things like this only for money or revenge. He discounted revenge. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine Rebecca doing anything so terrible that someone would want to take it out on her son.
His brows drew down thoughtfully. That left money. The lady certainly appeared to have more than enough of that, and there was always someone who figured he was entitled to a share—without doing any work for it, of course.
It was a hell of a thing to have to tell someone, someone special, that her only child had been kidnapped. He’d rather face down all four of the Daltons than have to do this.
Maybe someone else found him.
After two days? Sure. And maybe cows could fly.
He clenched his jaw so hard the pain radiated down his neck. Well, there was nothing for it but to go in there.
Inside the entryway, he hung his water-stained hat and damp slicker on the hall tree. Water puddled on the polished plank floor, and he would have cleaned it up, but where the hell would a person find a cleaning rag around this place? He tossed his saddlebags down with a thud—caused by his spare .45—and dropped his bedroll and rifle right beside them. He’d take them upstairs later.
The house was quiet, still and lifeless. Any fleeting hope that someone else had found the boy disappeared in the funereal silence.
He saw Rebecca step through the double doorway of the dining room. Her hair was down, all golden silk, tied back at her neck with a blue ribbon in a way that made her look young, that made him remember her that way.
She’d changed into dry clothes since he’d left. She was wearing a high-necked long-sleeved blouse that was pale blue, with enough starch to effectively hide the gentle swell of her breasts, and at least a hundred tiny buttons that would take a man an hour to get undone. Her skirt was straight and black, and it drew flat across her belly, provocatively outlining her hips in a way that Luke couldn’t help appreciating.
She was head-turning beautiful, even in this tragic time.
She didn’t speak, just stared at him with those haunting blue eyes of hers. The ones he’d seen every night in his dreams—only then they’d been filled with excitement and passion. Now they were filled with so much sadness he had to look away from the intensity of it.
He tried to say something, something encouraging, something promising. God, he wished he had come home with the boy. He saw her straighten, as though bracing for a blow, and he delivered it with the barest shake of his head.
For a full ten seconds, she stood there motionless, and he wondered if perhaps she needed him to tell her.
“I—” The words wouldn’t come.
His hands drew up in a fist against the rage that filled him, that made his breathing a little harsh and his muscles tense. At that moment, he felt the loss as surely as if it were his child, and, without thinking, he crossed to her.
“Becky. Honey.”
Rebecca jumped, not having realized he was so close. “I’m all right.” It was a lie. Luke was her last hope, her certain hope. “All day, as the search parties returned...nothing. I kept thinking that you would—” She closed her eyes and turned away.
“I know,” he said softly. “Becky, answer me one question. Is there anyone who would have something against you? Anyone who would want to hurt you?”
Her eyes flew open, sparked with astonishment. “No. No one.”
“You’re certain?”
She shook her head. “No one. Why?”
“Then, since the boy hasn’t been found, all my experience is telling me that he’s been kidnapped.”
She didn’t move. Deep down, she’d known all along that was the truth; she’d simply refused to acknowledge it until now. She rubbed her eyes against the tears that threatened. “Why?” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “Why is this happening?”
“I don’t know, darlin’.” His tone was soft and easy.
Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. Dear God, hadn’t she cried enough? Rage and fear mixed and mingled until she started to shake, and the tears continued.
“I can’t—” Tears clogged her throat.
Wanting privacy, she started past Luke, but he blocked her way. He caught her face in his work-roughened hands and looked at her in that way that was uniquely Luke’s, and much too familiar.
He had the softest eyes she’d ever seen, and a way of looking at her that made the world spin away. She could drown in those eyes and not care. She felt her defenses dissolving, releasing the pain and fear she’d stored there since Andrew’s disappearance.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.” His voice caressed her like the summer sun. “You need someone. You’re trying to carry the weight of the world on those slender shoulders of yours.” His hands traced the line of her shoulders. Her skin warmed to his touch. “Everyone needs someone. I’m here for you.” She didn’t resist when he pulled her into the fold of his arms and kissed the top of her head, resting his cheek there. “Tell me your fear.” He kissed the top of her head again. “It isn’t half so bad when you put a little light to it.”
That fear that had been circling in her mind grew fiercer, more intense. She slipped her arms around his narrow waist and pressed her cheek against the hard wall of his chest. He smelled like rain and leather. He felt like sanctuary.
Luke.
He was here, and she needed him.
“I—”
“Yes, honey?”
“I’m afraid Andrew is dead.”
With the words came a great sob, and all the horror she’d held in check came rushing forth, threatening to carry her away if not for Luke’s strong arms around her. Desperately she clung to him, her hands splayed against the soft cotton of his shirt, feeling the work-hardened muscles beneath.
“It’s all right, honey. You go on and cry. You cry all you want.”
And she did cry. Tears washed down her cheeks and stained the front of his shirt. She sobbed and cried, and he let her. Never once did he try to stop her.
“I’m here, honey. I won’t let you go.” He tightened his grip with one hand and rubbed her back with the other.
It felt so good to cry. It felt so good to be in his arms. When at last her crying slowed, she looked up at him.
“I shouldn’t—”
He covered her lips with the tips of two fingers. “Shh. Don’t.” He leaned back and brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Of course you should. Aren’t you allowed to have feelings? Aren’t you allowed to break down sometimes?” He cupped her face in his hands. “Hold on to me.”
And she did. Standing there in the entryway, she continued to cling to him, letting the strength of his touch and the slow, steady rhythm of his heart soothe her raw, aching nerves. All her earlier threats to send him packing were forgotten as she held on to him for dear life.
They stood like that for a moment or an eternity, she wasn’t certain. It didn’t matter. All she knew was that she felt safe and warm and protected. For the first time in two days, she felt good, and the fact that Luke Scanlin was the one who gave her that— Well, so be it.
He angled backward, and she craned her neck to look up at him.
“Luke, I can’t...” She started to pull away. He tenderly tightened his hold and smiled down at her. There was a lazy lifting of his mouth, a gentleness in his eyes that made her sigh. She made a halfhearted attempt to return the smile, grateful for his comfort and his concern.
He surprised her when he reached up with the pad of one finger and traced her bottom lip, then pulled the ribbon from her hair, arranging it over her shoulders. A shiver of anticipation fluttered through her. Her heart rate moved up ever so slightly.
Their gazes met and held for the span of two heartbeats, and then his slid down to her lips and lingered. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came forth. The world seemed strangely still, as though it were holding its breath in anticipation. She knew she wasn’t breathing. How could she? All the oxygen in the room had disappeared. He was going to kiss her, she was certain of that. She was also certain that she was going to let him.
Slowly his smile faded. He was very aware of the woman in his arms—every curve, every flat plane seemed custom-made for him, only him. “Becky. Darling Becky.” He dipped his head.
“Luke, don’t,” she ordered, and it stopped him for the span of one heartbeat. Hers.
His breath was warm on her cheek and lips, and she saw his eyes flutter closed an instant before his lips touched hers, lightly, lingering there only to lift away. It was a sensual invitation, one her body remembered even as her mind refused.
He waited to see if she’d object, if she’d move away. She didn’t.
“It’s been such a long time, Becky,” he said, cupping her face lightly between his hands. “It’s been much too long.”
This time, when he lowered his head, he saw her lips part an instant before his mouth took hers in a demanding kiss that gave no quarter and accepted no retreat. She set off a hunger in him that plunged through his blood, heating, exciting. He leaned into her, wanting to feel her body against his, wanting to feel her, length to length.
His mouth slanted one way, then the other, and he felt her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt and the flesh beneath.
He groaned deep down inside at the longing that was consuming him. He wanted her. He wanted her naked, and he wanted her now.
Rebecca was lost in a world of desire. She leaned into him, feeling his chest pressed hard against her breasts, her nipples pulled into tight, aching nubs. She twisted against him, trying to assuage the ache there. She felt his hand curving around the side of her neck, his thumb hooked under her chin as though to prevent her escape.
She didn’t want to escape. She wanted exactly what he was offering. Longing, familiar as yesterday, unfurled within her, warm and pulsing, spiraling outward, touching every part of her, rekindling a fire she’d banked years ago.
It felt so good, so right, as though they’d never been apart. Her body awakened to his touch, nerves coming slowly to life with each passing moment, with each strong, steady beat of his heart and hers.
She made a small animal-like sound deep in her throat, and it was enough to send Luke’s control spinning. His arm curved around her slender waist, his fingers digging into the boning of her corset. Damn, he hated corsets, hated all the cumbersome layers of clothes women wore.
She was like flame-warmed brandy, the kind that flowed smoothly down inside to set a man on fire, inch by delicious inch. And he was on fire. Lord help him. Rebecca was the spark that ignited his passion.
His body tensed with urgency, and his mind flashed on images of her naked in his arms, her wild mane of hair loose and falling around both of them, her soft breasts pressed against his bare chest, her long legs, bare and silky-soft to his touch, curved around his waist.
Urgency and primal need overcame judgment. His hand drifted lower, past her bustle, to the gentle curve of her bottom, and he groaned, wanting her more than he’d ever thought possible.
“Woman, you’re setting me on fire. Do you know what you are doing to me?”
Maybe it was the momentary absence of his mouth on hers. Maybe it was the bluntness of his words. Whatever it was, warning bells went off in Rebecca’s head, loud and clear.
Stop this! the faint voice of reason called, as though from a great distance. Are you out of your mind?
She pushed at his chest. It was like pushing on a stone wall, she thought, and panic fueled her sudden alarm. She tried again, tearing her mouth from his.
“No, Luke! Stop!”
Luke lifted his head. His eyes were glazed with passion, his breathing was ragged and unsteady, and it took a full five seconds for her order to register.
Disbelief replaced the passion in his eyes. “Becky, I didn’t—”
“No.” She shook her head adamantly, her loose hair spilling across her shoulders. “Whatever it is. No. No!” She shook her head again. Her breathing was unsteady and labored. No one had ever kissed her like that, no one except Luke.
She kept her hands braced on his chest while she fought to regain control and to shake off the delicious feelings that saturated every fiber of her being.
What was wrong with her? What kind of a woman was she? Her son was missing, and here she stood kissing Luke Scanlin, the one man in the whole world she’d loved and trusted, the one man who had betrayed her in ways she’d sworn never to reveal, never to forget.
This could not be happening. She refused to let it happen. “I am not the same schoolgirl you knew all those years ago.”
“I can see that,” he said, and ran his tongue along his bottom lip in a provocative gesture.
She took a purposeful step back. “Don’t you ever do that again—” Her voice cracked, and anger sparked in her eyes. “You took advantage of me, Luke. It’s not the first time.” She hitched up her skirt and strode purposefully for the staircase. “You won’t do it again. Not ever again.”
With that, she turned her back and marched, military-straight, up the stairs.
Still breathing hard, Luke braced one hand on the smooth mahogany railing and watched her go.
He hadn’t meant to kiss her, and he sure as hell hadn’t meant to kiss her like that.
Like what? Like some cowhand who’s been six months on the trail?
Heart racing, breathing shallow, he stood there for a moment. She was something, really something.
Spotting her hair ribbon on the floor, he picked it up. It slid across his palm and curled around his fingers. He could smell the scent of her rose perfume on the soft satin. He folded it carefully and tucked it in his shirt pocket.
Woman, I think you protest too much.
* * *
It was late. Nearly midnight, according to the clock on the wall of the guest room. He was stretched out on the bed.
Hell of a thing, a damned feather bed, he thought with a quirk of a smile. He’d heard about feather beds, but he’d never actually seen one, let alone slept on one.
He ran his hand lightly over the smooth white cotton covering. Feather beds were the best there were, like everything else in the room.
A lot different from the last place he’d slept before coming to San Francisco. That room over the Red Dog Saloon in Auburn had a rope-strung bed frame and a straw-filled mattress. The bureau had more gouges in it than a strip mine.
This bed was big. Big enough for two, and almost long enough for him to stretch his six-foot-two-inch frame out completely.
Abruptly he snatched up the two pillows and jammed them between his back and the walnut headboard. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he might as well sit up. The bed creaked with the shifting of his weight.
Wearing just his black wool trousers, he crossed his bare feet at the ankle, his toes brushing against the smooth footboard.
Any other time, all he had to do was lay his head down and he was asleep. He never lost sleep worrying. Tonight was different. Tonight he couldn’t get Rebecca and that kiss out his mind.
What the devil had he been thinking? Aw, hell, he hadn’t been thinking. How could a man think when she was looking at him with those luminous blue eyes of hers?
It wasn’t entirely his fault—the kiss. She could have stopped him. He’d expected her to. Instead, she’d kissed him back, and not some little tight-mouthed kiss. No, she kissed him as though she were coming apart in his arms, as though she’d been waiting for him, as though she were welcoming him home.
She had sent desire racing through him, faster than a prairie fire in July. All he’d known was that while she was in his arms, he wanted her, never wanted to let her go. Thoughts, images, lush and erotic, had flashed in his mind and sent his heart rate soaring. He’d wanted to give and take and please until they both went up in flames.
He dragged in a deep breath, and another. It didn’t help. When had it gotten so hot in here? Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he made to stand, but her hair ribbon, lying on the night table, caught his eye. He picked it up, letting the satin glide over his callused palm. Instantly he remembered pulling it from her hair, the cool smoothness of her hair entwined around his fingers.
No matter what she said, she’d liked that kiss, liked it as much as he did. He might not understand a lot of things, but he understood when a woman wanted him, and she did. She absolutely did.
But there were a few small obstacles; she’d made it clear she wasn’t about to cooperate, and, of course, she was distraught over her son’s disappearance. Then there was the little matter of their past history.
Okay, Scanlin. What are you going to do about it?
“How the hell do I know?” he muttered to the empty room.
She had money, position, power. He had the horse he rode, about five hundred dollars in the bank, and no more clothes than he could stuff in a couple of saddlebags. Not exactly the sort of man she was used to, he thought with a rueful glance around the tastefully furnished room. He squirmed; the damned feather bed was starting to make him uncomfortable.
He’d been a loner most of his life. Being with Becky, he was having thoughts about things like settling down, having a son. Yeah, a son. He’d like that. He’d like it even more if it was Becky’s son. He’d be a good father, too, not like his old man.
He’d been fourteen when his mother died on that dirt-poor ranch they had down in Amarillo. A week later, his father had stopped coming home. Not that Luke had minded much, considering his old man had spent most of his time either drinking or beating on Luke. So Luke had waited two days, and when he asked in town, the bartender had said Luke’s father had taken the afternoon stage for Lubbock with one of the girls from the Gilded Garter. He had never seen or heard from his father again.
Ain’t fatherly love wonderful?
His muscles tensed abruptly, and he felt suddenly edgy. Standing, he crossed over to the white porcelain warming stove tucked neatly in the corner of the room, near the window. The carpet was green as grass and just as smooth against his bare feet.
There was already a fire going in the stove—the maid, he figured. There was a maid, an upstairs maid, he’d learned. There was also a cook, and a housekeeper, who was down with a cold, which was why no one had answered the door this morning.
He’d felt a little disconcerted at finding his bed turned down when he walked in tonight. It was all very foreign, the thought of having people actually wait on him, except maybe in a saloon.
He rubbed his bare arms against the chill, turning his back for a little extra warming. He had to admit this was a pleasant luxury. He’d spent a lot of time cold and dirty, and there sure hadn’t even been anyone to light a stove for him or turn down his bed. Maybe that was why he’d barged in when he heard the boy was missing. If that kid was out there—and he was determinedly hanging on to that notion—then the little guy must be scared to death. Becky had said he was only seven. Poor little guy.
Whoever had him had better be taking real good care of the lad. Yeah, real good, he thought fiercely. If they hurt him...well, Luke wouldn’t take too kindly to that.
He knew firsthand about being alone and so scared that he cried himself to sleep, curled up in the back of some stable.
That first year after his old man ran off, Luke had scrambled for work. He’d swamped out saloons, mucked stables and even dug outhouses, anything for food and a place to sleep.
And scared—he’d never known a person could be so scared. Then, one day, it had been as though he just couldn’t be scared anymore. Pride had welled up inside him. He might be digging outhouses, but he wouldn’t take the cursing or the snide remarks anymore.
He’d decided he was never going to be put down again, by anyone. He gave an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage, and he expected to be treated with respect, same as anyone else.
But respect, he’d quickly discovered, came faster when he could demand it—and a six-gun was a great equalizer. Luke was a natural with a gun, men said. Fast, others added.
As he got older, he’d done a little scouting for the army, but he hadn’t liked all the rules. He’d done some bounty hunting later, and he’d been better at that—no rules and being on his own, he guessed.
He’d met Tom Pemberton in a saloon in Dallas. Tom had been having a little trouble with a gambler—apparently Tom had called the gambler a cheat, and the man had pulled a .32 out of his coat. Not liking gamblers much, and feeling sorry for the greenhorn who was about to have his head blown off, Luke had stepped in and laid his .45 upside the gambler’s head.
Tom had been grateful and persuasive, and when he went back to California, Luke had gone along. He’d never seen San Francisco or the Pacific Ocean. He’d figured he would stick around a few weeks, then head on back to Texas to meet a friend who was joining up with the Texas Rangers. Luke had thought he might give it a try, too.
He hadn’t known a man’s world could be turned upside down in a month.
He’d met Rebecca at a party. They’d danced, and talked, and danced again. Tom had told Luke she was practically engaged. But Luke had been young—okay, arrogant—and he hadn’t cared about rules, he admitted to himself now. She hadn’t been married and that was all that had mattered. Apparently it was all that had mattered to her, also, because she had come out to meet him every day during the next week.
He’d never known anyone like her. She’d been so beautiful—not as beautiful as she was now, but beautiful. She had been smart, and funny, and so alive. Everything had been an adventure with her. The most ordinary things had been exciting when he was with her. All he had known was that he couldn’t get enough of her, so it was no wonder that eventually he’d made love to her.
Seduced her, you mean, his conscience chided, none too gently.
Okay. Maybe. Anyhow, that was when everything had changed. Being with Rebecca hadn’t been just having sex, satisfying a physical need. No, with Rebecca he’d wanted to please her more than himself, to give more than he took. Feelings so new, so intensely powerful, had rocked him to the very core of his being, and he’d panicked.
Yeah, Scanlin, you son of a bitch, you ran off in the middle of the night like a skulking dog.
But it seemed there was no peace and no escape from those feelings.
His eyes fluttered closed, and instantly the memory of their kiss flashed in his mind and ricocheted through his body like a shot.
It felt as though he’d been doing penance for the past seven years. Deep down, he’d figured he deserved every long, guilt-ridden, stupidity-cursing moment of it.
But along the way he must have done something right, because the Lord was giving him a second chance. A chance to free himself, he’d thought when he walked in here. Obviously he’d been wrong.
He glanced over at the well-worn Bible lying on the round walnut table near the bed. The cover was creased, and one corner was torn off. It was his mother’s Bible. It was all he had of her. He’d taken solace in that book many a long, cold night by a campfire.
He chuckled and said aloud, “Never thought you’d get me to read it, did you, Ma?”
He could almost hear her laugh.
She’d had a nice laugh and a warm smile. The kind that made you want to laugh even if you didn’t know why.
Rebecca had that kind of smile—not that she had anything to smile about these days.
He started pacing. A vision of Rebecca filled his mind...the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen in a woman, and hair the color of sunshine.
Well, Scanlin, you gonna get it right this time?
* * *
Edward Pollard arrived shortly after eight that evening. It was really too late for a proper call, but he was confident that under these distressing circumstances allowances would be made.
He rang the bell twice and shifted anxiously from one foot to the other as he waited for the housekeeper to answer the door.
“Rebecca,” he said, his eyes widening at the pleasant surprise, “where’s Mrs. Wheeler?”
“Hello, Edward. She’s down with a cold,” she told him, stepping aside. Edward breezed past her. Oddly, her first thought wasn’t that she was glad to see him, but that he was wearing another new suit, gray gabardine with a matching vest. Edward was always the very picture of the well-dressed gentleman. “I’ve just heard the terrible, terrible news about your son.” He put his hat and gloves on the hall table. “I’m in shock. If only I’d been in town when this happened.”
She allowed him to lightly kiss her cheek. “Thank you, Edward. I appreciate your concern.”
“Is there any new information?”
“None,” she said, preferring not to discuss speculations with him. She led the way into the parlor.
Edward was a frequent visitor, and so made himself at home. “You poor dear.” He spoke as he walked to the liquor table by the hearth. “Let me get you something. Sherry, perhaps?”
“Yes, sherry,” she agreed, thinking a drink was just what she needed after the day she’d had.
Rebecca’s hand was surprisingly steady as she accepted the delicate crystal glass. She drank the thimbleful that Edward had poured her in one large swallow and handed him the glass. “Pour me another, please, Edward. Considerably more this time.” She held up her thumb and forefinger to indicate how much.
He looked surprised, but he obliged, returning a moment later. “Now sip that slowly. We don’t want it going to your head.”
“Edward, liquor doesn’t `go to my head.’” She wasn’t much of a drinker, but she never got that fuzzy feeling that people so often spoke of. Tonight, though, she thought she’d like to be fuzzy, or foggy, or anything else that would keep her from thinking of the man who was no doubt asleep in her guest room.
She leaned back against the fine rose silk of the settee, but she wasn’t relaxed. They sat in companionable silence for a long moment, and she absently adjusted the folds of her black skirt, making creases with her fingers where there shouldn’t be any.
Outside, the night was still. A few brave crickets made a halfhearted attempt at chirping. It was too late for them. Was it too late for her, as well?
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Edward take another swallow of her best bourbon. He had delicate hands, she thought, watching the way his fingers curled around the glass. And he had delicate features.
She vowed she wouldn’t make comparisons and, ten seconds later, she did just that.
Edward was blond, neat, and always the height of fashion. He was polite and courteous to a fault. Luke was dark and handsome and provocative as sin. His hair was overly long, and his clothes were those of a cowboy, entirely out of place here. Yet when he walked into a room he had a commanding presence that made people turn and stare. She knew that firsthand.
She took another swallow of sherry to soothe her suddenly jumpy nerves.
Edward was everything a lady wanted in a man. Half the mothers in San Francisco were trying to tempt him with their daughters. Edward was considered quite a catch, and she understood that perfectly.
Oh, not that Rebecca thought of him that way, as a catch. She wasn’t interested in anyone. She had her life all nice and neat, and she liked it just fine. As soon as Andrew was home, they—
She finished off the sherry in one long swallow, putting her glass on the side table with a delicate clink.
“How did it happen?” Edward’s voice broke into her musings.
“I don’t honestly know. He was playing on the porch, and then he was gone.”
“I’m so sorry.” His expression was serious, grave.
“Thank you, Edward. I appreciate your concern, and your coming here at this late hour.”
“Anything for you, Rebecca.” He faced her fully. “You know that, don’t you?”
“You are a good friend, Edward.”
She’d known Edward ever since she’d married Nathan. He had been an occasional investor with Nathan, and had always been their friend. Why, it was Edward who had held the first party for them after they returned from their honeymoon.
Oh, she knew that since Nathan’s death Edward had wanted them to be more than friends. That was very apparent. He’d taken her to parties, the theater, anywhere she wanted to go, really.
She liked that. Edward was always the perfect gentleman. Unlike someone she could think of.
Unfortunately, thinking of that nameless someone made her fingers tremble and goose bumps skitter up her spine with a deliciously pleasant sensation. And the fact that it was so delicious annoyed her and, yes, frightened her a bit.
So she smiled, twisted in her seat and focused on her company. “I’m glad you’re here,” she told him, and was rewarded with a smile that had absolutely no effect on her pulse.
“Now, my dear, tell me everything that happened.”
They had known each other long enough that he’d taken to using an affectionate term occasionally, in private only.
Rebecca related the entire story—her search for Andrew, how she’d sent for the police, their efforts. Then she said, “Captain Brody is a difficult man, and I don’t think he would have helped me much if Marshal Scanlin hadn’t arrived.”
Edward paused, his drink halfway to his mouth. “Who?”
“Marshal Scanlin,” she repeated nonchalantly, not bothering to mention that he was sleeping upstairs, in the room next to hers.
“I assume you mean a U.S. marshal?” Edward said casually, and sipped his drink.
She nodded.
“What’s a marshal got to do with this? I mean, isn’t this Captain Brody’s jurisdiction?”
He took a large swallow of whiskey, draining the glass.
“True, but Edward, you know Brody. The man’s hostile, argumentative and, well, perhaps worse.”
“No, my dear,” he said in that patronizing tone that he used sometimes, the one that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. “You’ve got Amos all wrong. He’s been police captain quite a while, and he does a good job. He’s just not very good with people, especially ladies, is all. I’m sure he’s competent.”
Rebecca stared at him in open surprise. “I know you and Brody are old friends, but surely you realize that we’ve been at odds for months. I’ve told you that there is every indication that he’s taking bribes, looking the other way for gambling and...and women and who knows what else!” She made an impatient gesture.
“Rebecca, I don’t know how you can say that.” He shook his head adamantly. “You’re treading on dangerous ground. It’s a miracle you haven’t been sued, or worse, with all these thinly veiled accusations in your paper. Fortunately, I’ve been able to persuade people that it’s all harmless, and that you’ll soon lose interest and move on.”
“I will not move on, as you put it. Crime is up, and anyone with half a brain can figure out why. And I don’t need you to defend me. I take care of myself.”
“Of course you can, dearest. Of course you can. It’s just that you’re so obsessed with this Barbary Coast business. Surely there are more important matters to write about than who was in a fight in some saloon.”
“Edward, how can you say that? This isn’t the Police Gazette I’m running, this is a respected newspaper,” she said proudly, “and it’s my job to expose crime and corruption wherever I find it.”
“What are you going to do, go down to the Barbary Coast and ask if anyone’s been giving money to Captain Brody?” he retorted sharply.
“Maybe I will,” she told him, ignoring his sarcasm.
“Rebecca!” His thin brows shot up. “I absolutely won’t allow it! You can’t possibly mean—”
“Oh, honestly, Edward. Don’t be such a...a...banker. Don’t carry on so.” She wisely decided against being too pointed and telling him his worrying was beginning to annoy her greatly.
He toyed with the gold charm that sparkled on his watch chain. She was braced for another lecture when he surprised her. “Now, Rebecca, your determination to find a story is admirable, of course. And I’m certain you think you’re doing good, but—”
He broke off and strolled to the piano, putting his empty glass down on the gleaming surface. “I’m sorry, my dear. This is neither the time nor the place to discuss this. I’m only upsetting you. Please forgive my thoughtlessness. Come. Walk me to the door.”
As he picked up his hat, he said, “Is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all?”
“No, nothing. Thank you, Edward.” She offered her hand, which he took. “Marshal Scanlin’s helping, and the police, too. There’s really nothing for you to do.”
She was reaching to open the door when, without a word, Edward kissed her—and not on the cheek this time.
Surprise flashed in her eyes. “Edward, what’s come over you?”
“I detest leaving you,” he said, and squeezed her hand. “If we were married, dearest Rebecca, I’d be here for you all the time. You wouldn’t have to go through this, or anything else, alone again.”
“Edward, surely you can’t expect me to think about marriage now?”
He pressed her hand against his heart in a gesture that was more dramatic than effective. “Why not? If we were married, I could hold you in my arms all through the night....”
“Edward! Please, remember yourself!” She pulled free of his grasp.
“You care for me, I know you do—”
“Yes, but—”
He tried to pull her to him again, and she braced both hands against his chest in denial, her fingers digging into smooth gabardine. “Edward, we’ve been friends for years.”
“Liking each other is important, don’t you think?”
“Well, yes, but...what about love?”
His blue eyes softened. “You know that I love you.”
She sighed. “Yes, but I don’t feel...I don’t think—”
“You will come to love me, in time, I’m certain,” he said. “We have the same interests, the same goals. It’s so much more than most have, starting out.”
“Edward,” she said firmly, easily pulling free of his touch and stepping out of his reach. “I can’t think now...not about this.”
“All right, Rebecca. I understand.” His tone contradicted his words. “It’s just that seeing you reminds me how wonderful it could be. Think of what we could do together, with you at my side. The Tinsdale name linked with mine. I’m certain to be the next mayor.” He shrugged and smiled. “All you have to say is yes.”
Rebecca touched his arm affectionately, yet with regret, too. “You are the dearest man I know. You were my friend when Nathan died and I was so lost. Without you and Ruth, I couldn’t have managed. And I do care for you, but not—”
“Let’s put this conversation aside, and we’ll take it up later, after Andrew is home and everything is back to normal,” he interrupted. “You’ll see. Andrew will be home safely, and we will be together.”
With a light brush of his lips on her cheek, he left, closing the door with a gentle snap.
For a long moment, she stood there, staring at the smooth wood, wondering what the devil was wrong with her. Edward was dear. He was right when he said they were good together. And she was certain that Edward would follow his dream—perhaps even to the governor’s mansion and beyond.
What woman in her right mind wouldn’t dream of accompanying a man on such an exciting journey? She should be thrilled. Perhaps she should even love him. Trouble was, she didn’t.
She started up the stairs, then stopped abruptly. “How long have you been standing there?”
Luke stood on the landing. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the banister as if he owned the place, and her. He had an infuriatingly arrogant grin on his face. “So that’s the competition.”
He straightened. It was then that she realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. The man was half-naked, and heart-stoppingly gorgeous. It gave her heart a lurch. A warm blush popped out on her cheeks, like two rosebuds. She was staring right at his chest, and at the provocative curve of black hair that arched over each nipple, then plunged down his chest and disappeared into his waistband.
Her gaze flicked to his face. He had a wicked look in his eyes—hot enough to boil water.
Rebecca tore her gaze away, but stayed firmly rooted to the bottom stair. She wasn’t going up there now. Not now! And she wasn’t going to let him know that looking at him was turning her knees to oatmeal.
So, with as much firmness as she could muster, she said, “You don’t have any competition.”
His grin was immediate and devastating. “You’re right about that, Princess. I don’t, and thanks for the reassurance.”

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