Читать книгу Scanlin's Law - Susan Amarillas - Страница 8

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.”