Susan Amarillas (16 page)

Fury beyond anything she’d ever known consumed her. These men had taken her son. One was dead, lying in a pool of blood with all the other garbage. She felt no sympathy for him, no remorse. Her grip tightened on the gun. Amazing how something so small could take a life, she thought.

She glanced up at the closed door. How long had Luke been gone?

The sounds of voices mixed with piano music, each drowning out the other until there was nothing but an unpleasant din. She paced to the door and back, the gun in one hand, the money in the other. She’d been willing to comply with their request, to give them all she had for her son.

Now it was as if a clock were running in her head, the minutes ticking past with every beat of her heart. Time was running out. If Luke didn’t find Andrew... If Andrew was already dead...

She glanced down at the gun in her hand. For the first time in her life, she understood blood lust, the desire to kill another human being.

* * *

The saloon was packed tighter than a stockyard feeder lot, and smelled about the same, from the unwashed bodies and unwashed clothes. Men stood four deep at the bar, and every table in the place was full.

Luke made his way around the room, his gaze searching every whiskered, red-eyed face.

All right, where are you?

The roulette wheel was going full out, and the click-click of the little ball grated on his nerves. A gray-haired man was dealing faro at a table near the bar.

A scantily clad woman was dealing blackjack, and winning easily, since the men seemed more interested in her endowments than in her hole card.

Luke scanned the room again. Maybe the man wasn’t even in here. Now that gave him pause. Maybe he’d just ducked through here and headed out the double doors. Damn, if that was true, then he’d never find him.

Tobacco smoke was thick as fog, and the smell of cheap rotgut made his stomach turn. He kept one eye on the staircase that led upstairs. There were rooms up there, the girls’ rooms, but they offered a place to hide or a place from which to take aim. This guy wouldn’t hesitate to shoot into a crowd if he thought it would help him.

Luke kept moving, scanning faces, drunken faces, puffy faces. Searching. Searching. Moving in the direction of the stairs.

When he got close to the bar, he grabbed the narrow-faced bartender by the front of his stained white shirt and dragged him up close. “You see a man come in here, maybe bleeding?”

The man shook his head frantically.

“Listen, you, I want that man.” Luke shook him hard. Everyone gave them a wide berth, and no one tried to interfere. “Where is he?”

“I—” The barkeeper swallowed hard, his brown eyes bulging in his head. “I ain’t seen no one.”

Furious, Luke let go. Damn.

Time was running out. The frantic pounding of his heart told him he’d lost that scum, and most likely the boy.

How could he have been so stupid? He should never have let this happen. What kind of a lawman was he? He should have known. Ah, hell, he did know better than to walk into an alley like that—and with Becky. He should have locked her in her room and done the job he’d spent the last eight years of his life perfecting. The one time she counted on him, he failed.
No, make that two times, Scanlin.

“Hello, sweetie,” a saloon girl purred.

“Not interested,” he said shortly, and kept working his way through the crowd. He was headed for the stairs.

Six doors faced the balcony and the saloon beyond. One was as good as another. Gun drawn, he turned the brass knob and shoved the door open with a bang.

A half-naked whore looked up, startled. “What the—” she muttered. The naked man she was draped on top of looked embarrassed.

He yanked the door closed.

Two steps, and he twisted open the knob on the next door. Empty.

Moving fast, he tried the next door. Locked. Not for long. One good kick, and the door flew open, banging into the wall and nearly slamming shut again.

A woman screamed. Luke took in the scene in the blink of an eye, then flattened himself against the wall beside the partially opened door.

“Give it up,” Luke ordered. “This is the U.S. marshal.”

Gun drawn, he pulled back the hammer. He sucked in a deep breath, like a man about to dive underwater. With steely determination, he hurled himself around the doorway.

The kidnapper was slumped on the end of the bed. Bloodstained and pale, he was packing bandages against his wounded side. “Hold it right there, you son of a bitch!” Luke yelled.

As though by magic, a gun appeared in the kidnapper’s hand. He fired three, four shots. The woman screamed again.

A bullet whizzed past Luke’s head like a saw blade and buried itself in the plaster wall. Luke dived for the bed, his shoulder bouncing off the iron footrail, and slammed into the floor with a thud that made him see stars.

It was all the time the man needed to jump through the open window. Momentarily dazed, Luke staggered to his feet and raced to the window to peer out into the darkness. The man was gone. He had escaped down the back staircase.

Angrier than he’d ever have thought possible, Luke turned back to see the woman he’d helped earlier, pale and shaking, hugging the wall for all she was worth.

She didn’t move, didn’t give any sign she even knew he was there. “Millie! Where’d he go?”

When she didn’t respond, he grabbed her shoulders and began to shake her.

“Millie. Come on. Where’d he go?” She thrashed her head, her red hair falling down to cover half her face.

“You know what he’s been up to, don’t you? Don’t you?”

She gave a shaky, dazed sort of nod.

“He’s gonna kill that child if I don’t get to him first.”

Luke knew the instant that recognition dawned in her eyes. “He...can’t.” She swallowed hard, as if gulping down the horrible realization.

“He can, and he will. That boy is a witness.”

Panic pounded in his blood and his brain. Like a drowning man, he made one last desperate attempt to survive. “In the name of God, Millie, if you know where that boy is, tell me!”

“H
e’s here.”

If she’d announced she was about to join a convent, he couldn’t have been any more surprised or disbelieving. “Here? What do you mean, here?”

He scanned the room in one swift motion. Ten by ten, a rumpled, bloodstained bed, a scarred table and a broken kerosene lamp, a well-used camelback trunk behind the door.

“What do you—”

Millie opened the trunk. A wardrobe of gaudy dresses burst out. It was as if she’d opened a can of worms.

“Boy,” she said softly, “you all right?”

Nothing happened. Nothing moved.

Then a small voice said, “Yes.” A second later, an equally small face, dirty and tear-stained, peeked out from the mix of faded satin and frayed lace.

* * *

Rebecca paced the confines of the storeroom. Four steps to the broken door, and four steps to the one Luke had disappeared through.

Luke was out there somewhere, and so, God help her, was her son. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come back? Had he found Andrew? Was he in time?

Not knowing was driving her insane. What ever happened, she had to know. So she stuffed the money into the inside pocket of her skirt. Concealing the gun in the folds of the black velvet riding skirt, she reached for the door and went out into the saloon.

* * *

“Andrew?” Luke said in cautious disbelief.

“Yes, sir” came the polite reply. He didn’t move out of the trunk.

A Christmas-morning grin slashed across Luke’s face. Good Lord, there must really be such things as guardian angels, because someone was sure watching over this boy.

Anger was forgotten, and fear was replaced by elation. “Andrew, are you all right?” Luke dropped down on the bare planks, hard against one knee. He snapped his gun back into the holster. “Are you hurt?”

“No, sir.”

Luke let out the breath he’d been holding. “You can come out now.” The boy was a welcome sight after all the grim visions that had fluttered through Luke’s mind the past twenty-four hours.

Staring into the child’s sable black eyes, eyes that were wide with uncertainty, Luke felt his heart melt. The kid was all right. The feeling of relief wrapped around him like a warm blanket in winter.

Thank you,
he said silently, with a quick glance upward.

“Who are you?” the boy inquired, his voice shaky. Luke saw his chin quiver, and smiled when he also saw that the boy was struggling not to cry.

“I’m a friend of your mother.”

At the mention of his mother, a grin flashed across the boy’s face. All charm and dimples, Luke thought. He’d be one to get his way with that smile.

“Will you come here to me, Andrew?” He knew the boy was frightened, and he didn’t want to snatch him up and scare him further. But he had to strain not to, because Becky was down there, and he couldn’t wait to see her, to see the look on her face when he walked in with this miracle in his arms.

“Where’s my mother?” the boy inquired, shifting in the trunk, pushing a red satin dress to one side.

“She’s downstairs. I’ll take you to her.”

The boy seemed to consider this. Then, slowly, he climbed out of the trunk. While he did, Luke glanced up at Millie.

“How?” he asked directly.

She gave a small shrug. “Jack brung him back the other day. He locked him in the toolshed behind the old stables.” She patted Andrew’s head affectionately. “I took him food, and we talked. I felt
real
bad. I mean, taking a boy from his folks ain’t right. I tried to tell Jack to take him home, but he wouldn’t hear none of it.” She touched her bruised face and forced a little smile. “You know how Jack is. I brung him up here tonight figuring maybe I could sneak him back to his mama.

“But why didn’t you tell me today, when I was here?”

“Why should I?” Her expression was puzzled. “I don’t know you from Adam. Still don’t for that matter, but you helped me out today, and I think you’re all right.” Her hand rested lightly on Andrew’s shoulder, and he leaned against her leg. It was obvious that if Millie hadn’t intervened, the boy would have died, if not from a bullet, then from not being found. Kids died quick without food or water.

“Lady, you saved his life and, in a way, mine.” He knew he wouldn’t have cared much about living if he’d had to face Becky with the horrible alternative. His grip tightened on the small boy in his arms. “Just so you know, I’m the U.S. marshal for this district. Luke Scanlin.” He produced his badge as proof. “I owe you, Millie.”

Millie smiled, her eyes crinkling. “I knew you was too good to be an
ordinary
cowboy.”

“Pretty ordinary,” he told her. “You might wanna consider leaving town for a while, all things considered.”

“I was thinking along them same lines myself. Texas seems to be on my mind a whole bunch of late.” She winked.

Luke chuckled and shook his head. “You and Texas will get along fine.”

He turned his attention to the boy, who was watching him intently from four feet away. “Andrew, what say you and I go find your mother?”

“Yes!” Andrew squealed, with all the joyful enthusiasm of a seven-year-old. And Luke understood perfectly. He was feeling pretty joyful himself.

Luke scooped the boy up in his arms. “It’s a little crowded downstairs right now, so I think it’s better if I carry you.”

Luke looked at the boy in his arms. His black eyes were bright with excitement, his black hair was short and rumpled, and his face was the same heart shape as Rebecca’s.

The strangest sensation came over Luke, like nothing he’d known before. It was a feeling akin to the possessiveness he felt for Rebecca, yet different. He narrowed his eyes and studied the boy. There was something... He shook his head. Probably relief at finding the boy, he mused. He smiled again.

“Sir,” Andrew inquired, looping his small arms around Luke’s neck, “are you really a marshal?”

“I am. No one is going to hurt you now, Andrew, and I’m going to make sure no one scares you or tries to hurt you again.”

Luke saw the boy’s chin quiver again, saw him swallow fast, and knew he was trying to keep from crying. It was one of those things boys seemed to know at birth. Never cry. No matter what, never cry. But if ever a boy had a right to, it was this one.

Luke felt like crying a little himself, he was so happy. So he pressed the boy’s face to his shoulder in a gesture of understanding and an offer of privacy. His little body shook, and a small damp spot soaked through the cotton of Luke’s shirt. But nary a sound came out of the boy’s mouth to reveal this breach of male resolve.

Something instinctive made Luke kiss the top of the boy’s head and cradle his hand against the back of his neck, feeling the smoothness of his coal black hair above his little shirt collar.

“Come on, cowboy. We’re going home.” And he was. He was going to get Becky, and the three of them were going to do just that.

S
he’d never been in a saloon before. Gas lamps blazed bright against dirt-smudged mirrors. Too many tables were crowded into the square room.

“Hiya, honey,” a drunk slurred. His breath was strong enough to knock down a mule.

This time, Rebecca didn’t panic, didn’t scream. With a cold look, she elbowed past him and pushed deeper into the crowd. Luke had come this way, though where he was now was anyone’s guess. All she knew was that her son was somewhere out here—maybe in the saloon, maybe not—and she couldn’t just stand here and wait.

She edged between the tables, but nonetheless, dressed in her riding shirt, she stood out from the other women present, who seemed to have forgotten to put their dresses over their pantalets and corsets. Any other time, she might have been offended, but tonight, after what she’d been through already, nothing could faze her.

The talking, shouting, piano playing, all blended together in an ear-deafening roar. Briefly she thought,
So this is what men call enjoyment.

She didn’t see Luke anywhere. She decided to work her way toward the front door. If she didn’t see Luke in here, then she’d head outside, and if he wasn’t there, then she’d go from saloon to saloon, if that was what it took.

She kept scanning the crowd, looking for Luke’s familiar frame, looking for his dark head, his broad shoulders.

She was ten feet from the double doors when she happened to glance behind her. That was when she saw them.

Against a backdrop of peeling paint and bawdy saloon misfits, Luke was holding Andrew in his arms, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh, God.” Her heart stopped beating in her chest. She was certain she wasn’t even breathing. The sight of them together would be forever imprinted on her brain.

As though he knew she was there, he looked straight at her, and she saw him smile. That was all—he just smiled. His eyes sparkled with joy and tenderness and understanding.

And there was the briefest hesitation on her part, at seeing them together, seeing Andrew’s small arms clinging to Luke’s neck. With a mother’s desperation, she rushed in their direction, pushing, shoving, clawing her way between men who were totally unaware of the scene around them.

All she cared about was that Andrew was alive and safe. Everything else would take its course. Andrew was all that mattered to her, and she was heartbreakingly frantic to hold him again.

“Mama! Mama!” Andrew yelled at the top of his lungs. His small voice was so out of place in this den of iniquity that everyone present turned to stare.

The piano player stopped playing, the room became strangely quiet, and men, suddenly aware, parted to let Rebecca through. Their gazes moved from the beautiful woman to the dangerous-looking man standing on the stairs.

Luke’s gaze had followed her through the crowd. And as she reached for her son, he gave her a smile. Its effect was devastating, and suggestive enough to make her falter for the barest second.

“Madame,” Luke said with great formality, his eyes sparked with happiness, “I give you your son.” With that, he let the boy slip into her waiting arms as she handed him the gun she’d been holding.

Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks, and she hugged her son tightly, her fingers wrapped around his rib cage and legs. A cry of relief broke from her lips. “Andrew! Thank God, Andrew!”

Andrew is all right.
She hugged him and kissed him and hugged him some more, and the joyful words resounded in her head and heart.

Holding him in her arms, she knew this wasn’t a dream. It was real. They had done it. No, told herself, Luke—Luke had done this wonderful deed.

Risking his own life, Luke had given her back her son. Joy greater than any she’d ever known bubbled in her laugh and shone in her eyes as she cast her gaze up to meet his.

With her son cradled in her arms, she said simply, “I don’t... Oh, Luke, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he returned, in a voice soft with emotion.

It was then that she realized a crowd had gathered around them, staring openly.

Luke moved in closer. Without even asking, he hoisted Andrew into his arms. “Come on,” he ordered gently with a firm hand on Rebecca’s elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”

He pushed through the crowd and out the double doors onto the sidewalk. It was instinct that made him glance around; there was, after all, a kidnapper still at large. The quicker he got them out of here and home, the better he’d feel.

“I think it would be easier if Andrew rode with me, considering sidesaddles and all.”

Reluctantly she agreed, not because she didn’t trust Luke, but because she hated to let go of Andrew even for a second.

“Up you go, cowboy,” Luke said as he swung Andrew up on his gelding’s back. “Hang on to the horn,” he told him. Going around, he gave Rebecca a leg up, then paused, his hand resting dangerously near her thigh. “Becky?”

She looked down into his upturned face. “Are you all right? I mean, did I hurt you...earlier, when I pushed you? I didn’t mean to—”

Without thinking, she brushed his cheek with the tips of her fingers, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers, the prickle of whiskers. “I’m all right.”

She saw his eyes flutter closed. His hand covered hers, and he turned his face into her palm, lingering there, reveling in her touch. When he looked up again, his eyes brimmed with tenderness and a knowing passion that held her a willing prisoner. His touch, his closeness, made long-denied feelings warm and stir.

As though sensing the electric tension, her horse stamped and shifted, breaking the spell. They exchanged timid smiles.

“All right, then,” he said loudly, swinging up on his horse and settling Andrew securely in front of him. “Let’s go home.”

As they rode, those words haunted Luke.
Go home,
he’d said. Too bad it wasn’t true. Too bad it wasn’t his home, his wife, his son.

A sadness replaced his joy as he watched Rebecca, beaming at Andrew and telling him how much she’d missed him and how much his grandmother was missing him, too.

He felt very much the outsider.

Perhaps that was why, when they stopped at the house and Luke hoisted Andrew down, then helped Rebecca, he didn’t follow them inside.

But Rebecca stopped walking and turned back to him. “Aren’t you coming in?”

He glanced toward the porch, smiling when he saw Andrew catapult himself into Ruth’s waiting arms. Luke’s sadness got a touch deeper.

“Naw,” he said quietly. “You go on and enjoy your reunion.”

Absently he toyed with the reins of the two horses, slapping the ends against his palm.

“You have to come in. Ruth will want to thank you, and—”

“Thanks aren’t necessary. Just doing my job.”

Rebecca stepped up directly in front of him. “It was more than your job.” She touched his chest lightly with the palm of her hand, and he sucked in a steadying breath. “You...you aren’t leaving? Tonight, I mean? Are you?”

“I thought in the morning, if it’s okay with you?”

He could feel her hand, warm and delicate over the area of his heart, and he didn’t move, didn’t want to.

“I wish you’d come in.” Her voice was as warm and tempting as whiskey. “We’ll be up half the night, I’m sure, and—”

He nodded, taking off his hat and hooking it over the saddle horn. “I’m going to the police station to take care of...unfinished business.” Like a body in an alley and a kidnapper who was still on the loose.

He’d been so scared, for her, for the boy, for them, and now it was over. Though he was glad, really glad, there was a sense of finality, of ending, that he hadn’t quite expected.

He had no more reason to stay, no more reason to see her, except that he didn’t think he could be anywhere within a million miles of her and not see her, not touch her.

“I’m happy for you, Princess,” he began, uncertain what he was trying to say.

She smiled—it was a slow, lush smile—and her hand, the one that was on his chest, glided provocatively up to curve over his shoulder. Then she did something he was totally unprepared for. She lifted up on her toes and kissed him. Not a big kiss, but not some little cousin-type kiss, either.

“Thank you,” she said on a throaty whisper, which brushed across his nerves like a summer wind.

As though in slow motion, Rebecca stepped back, her gaze never leaving his. She let her hand drop to her side, and was unprepared for the sense of loss that came when she did.

The moment was tense with anticipation. The cool night air did little to soothe her heated flesh. He made a motion as though to reach for her. Instantly, her body flared to life, and she became more aware of the effort it took to breathe.

“Princess,” he murmured, his voice husky. His face was bathed in moonlight. His strong features held a sensuality that was nearly irresistible. Nearly.

The voice of reason was annoying but insistent.
He’s not for you.
There was more at stake here than her heart, a great deal more, now that Andrew was back.

With more strength than she’d thought she had left, she took a faltering step backward. “I can never repay what you have done this evening,” she said honestly, wanting him to know that no matter what else, she understood the risks he’d taken and was sincerely grateful.

He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer, but, as she turned toward the house, he said, “I’d do anything for you, Princess.”

On the front stairs, one foot resting on the step above, she hesitated and, without turning, glanced back over her shoulder. He was there, watching, a violet shadow against a black-velvet sky.

Dressed as he was in range clothes, he was a man in contrast to this time and place. He was everything she disdained in a man, rough, violent, and yet he exuded an intensity that was as riveting and compelling as the lure of Satan himself.

Without a word, without a touch, he stirred the promise of pleasure that she’d long ago assured herself she’d overcome. Determinedly she went into the house, closing the door quietly on the man and his enticing invitation. She stood there, unmoving, for a long minute, while pulse points throbbed and heated the sensuous centers of her body.

What was this ability he had to stir the flame of desire so easily in her?

“Oh, Luke,” she murmured, very, very softly. “What have you done to me?”

* * *

Rebecca spent the next hour telling Ruth all that had happened. They plied Andrew with a lifetime’s supply of cold milk and oven-fresh cookies—it seemed Ruth had needed something to do while she waited for their return. Rebecca, sensing that Andrew was still upset from his ordeal, was more than happy to give in to him.

Seated at the kitchen table, Andrew reached for his fourth molasses cookie, and Ruth, in a conspiratorial way, dragged the plate more fully within his reach.

Rebecca poured another cup of coffee and briefly related the events of the ransom delivery and Andrew’s subsequent rescue. She mentioned that she had retained the money, which she would put in the safe later. She carefully did not mention that she—that they—had almost died in that disgusting alley. She was adamant, though, in telling her that Luke had risked his life and had saved them both. To which Andrew enthusiastically agreed.

Ruth listened to Rebecca’s narration, but she was more intent on her expression, the way her eyes lit up whenever she mentioned the marshal’s name, the way her cheeks flushed. And when Rebecca was fin-ished, Ruth said, “Marshal Scanlin is a good man. I hope he comes to visit often.”

“Me, too,” Andrew piped up, his mouth full of cookie, which he promptly washed down with a cheek-bulging gulp of milk that left a snow-white mustache on his upper lip.

Rebecca laughed—really laughed. It was the first time she’d laughed in days. It felt good, and she knew Luke had done that for her, too, for without Andrew there could be no happiness in her life.

The next two hours were spent talking, playing four games of checkers, which Andrew won, and eating more cookies. Somewhere around midnight, an exhausted Andrew climbed onto Rebecca’s lap and promptly fell asleep, snuggled against her shoulder.

It didn’t take much to put him to bed. He roused when she washed his face and hands and slid his nightshirt on—the one with the blue stripes not the solid green one. He climbed in his bed and was asleep instantly.

“I think I’ll do the same,” Ruth said from her place near the partially opened window. The night fog seeped in, falling over the windowsill in a gray mist that pooled on the floor before disappearing in the warmer inside air.

“Close that window, will you?” Rebecca asked, and Ruth obliged.

“Good night,” Ruth said, stifling a yawn. “He looks fine, doesn’t he?” She smiled and lingered beside Rebecca.

“Yes. He doesn’t appear to be hurt. I checked when I changed his clothes.”

“That’s good.”

“I’m trying not to remind him of it too much. If he wants to talk about it, fine, but now that I have him home and he’s unhurt, well, I don’t see any reason to keep reliving it, do you?”

“None. Let’s try to get on with our lives, and, as you said, be here for him if he needs us. Lots of love and keeping him close for a while is probably all we can do.” She gave Rebecca’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

Rebecca patted her hand in reply. “Thanks.” She fussed with smoothing the linen sheets. “I think I’ll just sit here awhile.”

Ruth nodded, a few wisps of hair coming loose from the bun at the back of her neck. “I’ll see you in the morning. Maybe we can all sleep in.”

Rebecca chuckled and glanced at her sleeping son. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

Ruth grinned. “Good night, dear, and thanks for all you did. I’m so thankful that you’re all right and Andrew is back. We owe the marshal a great deal, don’t we?”

“Yes,” Rebecca said softly. “I owe him more than you know.”

With a confirming nod, Ruth went to her room.

Rebecca moved to the rocker. Loosening her collar and removing her boots, she lounged back in the chair to watch her son sleep. She smiled at the little sound he made on each expelled breath, more like humming than snoring.