Susan Amarillas (27 page)

“Who was the man?” Luke’s interest was piqued.

“Don’t know,” John shook his head regretfully. “Our man, Collins, was following the messenger when he was waylaid in an alley and beaten pretty bad. After that, he refused to go back.”

“Can’t blame him for that,” Luke told them.

“Oh, no, we were disappointed, but we understood.”

“Did you hire someone else?”

“No. It’s difficult to know who to trust. Besides, that was only a week ago, and we haven’t had time.”

“Collins,” Luke repeated thoughtfully.

“Yes. You want his address?”

“Please. I think I’ll pay Mr. Collins a visit, and then...” He stood, picking up his hat as he did. “I’ll think about your suggestion, gentlemen.” He took the piece of paper John handed him with Collins’s address on it and slid it into his trousers pocket. “I’ll be in touch.”

With that, he left. Now he had two plans, and they both required some preparation.

A
fter a jubilant Edward left, Rebecca went into the kitchen and made herself a steaming cup of tea.

“Are you really going to marry him?” Ruth’s question was blunt. She joined Rebecca at the kitchen table and helped herself to a cup of tea from the pot.

“Yes, I am.”

“Why? You’ve never seemed interested before. Not in him. Not in anyone.”

Rebecca didn’t answer for a moment. She looked down into the half-full cup, then up and beyond Ruth, through the kitchen window, to the bare branches of the oak tree outside. “It’s time,” she said into the cool air.

“One doesn’t usually get married on a schedule, or is there a rush of some sort?” They were friends, more than relatives, and they’d shared almost everything since Nathan died. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to tell. Edward asked, and I said yes.”

“He’s asked before.”

“Yes, I know.”

They sat in silence for a long moment before Ruth spoke again. “Of course, all the other times there was no Marshal Scanlin in the picture, so to speak.”

“He’s not in the picture now.”

“Then why the rush? You’ve turned Edward down at least twice, and then the marshal shows up...” She let the implication hang between them.

“I want to settle down. I want a home for Andrew, with a mother and a...father.”

Ruth sipped at her tea. “And you think Edward is the right man for the job?”

Rebecca didn’t answer. The silence spoke volumes.

“Does Luke know?” Ruth said very softly.

“Yes. He was at the luncheon today when Edward made the announcement.”

Ruth arched one brow. “Did he...say anything?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought he might have something to say, some opinion.” She toyed with her cup. “He seems to care for you and for Andrew. And Andrew likes him a lot.”

“I know.”

“I like him, too. He’s a good man, Rebecca.”

“I thought so, too...once.”

“Not now? Why?”

Rebecca pushed the cup and saucer away from her. “I don’t know.” She looked away. “I knew him a long time ago. We were both different. We were both young and impulsive and—”

“In love,” Ruth supplied.

Rebecca’s eyes came up slowly to meet Ruth’s gaze. “It was a lifetime ago.”

“He still loves you, you know. He didn’t tell me that, of course, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching. He loves you, all right. Take my word for it.”

“There’ve been a lot of mistakes made in the name of love. Promises made and believed, all in the name of love. People get hurt.”

“Ah...” Ruth gave a knowing nod. “So you’re looking to play it safe, are you?”

“Yes” came her emphatic answer.

“Well, it’s up to you, but—” she stood and carried her cup and saucer over to the sink “—I can tell you that anything worth having has a risk attached. I’ve never seen it otherwise.” She put the dishes in the sink and turned back to Rebecca. “I’ve also never known you to be afraid.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

“Maybe I know you
better
than you think. As a matter of fact, you’d be surprised at the things I know.” She walked out of the kitchen.

* * *

Luke was angry when he left the luncheon. He knew exactly what she was trying to do. She was trying to put him off, to put up another barrier between them. She was trying to protect Andrew.

He knew all that, and he was still plain damned angry. No, he wasn’t hurt or confused. He was angry—gut-twisting, fist-curling angry. She wasn’t going to get away with this. Yes, he knew it would be awkward to tell Andrew the truth. Yes, he knew there were risks, knew there was scandal to be avoided. But this was his son they were talking about, and his woman.

Yes, she was his. He was in love with her, and he damned well wasn’t walking away this time. And neither was she. They were going to be together. Luke Scanlin and Rebecca Parker, the way it should have been.

He made two stops, at the tailor’s and the mercantile, before heading for the investigator’s office. It took only a few minutes conversation to learn that the pickup man made his rounds every Friday night, late, about one in the morning. The investigator had followed the man as far as Blood Alley, then lost him. That was when the lights had gone out.

Luke got the names of the saloons on the list and a wish for good luck from the man.

* * *

Luke sat at a corner table in Fat Daugherty’s saloon. He’d been here before, and the bartender seemed to recognize him as a repeat visitor. No one seemed aware of his identity or why he was here.

He played a little poker, coming out only a little the worse for wear after a couple of hours. All the while, he kept his eye on the bar.

By midnight, he relinquished his chair at the poker table and moved to a secluded place in the corner. From there he could watch the doors and the bartender easily.

He was working on beer tonight. This was his fourth mug. It wasn’t much better than the rotgut. This looked like horse piss and tasted about the same. But he was less likely to get sick from it or have a hangover tomorrow.

And tomorrow he needed a clear head. Tomorrow he was going to see Rebecca. Only she didn’t know it, not yet.

Along about one-fifteen, Luke spotted a man in a black suit striding purposefully to the bar, pushing his way through the crowd as he did. Judging by the bartender’s expression, the man wasn’t asking for a drink.

The man said something that was impossible to hear over the noise. Grim-faced, the bartender nodded and produced a brown envelope, which he forked over to the man, who tucked it inside his jacket pocket, then turned and left.

Luke got up slowly and made his way through the crowd. By the time he got outside, the man had disappeared. Damn.

Luke scanned the area. Where the hell had he gone so fast? Jesus, a whole night wasted. He was about to step off the sidewalk when a man, the same man, nearly knocked him down as he rode out of the alley and headed north on Grant.

Luke swung up on his horse and took off after him, trying to keep up in the dark streets without getting so close as to be detected. The man zigzagged through residential streets, and twice Luke thought he’d lost him, only to spot him again.

When the man turned onto Broadway, Luke slowed. He saw the man dismounting in front of the only house on the block with lights on. Luke dismounted and, tying his horse, closed the distance on foot.

He recognized the house immediately.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he positioned himself in the shadow of a tree across the street.

He watched and waited. Twenty minutes later, the man came out and rode away. Luke crossed the street. The front door was unlocked, and he wasn’t inclined to ring the bell.

He let himself in. He knew the way to the office in the back. He walked carefully, noiselessly, stopping in the open doorway.

“Hello, Frank,” he said, and the man surged out of his chair.

“What the—” His eyes widened. He took a half step to the right.

“No use, Frank,” Luke said, coming into the room and closing the door behind him. “I’ve seen the money.” He took another step closer. “And the man bringing it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. He just owed me some money. There’s no law against that.”

“Did I forget to mention—” he took another step “—that I know where the man came from, and why he was bringing you the money? I’ve been following him all night. Let’s stop the lying—” he pushed Frank down in his chair “—shall we?” It was an order, not a request. “You and I have some talking to do.”

L
uke arrived at Rebecca’s house about ten Saturday night.

“Mrs. Wheeler,” he said as he walked into the entryway. “Nice to see you again.”

“And you, too, Marshal,” the beaming housekeeper returned. Seeming to know what, or more precisely who, Luke wanted to see, she added, “
Everyone
is in the parlor.”

Luke smiled politely.

He took a deep breath and raked his hands through his hair. It was his only outward show of nervousness. All the way over here tonight he’d cautioned himself about propriety, about the need for calm. She would not refuse to talk to him now, not in this crowd, not without making a scene. How would she explain her refusal to talk to the savior of her son?

All he had to do was go up to her and say, “Becky, come with me. We have a few things to discuss.” Then they would slip away to another room. A bedroom came quickly to mind, causing the blood in his veins to heat noticeably.

He stood in the doorway a full ten seconds before the whispers started. A handful of the people present knew him, but most did not.

The beautiful women smiled and nodded in a provocative way that a man instinctively understood.

The men he had had lunch with greeted him, bringing with them their wives and others who were anxious to meet San Francisco’s newest hero. He politely repeated their names, offered brief answers to their questions or courteous acknowledgment of their praise and compliments as he edged forward.

He scanned the room with interest. And those around him wondered who it was the marshal was searching for so intently.

He hadn’t seen Rebecca yet, or Edward, or even Ruth.

The parlor was ablaze with lights, and the carpets had been rolled back, exposing the polished plank floor for those who wished to dance. Those in attendance were bedecked in jewels and satin and evening attire.

A small quartet—harp, cello and two violins—was ensconced near the hearth, playing a demure selection of waltzes. He still hadn’t seen Rebecca.

Rebecca saw him, or more precisely sensed his presence, the instant he walked into the parlor. Her first excited thought was that he was wearing evening clothes. It was a major concession on his part.

Wearing all black, with only the white of his high starched collar peeking above his perfectly knotted black tie, he’d never been more handsome, more elegant, she thought. She didn’t miss the fact that most of the other women present were noticing the same. Before the thread of jealousy could tighten, she reminded herself that she didn’t care if he was the most handsome man in the room. She didn’t care that his shoulders were wide and his smile dazzling enough to make her heart take on a shallow, rapid rhythm.

And she especially didn’t care why he was here, tonight, now. But he was headed straight for her, and that rapid beating of her heart got faster with each closing step.

Luke’s progress was impeded, but not deterred.

“Just part of the job,” he said for about the tenth time to another person who offered congratulations on his rescue of Andrew. He spotted Rebecca then, over the heads of the others gathered around.

She was standing with a couple, a tall, dark man and a beautiful blonde. They were chatting, she was smiling up at the man in a way that sparked resentment in Luke, and he didn’t even know the man.

If his possessive tenseness showed to those he spoke to, they didn’t reveal it. Still, it was several more minutes before he could disengage himself from those wishing to know all the details of what was being referred to as “the great rescue of the decade.”

It didn’t take long for people to realize that he was a man on a mission and that the object of his quest was the beautiful Rebecca Tinsdale. Most were not surprised. After all, there had been rumors. She had let the man stay in her home—an odd thing for a total stranger, unless they were not strangers, unless they were something...more.

Yes, that had been the gossip for days and, judging by the way the marshal was closing in on his prey, it looked very much as if the rumors were correct.

The whispers gathered strength, like a storm cloud building before the first lightning strike. It seemed there was an almost breathless anticipation in the room.

Luke reached her in four more strides. He acknowledged the couple she was with.

The man offered his hand. “Logan McCloud.”

“Mr. McCloud,” Luke answered, his gaze fixed on Rebecca.

“And my wife, Katherine.”

“Ma’am.” He spared her a glance. “Rebecca, I want to talk to you.” He forced a smile to those present. “Would you excuse us a moment?”

It was a rhetorical question, since he’d already taken her hand in his steely grip and was striding toward the French doors that opened onto the porch and the yard beyond.

Everyone watched them leave, everyone except the one man who might have objected. Edward was in the dining room conducting some campaign business, the old handshake-and-a-promise that was the mark of a politician.

So Luke was able to pull her from the room without confrontation, which was fortunate, some said, for Edward.

White lace curtains fluttered and lapped against his pant leg as he exited keeping her in his tight grip. Outside, he sought the shadows at the farthest end of the porch.

The evening was cool. The breeze off the bay was moist with the threat of fog by morning. Rebecca shivered against the damp chill as the air caressed her bare shoulders and arms.

She was prepared for some demand, some lecture, some order. She was not prepared for him to push her back against the rough cold stone of the house wall and kiss her.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss, a sensual invitation to pleasure. No, this was a kiss of possession, one that was fierce and demanding and overpowering.

The fierce relentlessness of his kiss startled her, and she pushed at him, twisting her head as she did, tearing her mouth from his.

“Stop it! What’s the matter with you?” she demanded hotly as she continued to shove at the wall of his chest. She expected him to comply, she expected him to realize that they were on her porch, in her home, and that at any moment someone could, and probably would, walk out here and catch them in this compromising position.

He didn’t budge. “You, sweetheart. You’re what’s the matter with me.” His voice was a growl, and he leaned into her, trapping her between him and the wall. The instant he saw her, all his caution vanished. He’d been up all night, thinking about her, about her with Edward, about her with any other man. Jealousy overpowered reason and ate at him. His mouth sought hers again.

“I want to go back inside, Luke.” She tried to move, but he grabbed her hands and held them outspread against the wall.

His face was a breathless inch from hers. His body pressed hard against hers, so that she felt the stone against her back and the buttons of his vest through the silk bodice of her dress.

“What do you want, Luke?”

“You.”

“No!” she snapped, ignoring the fact that she was trapped and powerless to stop him.

His head lifted abruptly, his own anger flashing fire-bright in his eyes. “Tell me, sweetheart, are you and Edward lovers...also?”

It was the “also” that got her, that sent her temper boiling over. She was not willing to give him the satisfaction of knowing that there had been only two men in her life, and only one who haunted her achingly lush dreams. So it was her temper that made her say, “Yes.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted, needed. His eyes turned as cold and hard as flint. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” she taunted.

“You and that weasel?” he returned in a mocking tone.

“Think what you will,” she countered, and tried to twist free of him.

“I think,” he started softly, “he doesn’t make your heart beat faster. He doesn’t caress your skin the way I do, touching all the soft, sensitive places that make you shudder. He doesn’t know how to kiss the edge of your ear or the tips of your breasts. He doesn’t make you moan in surrender when he’s inside you.”

“Why, you— How dare you say such vile, disgusting—”

“There’s nothing vile or disgusting about it, except in your own frightened little mind. I’m in your blood and you’re in mine, and the sooner you admit it the better off we’ll both be.”

She shook her head in denial. “No.” Her voice was shaky. “It’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” he murmured, and slowly dipped his head and kissed her. Not on the lips, but on the delicate spot behind her ear. His lips were warm and teasing, making her shudder as delicious shivers skipped up the backs of her legs.

When he lifted his head this time, he smiled. It was a slow, lush smile, with a touch of smugness that was more roguish than enraging.

“You and I were meant to be together.” His mouth covered hers in a passionate kiss, full of desire and the knowledge that comes from shared intimacy. Her body flared to life like a candle in a dark room. Her fingers trembled with the sudden need to touch him.

He leaned into her, letting her feel the weight of his body against hers while he looped her arms around his neck. Pulling her more fully into his embrace, he deepened the kiss, his mouth slanting one way, then the other, tasting, testing, promising. Willing her to know he loved her. Willing her to admit she loved him, too.

He kissed her cheek and her brow and the slender bridge of her nose. He laved at her ear with the tip of his tongue. It was seduction he was working and, fair or unfair, it was his only hope.

His hands splayed upward, his fingers caressing the smoothness of her bare flesh above the silk edge of her dress. Muscles tensed, and blood drummed hot and hurried in his body.

Rebecca’s eyes drifted closed against the magic he was working on her. He slid the lace ruffles from her shoulders, kissing and licking the heated flesh there before his hand brushed, feather-light, over her breasts, where they strained against the confines of her dress.

She stood very still beneath his hands, telling herself that resistance was useless, and hating the fact that her body warmed and opened to him in ways so familiar yet so unnerving.

He cupped her breast through the fabric, his thumbs rubbing with aching gentleness, enticing her nipples to peak. His black eyes were bright with desire.

“Say it, Becky,” he murmured as he nipped, then kissed, the exposed skin of her shoulder. “Say you feel the magic.”

“No,” she managed, her voice shaky.

“No?” he repeated in a gentle tone, then took her mouth in his again, his tongue dipping inside to tease the tender flesh there, to dance and flutter and ignite the ancient pulsing deep within her.

He swayed back and forth against her, letting her feel his arousal, letting her know what being with her did to him.

It was then that she felt the chill of the night air on her legs, and realized with stark terror that he’d hiked up the hem of her dress. She shoved at his chest. He didn’t budge. She felt his hand on her thigh, the warmth of his touch penetrating the thin lawn of her pantalets. His hand glided around to cup her buttocks.

Restless, tense, he moved against her, his hand stroking her thigh. She was shamed to realize she was helpless against his sensual onslaught, and she felt his fingers slip between her legs.

Oh, Lord, this couldn’t be happening, but it was. She was powerless to stop him, didn’t want to stop him. The nearness of him, his touch, aroused her passion and drowned out all logic. Her body heated in eager anticipation of the familiar pleasure he offered. Moisture gathered at the juncture of her legs, and she stood motionless under his hands.

Logic demanded that she resist the building waves of sensation. But the flame of desire was already surging in her blood, skimming over her skin like a fast-moving prairie fire, engulfing all in its path.

He kissed and teased and touched her in all the heated, urgent places, all the places that set the languid need spiraling up in her. She steeled herself against his touch, refusing to acknowledge the rapture his gently stroking fingers caused as they found the opening in her pantalets and slid easily into her wet, aching core. Her breath caught as he touched her deep, deep inside. Pleasure, raw and carnal, uncoiled and shot upward, making her groan, making her dig her fingers into his shoulders for support, crushing the fine wool of his jacket as she did.

“I want you,” he groaned against the delicate curve of her ear, his breath warm and wet.

He stilled and glanced at the open doorway nearby. Had he heard voices? Releasing her, he stepped around to protect her, to conceal them both in the shadows.

“Luke, please...” she begged. She had heard the voices also.

“I thought I was, Princess,” he murmured, and moved her back a few steps, to the farthest corner of the porch.

She was terrified and aroused and horrified by this wanton desire that overcame all reason, that made her stay here with him in the rich darkness.

“Rebecca...” he groaned as his mouth ate at hers. His hands frantically traveled from shoulder to waist and lower, pulling up her dress again.

“You can’t...”

“I am,” he countered, already unbuttoning his trousers. Hooking his hands under her arms, he lifted her and, bending slightly, he entered her, his driving need peaking more rapidly than he’d expected. Back and shoulder muscles strained and knotted as he held her securely. He moved in a rhythm their bodies recognized. Desire drove him, drove each deep thrust, each heated stroke.

Voices reached her ears from somewhere nearby. The very real danger only added to the carnal pleasure that he was creating in her.

His mouth closed over hers, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his body in hers, and suddenly thought was lost, her body craving the release that only he could offer. She clung to him, clawed at him, moved on him, demanding that he fill her completely, while her body melted lushly around the hard, pulsing length of him.

“That’s it, Becky. Give in to it. Let it happen.”

Encouraged by his words, and the thrusting motion of his body, she pressed in tighter. It seemed natural to wrap her legs around his waist.

Luke slid his hands under her bottom and turned so that he leaned against the wall and supported her full weight in his cupped hands. Their position more secure, he glided into her again, more slowly this time, feeling her pulse and constrict around him in a way that sent his heart rate soaring faster than a comet.