Susan Amarillas

by Scanlin's Law

  “Why, no, dear. I think you’ve given me all I needed.”

  Rebecca arched one brow questioningly, but decided not to press the issue. “You just rest. I need you to get better. When Andrew comes home, I’ll never be able to manage without you. That boy has enough energy for an entire company of cavalry.”

  Ruth chuckled. “That’s true. Why do you think I taught him how to play checkers? It was the only way I could get him to sit still for a while.”

  They shared a smile, remembering the little boy they loved and the times they had shared.

  “It’ll be all right,” Ruth added. “Andrew is coming home. I feel it.”

  Rebecca dragged in a steadying breath. “I keep telling myself that, but—”

  “No buts.”

  “Okay,” Rebecca agreed with a firm nod. “Now you get some more rest. And I need you and Andrew.” Her voice was unsteady. “Don’t you worry, Ruth. No one is going to take away your grandson.”

  With that, she headed for the kitchen.

  * * *

  There was a place set on the dining room table—crystal, silver, and sparkling white china. A dark blue napkin, folded in a triangle, accentuated the paleness of the blue linen tablecloth.

  Rebecca paused near the mahogany sideboard. One place setting—obviously for her. Where was Luke?

  She went into the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” Rebecca said to her housekeeper, Mrs. Wheeler, who was drying a plate near the sink. The smell of cooked ham and fresh-baked biscuits gave the large, square room a warm, comfortable feeling.

  “Ma’am,” the cook said by way of greeting. “Your egg will be ready in a minute.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you, Emily.”

  Mrs. Wheeler promptly sneezed, then gently blew her nose in a lacy white handkerchief, which she kept tucked in the cuff of her stiff black uniform. Her slender cheeks were flushed a bright pink, and her pale blue eyes looked a little watery.

  “Mrs. Wheeler, are you certain you’re feeling all right?”

  “Oh, yes...” She sniffed. “Fine.”

  It was Rebecca’s habit not to stand on ceremony and, as she’d done every morning since she’d married Nathan, she went to the stove and helped herself to a steaming cup of coffee. More than any other room, she liked the kitchen. There was something homey, almost comforting, about the room. Since Nathan’s death, sometimes she would slip down here late at night to make a cup of sassafras tea and reflect on her past, and her future—which didn’t include a dark-eyed devil, no matter how handsome.

  “Mrs. Tinsdale?”

  The housekeeper’s voice roused her from her thoughts. Snatching back her shaky emotions, she took a sip of coffee, smiled and said, “Sorry. What were you saying?”

  “I was saying how sad I am...” She glanced at the cook, and back to Rebecca again. “How sad we both are to hear about Master Andrew.”

  “Thank you both.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  Rebecca tried to sound optimistic. “No, nothing. The police are working on it, and Marshal Scanlin... By the way have you seen—”

  “Oh, yes, the marshal,” Mrs. Wheeler said, and grinned. A small breeze fluttered the bright yellow curtain at the window behind her. “He was here this morning.”

  “Really?” Rebecca kept her tone nonchalant as she strolled over to the kitchen table. She dragged out a ladder-back chair and perched sideways on its edge, coffee cup still in hand. “And do you know where the marshal is now?” she asked, as though she’d just asked when the milk would be delivered, revealing none of the excitement that he’d stirred in her when he kissed her.

  Sunlight poured through the open window above the sink and glinted off the silver, laid out on the table, obviously ready for polishing.

  Mrs. Wheeler sniffed, then coughed, then sniffed again. She dabbed at her red nose with her hanky. “He said he had to leave.”

  “Leave?” Abruptly Rebecca put the cup and saucer down on the scarred pine surface of the table. “Luke’s gone?” she asked softly, not bothering with formality.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the housekeeper continued, edging sideways, away from the stove and the spattering butter. “He was here when I came down at six.” She tucked an errant lock of graying hair back into her topknot. “I was surprised to see a man in the kitchen. He introduced himself, and he already had coffee going and was about to cook some eggs.” She walked over to the table, her leather heels drumming on the flooring. “Seems like a nice man.” She started to inspect the silver and continued talking. “You know, he offered to make eggs for me.” She chuckled. “Can you imagine? Of course, I told him—”

  “Where—” Rebecca’s stomach clenched. Disappointment warred with desire. “Where has he gone? Did he say?”

  “No, ma’am, he didn’t say. Oh,” she said, arching one brow, “I think he mentioned something about important business.”

  “Did he say when—if—he was coming back?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t believe he did.”

  “I see,” she mumbled, and reached for her coffee again in an attempt to be casual. All the while she felt like screaming. Damn the man. This was so typical of him—to breeze in here, try to seduce her and leave when she refused him.

  She took too large a gulp of coffee, and burned her tongue.

  Thank goodness she was smart enough to hold him off. And so what if he was gone? She didn’t need him anymore. If he was right about Andrew being kidnapped—and she was more and more certain he was—then all she had to do was try to remain sane until the ransom note arrived. She’d pay the money and get her son back.

  She sipped her coffee, more cautiously this time. No, she didn’t need Luke. In fact, the less he was around, the better for everyone.

  “Mrs. Tinsdale, your breakfast is ready.” The cook’s voice startled her, and she looked up.

  “Why, thank you, Emily,” she said, and stood and carried her cup toward the dining room doorway.

  * * *

  Luke paced back and forth in the governor’s elegant suite in the Palace Hotel. His booted footsteps were muffled by the patterned carpet. He’d spent part of the morning at the police station, trying to find out if there had been any other kidnappings in the area in the past year or so.

  The police were about as friendly as a pack of coyotes. Luke didn’t mind much. He knew how to deal with varmints. So, after a few minutes of getting acquainted, which, in this case, meant pushing and threatening a little, he’d gotten the information he wanted.

  There had been no kidnappings in the past year or so. They had no suspects. They had not heard any rumors, and they didn’t know where to begin to look.

  Disgusted, Luke had made a quick swing through the Barbary Coast, just to get the lay of the land. He was planning to go back later, maybe tonight, do a little looking, ask a few questions.

  The governor was late. The only thing Luke hated more than damned meetings was damned meetings with politicians. Since he’d become a U.S. marshal, he’d had to learn to live with both.

  He ran both hands through his hair in an agitated gesture, then paced the length of the room. Six long strides. The walls were painted a pale yellow, and the furniture was all dark wood and royal blue satin. There was a leather folder on the center table and some other files lay on the carved mahogany desk in the corner.

  There was only one way in, a door, and there were three ways out, if you counted the two windows, which he did. Always watch your back, and never get cornered. Force of habit made him brush the worn handle of his .45, where it pouched out under his black wool jacket.

  He paused by the desk. The surface was so highly polished, he could see himself in the dark wood. Some poor maid must have a hell of a time keeping this place up, he mused.

  It didn’t take an expert to see that the upholstered side chairs matched the settee and the tables. He squinted. What the heck were those carvings along the wood trim, anyway? He took a closer look. Little roses, or le
aves, or both, he thought, running his hand lightly over the surface. The wood felt smooth and cold against his callused fingers.

  He took another glance around and shook his head. Fancy. Real fancy. Must be the latest fashion. Of course, except for the names, Luke didn’t know Chippendale from rococo, and he didn’t really care. All he knew about style was that chairs were for sitting and tables were a place to prop your boots at the end of the day.

  He chuckled. These spindly things were just like the ones at Becky’s house. He could imagine himself propping these size-twelve boots of his on one of Rebecca’s tables. Even if the thing didn’t collapse under the weight, he was certain she’d give him hell anyway.

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a smug sort of smile. He liked seeing her all riled up, seeing her guard slip away. That was the real Becky, the one she’d tried so hard to deny. Why? Last night she’d kissed him as though there were no tomorrow. It had left him breathless at the fierce wonder of it. She’d drugged his senses so fast, he’d nearly lost all control.

  Desire stirred within him, and he shifted uncomfortably.

  The click of the door opening brought him out of his musings. The governor walked into the room, closing the solid pine door firmly behind him. Tall and thin, wearing a well-tailored brown suit, he crossed the room, his hand already extended in greeting.

  “You must be Marshal Scanlin,” he said, smiling.

  “Yes, sir,” Luke returned, accepting the offered handshake.

  “Please.” The governor gestured toward the side chair, and Luke sat down.

  “I’m not going to keep you long.”

  “All right.”

  The governor dropped down on the settee opposite Luke and flipped open a leather file on the table. Several newspaper clippings fluttered in the stirred air before settling randomly on the tabletop. “Have you seen these?”

  “No.” Luke tipped his head and quickly spotted the Daily Times banner above a headline that read Gambling runs rampant as officials refuse to act. With the tips of two fingers, he nudged the clippings aside, reading similar headlines on each.

  “Looks like the Times is on a campaign to clean up the city.” He straightened. “I can’t fault them for that.”

  “Nor can I,” the governor told him. “In fact, it’s because of these articles that you’re here.”

  Luke settled back in his chair, one booted foot resting on the opposite knee. “I’m listening.”

  “In recent months,” the governor began, “I’ve become aware of an effort—a plan, shall we say—to form a new political machine in this state.” The governor lounged back against the settee, his arm draped along its back. His suit pulled tight across his chest, and he unbuttoned his jacket.

  “There’s nothing new,” Luke interjected, “or illegal about groups forming with their own political agenda.

  “Ah—” the governor nodded in agreement “—but my sources tell me this one is different. This one is funded by the same men who control the crime in this city.”

  “There are those who’d say it wasn’t the first time a politician had taken money from less than reputable sources,” Luke said carefully. “Besides, politics aren’t usually the concern of the U.S. marshal’s office, unless there’s a federal crime involved.”

  The governor’s thin face drew up in thoughtful appraisal before he spoke. “As I told the president, this is a little different.”

  Luke didn’t miss the less-than-subtle way the governor mentioned the president. It was no secret that Luke was here on direct orders from the president. “Go on.”

  Leaning forward, the governor continued. “What I’m talking about is not just a little questionable money being slipped into someone’s campaign fund. This is an organized group based on corruption...at all levels...whose ultimate goal is to have their own men in the city government, perhaps eventually the state, too. You’re here, Marshal Scanlin, because I needed someone from the outside. Someone I knew wasn’t involved, wasn’t on the take.” He looked at Luke directly. “You come highly recommended. The president personally vouched for you.”

  “I appreciate his confidence.”

  The governor stood and paced to the window. “San Francisco—” he lifted the lace curtain and peered out through the glass as he spoke “—has become a center for crime. Gambling, prostitution, opium dens, sailors shanghaied off the streets in broad daylight. Why, there are even reports of men dealing in the white-slave trade. The crime is getting worse, and none of this can happen unless officials, highly placed officials, are willing to turn their heads.”

  Sitting straighter, Luke said, “Let me make sure I understand. You’re saying there’s a move by the criminal element of this city to take over the government through a system of bribes, and eventually put their own men in office?”

  “Exactly.” The governor let the curtain fall back into place as he turned to face Luke across the room. “This is serious. These people will stop at nothing, if the rumors I’ve been hearing in Sacramento the last few months are correct...and I believe they are.”

  Luke’s brows drew down as he absorbed this news. Thoughtfully he said, “What about kidnapping?”

  “What about it?”

  “Did you know that Rebecca Tinsdale’s son is missing?”

  “When? Has there been a search? Maybe he’s just run off.” Concern was clear in the governor’s voice and manner.

  Luke took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. “That’s what I thought, but we’ve searched, and the boy’s nowhere to be found. My hunch is, someone has him for ransom. You know, taking a child is easy, and the money’s a sure thing, but now I’m wondering...” He shook his head.

  “I’d say your hunch is right, considering that Mrs. Tinsdale owns the Times.”

  Luke’s head came up with a start. “What?”

  “Didn’t you know? No, of course, you just got here. How would you know?”

  The governor gestured toward the newspaper clippings. “Mrs. Tinsdale is the one who’s been writing the articles on the corruption. It’s her stories that have confirmed all the rumors and—” he gave an obviously grudging smile “—she’s stirred up no end of controversy, I can tell you that.”

  “Dammit, why didn’t she tell me?” Luke said, to himself as much as to the governor.

  “You know Mrs. Tinsdale?” The governor arched one brow.

  “Oh, yes,” Luke snapped. “I know her. But obviously not as well as I thought.”

  “I want you to investigate this, Marshal.” He pointed to the newspaper articles. “I want to have names and, most importantly, who’s heading up this little scheme. Get me hard evidence, and I’ll see to it that arrests are made, no matter who’s involved.”

  “You mean like Captain Brody.” Luke didn’t bother to mince any words.

  This time, the governor made a derisive sound in his throat, or a chuckle, Luke wasn’t certain. “I gather this means you’ve met the illustrious chief of police?”

  “We’ve crossed paths.”

  “Well, your suspicions are well-founded. I’m fairly certain Brody’s involved, but the man’s not smart enough to be putting something this well organized together. No, someone else is behind this, and that’s who I want.”

  “The mayor, perhaps?”

  “Maybe. I’m just not sure. In the meantime, you’re new here. Your face isn’t known, and the president tells me you are experienced in undercover work...a range war and some labor-union troubles, I believe, are the incidents he cited.”

  “Yeah.” Luke nodded. “I’ve done a little undercover.” He snatched up his hat and the leather folder before heading for the door. “I’ll do my best, Governor.”

  “Get me names, Marshal. Hard evidence. I’ll see to it arrests are made. If we can’t arrest them, there are ways of exposing people and plans that will effectively stop their schemes dead in their tracks.”

  Luke nodded again and pulled open the door.

  “Stay in touch,” the go
vernor added, with a final handshake. “I’ll be leaving on Friday for the capital, so see me before then.”

  “Friday,” Luke repeated, and strode from the room.

  He skimmed over the articles on the carriage ride back to her house. The more he read, the angrier he got. The woman was stirring up trouble, and then she wondered what had happened to her son? No wonder even Brody figured it was a kidnapping. Hell, if the governor was right, Brody could be in on the whole thing.

  He’d asked her point-blank if she had any enemies. “No,” she’d said. Like hell. What did she think these were?

  What on earth was wrong with her?

  Damned if he knew, but he was going to find out. This whole thing had just gotten a lot more complicated, and a lot more dangerous.

  * * *

  Luke stormed into the house. He flung the leather folder down so hard on the hall table that it slid across the waxed surface and he had to make a grab for it to keep it from sliding off the other side.

  Thirty seconds, and he was out of his jacket and had tossed down his hat.

  Where the hell was everyone?

  Most importantly, where was Rebecca? He was primed for battle, but it took two and so far he was the only one.

  The house was still, and for a moment he had the uneasy feeling that something had happened in the time he’d been gone.

  Had there been some news? Had the boy been found? Was he dead? It was a real possibility, and it was getting more real with every passing hour. No. He quickly discarded that notion. If the boy was back there’d be a celebration going on. If he was dead, well, there’d be the unmistakable sound of crying and the hushed tones of friends offering consolations.

  If Luke had his way, it’d eventually be the former. And if she’d deigned to tell him about these damned articles and all the trouble they’d created, he might have had a better chance of getting the boy back.

  He went upstairs. The door to Ruth’s room was closed, and there was the barest hint of snoring, which confirmed that she was asleep.