Susan Amarillas

by Scanlin's Law

  “Do you, Marshal?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My mother died when I was a boy.”

  “Then you do understand, Marshal. Maybe you can also understand what it’s been like for Rebecca, her folks dying so close together, then Nathan—all within a couple of years.”

  Luke was startled. “I didn’t know...about her folks, I mean. She never said.”

  “No, I don’t suppose she would. She’s like that—strong. Never asks for help. Never likes to admit she’s in trouble.”

  Luke made a small chuckle. “Yeah, I have noticed that about her.”

  “I thought you might have. But don’t give up on her. She needs you, whether she says so or not.”

  “Needs me?” Luke repeated cautiously, wishing it was true, wishing she did need him, and not just until Andrew was home again.

  “Oh, yes. You have to help us get our boy back.”

  “Oh,” he said, a little crestfallen. “Sure. I see.”

  “Do you, Marshal? I wondered,” Ruth muttered.

  “What, ma’am?” Luke cocked his head questioningly.

  “Nothing. Maybe you should go and check on her, just in case.”

  Luke’s head came up sharply. “You think?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  He skirted around the table, his black wool trousers catching on the linen tablecloth, and he paused to put it back in place.

  “Oh, Marshal...” Her voice stopped him at the doorway.

  He glanced back.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” She smiled, and he returned the gesture.

  Luke headed for the parlor and found Rebecca seated at the piano. She wasn’t playing, only sitting there running her fingers noiselessly over the yellowed ivory keys.

  “Becky.”

  She looked up, jumped, really, as though she’d come back from some great distance, and he wondered briefly why she’d been so lost in thought.

  He didn’t like the tears on her cheeks, or the way her skin was funereally pale. Damn. Had he done that?

  “Becky, honey, please don’t cry. I didn’t—”

  He started toward her, wanting to explain, to soothe, to hold her and make it all better.

  “No more, Luke.” She shook her head and held up one hand. “No more.”

  He stopped near the settee, one hand curving over the smooth wood trim. “About today...what I said—”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters.” At least it mattered to him, and he wanted it to matter to her. “Becky, I wasn’t doing what you think I was doing. I was trying to get a lead on Andrew’s kidnappers.”

  “Of course you were,” she said, in a tone that belied her words.

  He ran his hands through his hair, leaving deep furrows in the inky blackness. “Dammit. Becky, I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Luke, you came in here smelling like a saloon...” She lightly tapped one piano key. The deep bass tone seemed to vibrate through the room. “You’ve been gone most of the day, for some meeting that was so important you had to go, but not so important that you remembered to tell me.” She struck the next note. “Then you expect me to believe whatever you say?”

  “Yes.” His tone was adamant.

  She craned her neck to look at him. “Why? Why should I believe you? I believed you once before, and look what happened.”

  “What?” He arched one brow in question and took another half step toward her. The air in the room seemed suddenly charged. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about eight years ago.” She closed the piano case with infinite slowness. “I’m talking about a young girl who believed that you loved her. I’m talking about a young girl who loved you enough to give you everything she had, and then you left.”

  Her words, her truth, hit him like a fence post in the chest. And just as though he’d been struck, he dragged in a lungful of air, then another, letting the words penetrate his mind as the oxygen did his body. “Oh, God, Becky. I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know.” This time he did close on her, and, taking her shoulders in his hands, he lifted and turned her to face him. She refused to look at him, and that was the worst hurt of all.

  She twisted away easily. “How could you not know? Did you think I was in the habit of having sex with every man I knew?”

  “Becky, don’t.” His expression was grim. Of all the things he’d expected—accusations, threats, denial—he hadn’t expected this, and he wasn’t quite certain how to deal with it. Was this the reason she pulled away every time he got close?

  He cursed himself for every kind of a selfish fool. She had loved him.

  You had it all, Scanlin, and you walked away. Now it’s too late.

  The hell it was, came the resounding answer. If he’d had her love once, then he would win it again.

  With all the tenderness and honesty he possessed, he said, “I was barely twenty. I’d been on my own since I was fourteen. I didn’t know anything about love, about how it was between a man and a woman who cared for each other. All I’d ever known were whores, and—”

  “And still do, I see.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice, and his temper overcame his good sense.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Look at me!”

  She did, and the hurt and distrust in her eyes was like a living entity. It was enough to make him pull her into his embrace. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m sorry for a great many things,” he said against the top of her head. Her hair was silky on his cheek, and the scent of her rose perfume tantalized his nostrils.

  Gently he put her away from him, never releasing his hold completely. She was limp in his arms.

  “I was not with another woman today. Not the way you mean. Yes, I was in a saloon. Actually I was in several. Yes, I talked to a woman. I did not, did not, make love to her.”

  For a full ten seconds, she studied him, and he held her gaze, refusing to look away, wanting her to know, to understand, the truth of his words.

  Then, just when he thought perhaps she did, she looked away, and he felt his heart sink. “I believed you once. I can’t, I won’t, risk it again.” She dropped down onto the piano stool, lifted the cover and began to play a sad, melodic tune. He didn’t know its name, but the tone was clear. She was giving up on him. But he damned well wasn’t giving up on her, or them.

  “No, you don’t, woman. You’re going to believe me if I have to—”

  The hollow thud of bare knuckles on wood caught their attention. Rebecca hurried to the front door, Luke close on her heels.

  A young boy, not more than ten, stood there. His face was smudged, his dirty blond hair unkempt. His blue shirt was about two sizes too big, and his brown britches were riding a little high at the ankles.

  “Yes?” Luke snarled. He wanted to finish his conversation with Rebecca. “What do you want?”

  “I want the lady,” the boy said firmly.

  “What lady?”

  “That one.” He gestured with fingers that hadn’t seen a washbowl in days.

  Ruth joined them. “What’s going on?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Luke returned, exasperated.

  The boy pulled a wadded-up piece of paper out of his pocket and offered it to Rebecca.

  Her heart stilled, then took on a frantic beat. She knew this was it, this was what she’d been waiting for, praying for, yet she couldn’t seem to take the note.

  When she didn’t, Luke did.

  One eye on the boy, he scanned the note.

  Bring ten thousand dollars at 9 tonight to the alley behind the So Different saloon, or the boy will be killed.

  “Who gave you this, boy?” Luke demanded.

  “A man down on Broadway. He gave me a silver dollar to fetch it up here to you.”

  “And I’ll give you five more if you’ll tell me the man’s name.” Luke fished in his pocket and snapped the greenback temptingly in front of the boy’s face.

  The boy’s e
yes widened. “Ain’t nobody givin’ names down there, mister.”

  “Have you ever seen him before?”

  Even as Luke spoke, the boy was shaking his head and inching backward toward the open door. Luke caught him by one small shoulder. “Tell me what the man looked like.”

  The boy’s brown eyes widened in fear, and he struggled to twist loose from Luke’s grip. “Let me go, mister. I ain’t done nothin’.”

  Luke held firm, but he did drop down on one knee to look the lad in the eye. “Look, a boy, a little younger than you, is in trouble. We’re trying to help him. Do you understand?”

  The boy stilled and nodded.

  Cautiously Luke released his grip. “Please—tell us what the man looked like.”

  “Honest, mister. I’d help you if I could. The man come up to me and says to take the note here and he gives me the dollar.” The boy produced the shiny coin, as if to validate his statement.

  “But you must have seen him.”

  The boy shoved the coin back in his pocket. “He was tall...like you. I ain’t never seen him before. Honest.” He held up his hand in a pledge. “He was wearin’ a hat and a black coat, kinda fancy-like. I couldn’t see his face, ‘cause it’s dark out, and—” He took an instinctive step backward again.

  “Okay.” Luke fished in his pocket and produced a two-fifty gold piece, which he tossed the boy. “If you see the man again, come and tell me, and there’s another one of these for your trouble.”

  The boy beamed. “Yes, sir, Mr.—”

  “Marshal Scanlin.”

  “Marshal Scanlin,” the boy happily repeated before he turned and ran off into the night.

  Rebecca turned to Luke. “Is Andrew alive?” Her voice was a tremulous whisper.

  “Yes,” he said adamantly. He handed her the note and watched as she read and reread it. She kept staring at the crumpled yellow paper until finally he slipped it from her fingers.

  To no one in particular, she said, “They want money, a lot of money, or they are going to...kill Andrew.” Her voice broke. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. She dragged in some air and told herself in no uncertain terms that she was going to get him back.

  Then reality hit her. “It’s Saturday night. The banks are closed,” she mumbled. She turned a terrified gaze on Ruth, who was looking as pale as winter snow. Rebecca continued, “I don’t have that kind of cash in the house.” Or anywhere else, she suddenly realized.

  “Where am I going to get the money?”

  Chapter Nine

  She needed money, and she had three hours to get it.

  “What about the bank?” Luke prompted.

  “The bank is closed.” She paced away toward the bottom of the stairs and back.

  “They’d open for you,” Luke suggested. He wished like hell he had the money. He didn’t. He had about forty bucks in his pocket, and another fifty in his saddlebags. Hardly a drop in the bucket.

  “Open the bank,” she repeated numbly.

  “Yes. Of course. I mean, they do that kind of thing for—” for rich people, he meant to say, but couldn’t.

  “There isn’t that much cash.” She turned to him, her eyes wide as a frightened doe’s. “Everything is tied up in stocks, bonds, annuities, mortgages. Why would they wait until the banks were closed, until I didn’t have a chance to borrow—” Her expression lit up. “Borrow,” she repeated. “Yes, that’s it!” Grabbing her coat, she charged for the door.

  Luke was so startled, it took him a couple of seconds to react. When he did, he snatched his hat and jacket from the mirrored hall tree and raced after her. “Where are you going?” he demanded, keeping pace with her as she went to the stable.

  She ignored him, ordering the stable boy to hitch the buggy.

  Luke circled around in front of her. “Where are you going?”

  “Edward.” She paced back and forth like a caged tigress, straw crunching under her shoes and clinging to her hem. “Edward can give me the money.” Then, to the stable boy, she said, “Hurry, John. Hurry.”

  “You mean that pompous—” He ground his jaw shut to keep from finishing the statement. She was in trouble, and now was not the time to evaluate her...friend. It stuck in his gut like a lump of dried mush, this helpless feeling. Needing to keep busy, he helped the stable boy finish the hitching.

  As he snapped the last ring, she was already climbing up onto the black leather seat.

  “I’m coming with you,” Luke said in a no-nonsense tone, and swung up beside her as the stable boy ran and opened the double doors.

  She gave him the briefest of looks, as though to say, “Are you sure?” or “Thanks”—he wasn’t certain which. He only knew that there was no way in hell he was letting her go alone.

  With a sharp snap, he slapped the leather reins on the horse’s rump, and they lurched out of the stable.

  “Which way?” he shouted as they cleared the gate.

  “Left!” She grabbed the edge of the seat as they made the turn at breakneck speed. The horse’s hooves beat a tattoo on the pavement as they careened through residential neighborhoods. Rebecca shouted directions at every turn, praying that Edward was at home and not out at some meeting or social fund-raiser for his upcoming campaign.

  They turned on Jackson, then Leavenworth, the oak trees whizzing past like silent sentinels. The only light was from the moon and the lights that shone in the windows of houses.

  “There!” She pointed. “The pale blue one near the corner!”

  Luke reined up sharply, the horse skidding so hard he nearly sat down in the harness.

  She was out of the buggy and up the sidewalk before he could help her.

  Luke stayed in the buggy. He might have driven her here, but he didn’t have to watch. He hated that she had to do this, hated it even more that she was going to another man for help.

  Rebecca pounded on the door, her heart in frantic rhythm with her urgent knocking.

  “Edward! Come on. Come on.” She shifted from one foot to the other, the wood planks creaking and giving with each motion. Why didn’t they answer the door? This was taking too long, and—

  The door swung open. She pushed past a uniformed butler with gray hair and a gaping expression. “Ma’am?”

  “Edward,” she demanded, already handing the butler her coat. “Mr. Pollard. Where is he?”

  “Ma’am, I—”

  Edward stepped out of the dining room, a dinner napkin in his hand. His white shirt was in stark contrast to his midnight blue suit. “Rebecca, what a pleasant surprise!” He dabbed at his mouth. “Won’t you join me for—”

  “Edward, thank goodness you’re home!” Heart pounding in her chest, she rushed toward him. Her hair came down from her pins, and she blew it back. “You’ve got to help me.” Her tone was desperate.

  “Certainly.” His fine blond brows drew down in concern. “Rebecca. What’s happened?”

  She allowed him to wrap her in the curve of his arm and escort her into the parlor. She could feel the warmth of his hand through the fabric of her blouse. Oddly, his touch was not comforting, and she stepped free and circled around a burgundy settee.

  The room was dungeon-dark, paneled as it was in walnut. Not at all to her taste. The furniture was equally dark, burgundy brocade. Matching crystal gas lamps on either side of the mantel provided the only illumination. The drapes were open, as were the French doors.

  Night air and the first traces of fog wafted into the room, like mist in a graveyard. She snatched back the direction of her thoughts.

  “Edward, please. I need money. A great deal of money. I need it now!”

  “Is it Andrew?”

  “Oh, Edward...” Gut-wrenching fear consumed her until she thought she would surely collapse from the pain. “I’ve received a ransom note.”

  “Oh, no.” He sank down on the settee.

  “They want ten thousand dollars. Tonight.”

  He visibly stilled. “Do you have that much cash?”

  �
��No.” She paced to the double doors. The camel-back mantel clock tick-tocked, losing pace with her increasing urgency, and she turned back to Edward.

  “You know I’ll help you any way I can.” He stood and went purposefully to his desk. “I have some cash here, and I could write a check—” As he produced the dark blue checkbook, he looked up in sudden realization. “That won’t help, will it?”

  “No.” She shook her head again. “They want cash, or they are going to kill Andrew.” She clenched and unclenched her fists until her hands ached. “Please, Edward. You’ve got to go to the bank and get the money.”

  Their gazes met, but then he looked away. Eyes downcast, he lowered himself into his chair. “You know I’d do anything for you, but—”

  She raced to the desk. “It’s a loan, Edward. You know I’m good for it.”

  “Rebecca...” he began already shaking his head. “That’s a great deal of money. The bank is closed until Monday.”

  “Yes, I know that,” she snapped, impatiently wondering if he was being deliberately dense. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise. You are a vice president of the bank. Surely you can—”

  “But that’s just it. I don’t own it. The board of directors would have to make such a decision, and they’re...well...” Frowning he absently fingered some papers there. “I don’t know if they can be reached.” Even in this dim light, he refused to meet her eyes. “I know Mr. Wilson left town yesterday for his daughter’s wedding in Los Angeles, and I think Mr. Rubens was planning to accompany him. Without them...” He made a helpless gesture.

  “Edward, please.” She braced her hands on opposite sides of the desk. “This is my son.”

  “I know. I know.” He reached in his desk and produced a small metal box, flipping open the lid to reveal cash. “I’ll give you all that I have on hand—about eight hundred dollars.”

  “Not enough.” She slammed her hand on the smooth walnut surface of his desk for emphasis.

  “I’d help you if I could, you know that. I mean—”

  “I’ve got to have that money!” she raged.

  “Isn’t there some other way? Something you could sell, perhaps?”