Any concern she had had about Andrew being at the police station disappeared. There was not the slightest indication that anything traumatic had been suffered. In fact, he looked inordinately happy, she thought grudgingly.
“Hi, Mama. We had ice cream, and we went—”
“So I see.” She touched the pink smudge on the front of his shirt. “Is that where you’ve been...all this time?”
“Oh, no, we—”
She cut across his words. “We have company, dear. You can tell me later.”
Luke strolled in, looking tall and dark and head-turning handsome, just like always. And, just like always, those same darned goose bumps scampered up her legs.
Evidently Mrs. Hillebrand and her teenage daughter were not unaffected. They stared openmouthed at Luke, and Rebecca was tempted to caution Ariel not to drool in polite society.
She made introductions.
“Mrs. Hillebrand and Ariel, may I present Marshal Scanlin?” Her voice was flat, and she kept her anger barely under control. They’d been gone for hours and hours without a word, and now Luke strolled in here calm as you please, without any apologies, any explanations.
“Ladies,” he said, tossing his hat down on the pale silk side chair. He acted as though he were coming home, which he wasn’t, she thought petulantly. He took each woman’s hand in turn. His smile was radiant, boyish and charming. “I’m always pleased to meet two such lovely ladies.”
Mrs. Hillebrand blushed. Ariel giggled. Rebecca seethed.
Devilment sparked in Luke’s eyes as he settled comfortably on the settee. Andrew squirmed into the vee of his legs, and Luke pulled him fully onto his lap.
“Marshal,” Mrs. Hillebrand began, “everyone is talking about what a hero you are.”
“Not at all,” he said as Andrew lounged back against Luke’s chest.
“Of course you are. I’m certain Mrs. Tinsdale agrees. Don’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, tight-lipped.
“Just doing my job.” His chin was resting on Andrew’s dark, tousled hair in a pose that would have seemed casual to most, but made her pulse race. She curled her hands around the arms of the chair, as if the smooth wood could steady her nerves.
Mrs. Hillebrand was still talking. “My goodness, facing desperadoes all alone like that, saving Andrew from the clutches of those awful people. Why, it’s wonderful!” Her chubby face lit up in a smile.
“Yes, wonderful,” Ariel agreed with a sigh.
“There’s even talk that you should run for mayor.”
Luke grinned and chuckled. “I’m not a politician, ma’am. But thanks.”
Mrs. Hillebrand reached for her tea, the cup rattling in the saucer as she lifted it from the serving tray. “Well, Marshal, we’ve had politicians, and my husband, for one, says it’s time for someone else, someone who’s not a politico to run this city.”
Rebecca couldn’t believe her ears. Good Lord, people were talking about running him for office. What office? Police chief? Mayor? King? It wasn’t that she didn’t think he could do a good job. She did. He was honest and dedicated, to give the devil his due—so to speak. But was there no end to this? Why couldn’t he leave? Go back to his marshal’s job? Better yet, go somewhere else and be marshal?
“It’s very flattering,” she heard him saying politely, with a smile that was making young Ariel blush again. “Please thank your husband for me, and—” his smile widened “—thank you ladies, too.” In one motion, he stood, lifting a giggling Andrew with him. “I think it’s time to get Andrew cleaned up.” He peered at the boy tucked under his arm like a sack of potatoes. “What do you say, cowboy? Time to wash up for dinner?”
“Okay, Luke.”
Luke put him down, and he ran to Rebecca and gave her a big hug. “Oh, Mama, I had the best time ever. Luke showed me how to ride his horse, and then we had ice cream, and then we went to watch the circus men put the tent up, and—”
“All right, Andrew.” Rebecca silenced him with a gentle look. “Later, remember?”
“Oh. Sorry,” he muttered, more to his shoes than to anyone in particular.
Mrs. Hillebrand stood, as did Ariel. “Well, we have to be going. Very nice to meet you, Marshal. I’m sure we’ll see you again. I understand you’re staying with Mrs. Tinsdale.”
She said it so casually that if a person wasn’t paying close attention, he might not realize the importance of what she was asking. It was provocative, to say the least.
Normally, Rebecca took this kind of question in stride; it was part of life, especially in San Francisco. Tonight, however, all things considered, she was aching for a fight, and if these two busybodies wanted one, they’d come to the right place.
“I really don’t think—”
“May I?” Luke cut in smoothly. “Mrs. Tinsdale was kind enough to let me use a room as my headquarters while we searched. I have my own quarters, at the Halifax on Washington Street. Perhaps you know it?”
Mrs. Hillebrand never faltered. “Why, yes, I believe I do.”
“Well, if you ladies will excuse me?”
“Of course.”
His back to the others, he winked at Rebecca. Then, grinning, he said, “All right, Andrew, race you to the stairs.”
Andrew took off as if he’d been shot out of a cannon, and Luke followed at a more respectable pace.
Rebecca escorted the ladies to the door.
After closing the door, she turned and sank back against it. She stood like that for several minutes. Luke had come to her defense, she realized. She was startled by the act, and by the fact that he’d done so with such grace that the ladies hadn’t even hesitated to believe him.
Her earlier feelings of fear and anxiety quieted. If he didn’t suspect anything by now, surely he never would. But her heart still fluttered frantically in her chest, and she thought that it was as much the instant attraction she felt each and every time she looked at him as it was her fear that he would discover her secret. He lingered in her mind, inflaming her senses. She allowed herself to acknowledge the feelings, though she refused to surrender to them, just as she refused to surrender to the man.
Mrs. Wheeler roused her from her musings. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, Mrs. Tinsdale. Shall I wake Mrs. Tinsdale?”
“No, that’s all right, I’m going up anyway. I’ll call her.” She started up the stairs.
* * *
Luke was washing the last of the soap from Andrew’s face with a yellow washcloth. Andrew, with the smoothest bit of pleading ever seen outside a courtroom, had convinced Luke that a complete bath wasn’t necessary. In one of those man-to-man things, Luke had agreed—but only after swearing Andrew to secrecy.
Stretching, Luke dragged the towel from the rack beside the bed and tossed it to Andrew.
“Okay, where do you keep your clean shirts?”
“There,” Andrew said, and pointed. “Top drawer.” Andrew was busy finger-combing his damp hair. It looked more smashed than combed, Luke thought, chuckling. Two persistent cowlicks were giving him fits. “I hate to tell you, but we’re gonna have to comb it, cowboy.”
“Aw, Luke. It’s good enough.” Andrew smashed at a particularly ornery cowlick, licked his fingers and tried again.
“No sense doing that,” Luke explained. “I know. I’ve tried. Why do you think I keep mine long?” He ran his hand through his hair to illustrate the point.
Andrew’s chin came up in determination. “Then I’ll grow mine, too.”
“Ah, well, we’ll see what your mother has to say about that.”
Luke was grinning as he walked the three steps to the walnut dresser, his boots cushioned by the royal blue carpet. The top of the dresser was covered with a white lace doily. He glanced at the collection of tin soldiers lined up military-straight on one side, and the two silver frames with photographs on the other side.
“Did you say top drawer?”
“Uh-huh.”
The drawer slid out with a scraping so
und to reveal a half-dozen or so shirts, all starched, ironed, folded and arranged neatly in two stacks. Since Luke was doing the choosing, he chose his favorite color—blue, like Becky’s eyes.
Seemed everything he did made him think of her.
As he thought of Becky, his eyes naturally flicked to the photographs. Nudging the drawer closed with his hip, he picked one up for a closer look. The silver frame was cool and smooth against his fingers.
The faces staring back at him were smiling, happy. A much younger Andrew, about two, Luke guessed. Cute face... He looked like someone...
His eyes narrowed as he stared at the fuzzy photograph. He angled it slightly, catching the fading light through the lace curtain covering the window. A thought stirred in the back of his mind, a feeling that he couldn’t quite get ahold of. He decided to stop trying. These things had a way of coming along in their own good time.
He let his eyes wander to Rebecca. She was wearing a dress—dark, full skirt, high neck, of course. She was smiling. Her hand was resting lightly on the sleeve of the man beside her.
“This your father?”
“Yes.”
Luke glanced over to make sure he hadn’t upset the boy. It appeared he hadn’t, so Luke moved a little closer to the window and pushed back the curtain with one hand to get more light.
He’d never seen Rebecca’s husband, and he was curious. What kind of a man would she marry? He had his answer. He was tall like Luke, but that was where any resemblance ended. Where Luke was dark, he was fair. Where Luke was cowboy, he was society gentleman.
He had a nice face, though, kind, Luke decided grudgingly. He could see the family resemblance to Ruth—same eyes, same mouth. His gaze flickered to Andrew, who was still working on the cowlick.
Andrew looked like...who? Rebecca, he guessed. He sure didn’t look like his father.
He glanced at the photograph again, for an instant imagining himself there, imagining what it would be like to have a family, a son.
Suddenly a sadness washed over him. Regrets and mistakes came to mind, making him feel the loss intensely. He tensed and put the photograph down with a clunk. He had enough trouble dealing with the present; there was no sense dredging up the past.
“How’s this one?” He held up the shirt.
“Good. Mama likes that one. Blue is her favorite color.”
“What’s yours?” Luke asked, unfastening the small buttons and helping Andrew slip it on.
“I like red...and green,” Andrew said, firmly glancing up from the last of his buttoning.
“Red, huh? You mean like the fire wagons?”
“Oh, yes. I like the fire wagons. Mama got me a toy one last year for my birthday. Wanna see it?”
“Sure.”
Wearing only his shirt, Andrew charged out of the room. Luke could hear his bare feet thudding on the plank flooring. A door slammed. Andrew barreled into the room, hefting a fire wagon with a double team of snowy white horses attached to the wagon’s tongue.
Luke held up the toy for a careful inspection. “That’s a beauty. Looks like the one we saw today, doesn’t it?”
“I know. It’s my favorite toy. I got it for my birthday last year. You can play with it sometimes, too, though, if you want.”
“Why, thanks, cowboy. Next time I get some free time, I’ll take you up on that, okay?”
“Okay.”
Luke helped him with his trousers, then socks and shoes. He reached for the comb. “What are you getting this year...for your birthday?”
“Ouch,” he groaned when the comb caught in a tangle.
“Sorry.” Luke started again.
“I don’t know what I’m getting this year?” He brightened. “Maybe I’ll ask for a pony, now that I know how to ride and all.”
“Well, you might need a little more practice.”
“Would you help me?”
“Sure,” Luke agreed, happy to spend time with the boy. That niggling thought got closer to the surface of his mind. There was something he’d forgotten...or something...
He shrugged. “Say, when is your birthday? Do you know?”
“Sure I do.” Andrew seemed indignant. “It’s December tenth.”
“December. That’s right. I remember your grandmother telling me. Do you mind having your birthday so near Christmas?”
“Naw. Mama always makes a big party. It’s like having Christmas two times.”
Luke was still chuckling when he dropped down on one knee to help Andrew tuck his shirt into the waist of his brown wool trousers. Andrew’s stared up at him, black eyes staring back at equally black eyes. A strange feeling moved through Luke, a sudden lightness that made his breathing shallow. A thought flashed crystal-clear in his mind. All the air rushed out of his lungs.
He did some fast arithmetic. He’d left Rebecca in March—seven years and nine months. Dear God, could it be true?
He searched the boy’s face as though he were photographing it, as though he were seeing him for the first time. In a way, he was. “Are you certain, Andrew? You aren’t guessing?” There was an urgency to his voice.
“No,” Andrew said, somewhat indignantly. “I know my birthday and my address, and I can write them down. You wanna see?”
“No.” Luke brushed the hair back from the boy’s face. Without standing, he took Andrew by the shoulders and turned him to face the mirror. Almost shoulder to shoulder, the two looked into the glass. The reflection that stared back sent an icy chill down Luke’s spine.
“Luke, we’ve got the same color eyes. Isn’t that great? We’ve even got the same cowlick. Look! See, mine’s here and yours is...”
“Here,” Luke said very softly. Suspicion became reality, soul-shattering reality. Luke sank back on his heels, his hands still resting on Andrew’s...on his son’s shoulders. Oh, Lord, he had a son. A son. The word turned into a soft, gentle feeling that wrapped itself forever around his heart.
He glanced away long enough to look at the photograph on the bureau. The fair-haired couple and the child, a boy with raven black hair and equally black eyes, just like the eyes that looked back at him every time he looked in the mirror.
His fingers tightened slightly, possessively, on Andrew’s small shoulders, and tears welled up in his eyes and slid unchecked down his cheeks.
Luke knew Rebecca was there even before he looked to the doorway. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was soft with emotions too new to name, and he thought at this moment that no man could be happier than he was. The woman he loved had given him a son. He didn’t care about the rest, about having to find out himself, about the lost years. He was overjoyed to know. He would forgive her the rest.
Rebecca’s voice was very calm when she spoke. “Andrew, why don’t you go on down to dinner? Grandma is there already, and she’ll be lonely. Tell her we’ll be along shortly.”
Andrew slipped free of Luke’s light touch. “Okay.”
“See you later, Luke.”
“See you later, son,” he couldn’t resist saying, testing the word and the feeling.
Andrew didn’t understand the double meaning of Luke’s remark, but Rebecca did. She saw the tears on his cheeks. It tugged at her heart, her guilt and regret and anger. There was one more feeling that overwhelmed the others—the sense of duty. She had a duty to the people she loved, Andrew and Ruth. She owed them security and love and protection. She would protect them, even at her own expense. Rebecca stepped into the room and closed the door softly, leaning back against it, effectively blocking it, as though she could keep the secret locked up as easily.
Luke stood and started for her, wanting to take her in his arms, to hold her and tell her that he forgave her for keeping the secret.
She stopped him with an upraised hand. “Just what is it you think you know?”
“I know that Andrew is my son.”
“I say he’s not.”
Luke hesitated. He walked to the photograph and held it up for her. The dark-haired boy and the fair
-haired couple. No, Andrew had Luke’s eyes and hair and coloring. The imprint of his features was true and unmistakable. He glanced back at Rebecca. “Like hell he isn’t. I should have seen it from the first. He’s my son.”
“Try and prove it.”
The silence in the room was overpowering in its intensity. It took a full thirty seconds for the reality of her words to penetrate his brain.
In a voice that was hard and cold and ripe with menace, he said, “Goddamn you, Rebecca. All this time, and you never told me. You took what we shared and turned it into something dark and immoral. You hate me so much that you would keep my son from me.”
“I thought you were too busy chasing fame and excitement. Once you got me in the hay, you used me and left.” She said it plainly; it only took a few words to explain a mountain of anger and distrust.
“Sure I left, I—”
“Don’t give me that story about being young, because I’m not buying it.”
“I don’t have to explain my life to you. If you’ll remember, sweetheart, no one forced you into the hay with me. You went willingly...both times.” With that, he leveled the mountain.
“Yes, Luke, I did.” Her voice was ripe with sarcasm and regret. “I absolve you of all responsibility. There. Are you happy? It’s not your fault. None of it. You can leave with a clear conscience.”
“I’ve tried to explain to you.”
“A little late, isn’t it?” She advanced on him this time. “About a lifetime too late.”
“You got married.” He said it like an accusation.
“Yes.” Her tone was defiant. “I got married. Thank goodness Nathan was willing to marry me, knowing I was pregnant with another man’s child.”
“You could have written, wired. I would have come back.”
“Oh, certainly. A letter addressed to Luke Scanlin, Somewhere, Texas. Yes, that would have been a perfect choice. In the meantime, I could have gotten bigger and bigger, disgraced my family, risked my son’s name, all in the faint hope that the man who thought so little of me as to take my virginity and then ride off would want to come back and get married.”
Susan Amarillas Page 23
