Susan Amarillas

To Barbara Musumeci, a dearest friend who is far away but close to my heart. This one’s for you. There’s nary a horse in sight.

San Francisco

October 1880

W
hat the hell was he doing here?

Luke Scanlin swung down off his chestnut gelding and looped the reins through the smooth metal ring of the hitching post. Storm clouds, black and threatening, billowed overhead. Rain spattered against the side of his face. It caught on his eyelashes and plastered his hair to his neck. He shivered, more from reflex than from cold.

Three days. He had been in town three days. It had been raining when he finally stepped off the train from Cheyenne, and it was raining now. Aw, hell, he figured it was destined to rain forever.

Fifty feet away, the house,
her
house, stood like some medieval fortress. It was gray, and as intimidating as any castle. Three floors high, it was as impressive as the other Nob Hill mansions that lined both sides of California Street.

A wry smile played at the corners of his mouth. A princess needs a castle, he thought. But if she was a princess, then what was he? Certainly Luke Scanlin was nobody’s idea of a prince.

That blasted rain increased, trickling off his drooping hat brim and running straight down his neck. “Damn,” he muttered as he flipped up the collar of his mud-stained slicker. He was cold and wet and generally a mess, and still he stood there, staring up at the house.

His hand rested on the hitching post, two fingers on the cold iron, three fingers curled around the smooth leather reins. He ought to mount up and ride away, logic coaxed for about the hundredth time in the past hour. His muscles tensed, and he actually made a half turn, then stopped.

This was pathetic. Here he stood like some schoolboy, afraid to go in there and see
her.

Well,
she
wasn’t just anyone.

When he rode away that day eight years ago, he’d been so certain he was right.

The breeze carried the scent of salt water up from the bay, and the rain intensified, soaking the black wool of his trousers where they brushed against the tops of his mud-spattered black boots. Oak trees rustled in the breeze, sending the last of their golden leaves skittering along the street.

Beside him, the gelding nickered, his bridle rattling as he shook his head in protest at being out in the storm.

“Quiet, Scoundrel.” Luke soothed the animal with a pat and stared up at the house once more.

Well, what’s it going to be? You going to stand here all day?

He sighed. What was he going to say to her after all these years? Pure and simple, this was flat-out asking for trouble.
Leave well enough alone.

But trouble was something Luke had never shied away from. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. In fact, he and trouble were old friends.

He started toward the house.

* * *

Rebecca Parker Tinsdale strode into the parlor of her home shortly past nine in the morning. The distant rumble of thunder accompanied her arrival. The storm-shrouded sunlight gave the white walls a grayish tinge, and the rich rococo-style mahogany furnishings only added to the dark and ominous feeling of the day. A pastoral painting by Constable hung over the fireplace, but the scene—a picnic on a bright summer day—seemed inappropriate, given the ominous dread that permeated the house.

She managed to keep her expression calm. Inside, fear was eating her alive. Her hands shook, and she buried them in the folds of her dark blue dress. The faille was smooth against her fingers.

In four carefully measured steps, Rebecca crossed the room to where Captain Amos Brody, chief of the San Francisco police, waited near the pale rose settee.

“Have you found Andrew?” She spoke slowly, struggling to hold the fear in check. Even as she asked, she could tell the answer by his grim expression.

If anything happened to Andrew... If he was hurt or...

Steady. Don’t fall apart. Andrew needs you.

“Well, Mrs. Tinsdale...” Brody began, his rotund body straining at the double row of brass buttons that marched down the front of his dark blue uniform, “I’ve had two men searching all night. They’ve looked everywhere, and I’m sorry to say there’s no sign of the boy.”

“Keep looking, Captain.”

“Oh, you can rely on us,” Brody returned in an indulgent tone. “I’ll personally tell the men on the beat to keep an eye out.”

Rebecca stiffened. She and Brody made no secret of their mutual dislike. That series of articles she’d been running in the
Daily Times
on police corruption was leading a path straight to Brody and half of his department. Still, he was in charge and, like it or not, she had to deal with him.

“Captain, I expect you to do more than keep an eye out. This isn’t a lost kitten you can dismiss and hope it eventually finds its way home. This—” she emphasized the words, as though to drive them into his thick balding skull “—this is my
son.
And you
will
help me find him.”

She saw him bristle—saw his Adam’s apple work up and down in his throat.

They faced each other, the refined lady and the harsh man, each appraising the other. Rebecca had wealth, and she published a small newspaper. That gave her power. A mother’s fear gave her determination. She knew Brody was the one who ultimately made the assignments, determined how and when and where things were done. It galled her to have to ask the man for help. If Brody chose to make only a halfhearted effort because of their feud, she might not know until it was too late for her—for her only child.

Outside, the rain spattered against the lace-curtained front window, drawing Rebecca’s attention. Silvery streaks of water cascaded down the glass. Andrew was out there somewhere, cold and afraid. He was only seven, so small, and so fragile since his illness last year. Terror, stark and real, swept through her, and she advanced on Brody. “Whatever it takes, Captain. Send more men, ten men, a hundred—”

“I’d like to do that, Mrs. Tinsdale, but I can’t.” Brody punctuated his statement with a nonchalant shrug that pushed her rapidly rising temper up another notch. “Finding one boy is small compared to the job of protecting this city. With less than two hundred men on the force, well, I have an obligation to
all
the citizens of this fair community,” he finished, in a pious tone that would have made her laugh at any other time. “As it is, I’ve taken men from other areas to search, and—”

“I don’t care about other areas.” Condescending bastard, she thought as she paced away from him, her rage too great for her to remain still. She talked over her shoulder. “I don’t care about other citizens.” She turned back, her hands balled into tight fists, feeling the perspiration on her palms. “I don’t care about anything or anyone but finding my son. I’ve been out there all night myself. Dammit, Captain, I expect you to do the same.”

Brody nodded and held up his hand in a placating gesture that only aggravated her dangerously short temper.

“Mrs. Tinsdale, I know you’re upset and all, but I’ve handled this sort of thing before and I know what I’m doing.”

Rebecca closed on him, contemplating serious bodily injury. “Captain Brody, either you do your job or I’ll ask the mayor to find someone who can.” It was a hollow threat since the mayor was a strong supporter of Brody’s, but she made it just the same.

“Now look here, lady,” he sputtered. “I know you’re upset, but don’t tell me how to do my job. Before you start ordering me around, you might as well face facts. The boy’s probably run off, is all. It’s only been since last night.” Maliciousness sparked in his blue eyes. “Sooner or later he’ll get tired and hungry, then turn tail and head for home...” He paused thoughtfully. “Unless someone’s taken him. Then, of course, it’s another matter.”

Her blood turned to ice. It was that thought that had circled in her mind all night, the way a wolf circles in the shadows of a camp. In a voice that was barely audible, she spoke the terrifying words. “Someone has taken my son?”

Brody gave a one-shoulder shrug, then picked up his cap, as though he were about to leave. “It’s possible.” He turned the dark blue hat absently in his pudgy hand. “I’ll do the best I can, but you gotta remember this is a big city. It can be a mean city, too, and people, including children, disappear here all the time. Ships go in and out of this harbor with all kinds of cargo, if you get my meaning.”

She did. God help her, she understood his meaning all too well. Her knees buckled, and she sank down in a chair. Brody was wrong. He
had
to be wrong. Andrew was lost. He’d gotten too far from home and become confused. Yes, that was it. That
had
to be it. To think otherwise... To think of some depraved person with her son, scaring him, hurting him, kil— No!

With sheer force of will, she refused to think that and, looking up, saw that Brody was still talking.

“—figure out who the boy is, what he’s worth.” She saw him glance around the elegant room, as if to confirm his appraisal. “Maybe they’ll make a try for ransom, otherwise th—”

Brody broke off in midword, and she saw that his gaze was focused on the doorway behind her. Still seated, she turned.

An eerie silence fell as Rebecca and Brody stared at the powerful man standing two feet inside the parlor. He looked every inch the outlaw, dressed as he was in range clothes and a slicker. For a breathless moment, Rebecca thought Brody’s prediction had come true.

The man was tall, with broad shoulders, and his dark countenance seemed in stark contrast to the refinements of a San Francisco drawing room.

She was about to demand his identity when her gaze flicked to his face and she looked straight into dark eyes, bottomless eyes, familiar eyes.

Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Oh, no...” The words were a thready whisper. She felt the blood drain from her face.

Speechless, Rebecca stared at him. Luke Scanlin. His mere presence emanated a power that surged through the room faster than lightning.

So he’s finally here.
The odd thought flashed in her mind.

“Hello, Princess,” he said, in a husky tone that sent unwelcome and definitely unexpected shivers skittering up her spine.

What in God’s name was Luke doing here? Not once in nearly eight years had she seen or heard from him, and now he strolled in here as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Well, it wasn’t the most natural thing, not in her world. Never mind those delicious shivers. He was firmly and irrevocably in her past.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Brody take a menacing step in Luke’s direction. “Mister, just who are you, and how did you get in here?” he demanded with an appraising stare. “Do you know something about this?”

“Name’s Scanlin,” Luke returned, with an impudent Texas drawl. He walked slowly into the room, his steps muffled by the thick flowered carpet. “I saw you through the window. When no one answered the door, I let myself in.”

Luke never let a little thing like a closed door stop him from getting what he was after. What he was after right now was perched on the edge of a chair about five feet away.

Absently he sized the other man up and quickly dismissed him, keeping his gaze focused on the object of his visit.

Becky.

She was more beautiful than he remembered, and he remembered very, very well. A little thinner, perhaps, and obviously upset. He’d only caught the tail end of the conversation. “What’s going on?”

“Scanlin?” Brody rubbed his chin thoughtfully and ignored the question. “You by any chance Luke Scanlin, the one who brought in Conklin?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’ve heard of you. Thought you were with the Rangers down around...San Antonio, wasn’t it?”

“Amarillo,” he replied. “I’m not with the Rangers anymore.”

Luke closed on Rebecca, stopping in front of her. Dark smudges shadowed her blue eyes, and her skin was winter white. Her hair was the same, though, golden, and done up softly, tiny wisps framing the fine bones of her face. He’d remembered her hair down and loose around her shoulders, remembered it gliding like silk over his bare chest while he—

He gulped in a lungful of air and stilled the direction of his thoughts. Damn. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but this wasn’t it.

Rebecca stared at him as he dropped down on one knee in front of her. Absently she noted that his slicker left a smudge of dirt on the carpet.

“Becky? Princess? What’s happened?” he asked, in a tender voice that was nearly her undoing.
Oh, Luke don’t do this to me. Not now.

All her defensive instincts were screaming that she should move, get up, walk away. She didn’t. His face filled her line of vision.

He looked at her, his eyes as black as sable and just as soft, and her heart took on a funny little flutter. She had to stop herself from reaching out and brushing his cheek.

The years had been kind to him, she thought. He was as handsome as ever, maybe more so. His chiseled face was all high ridges and curved valleys, the sternness softened by the tiny lines around his eyes and mouth that showed he was a man who liked to smile. She remembered that smile, roguish and charming enough to melt granite. The other thing she remem-bered was that way he had of looking at her, lover-soft. The way he was looking at her now.

“Rebecca?” he said, his tone coaxing.

“Hello, Luke,” she managed to say, surprised that her voice sounded so steady. “What...what are you doing here?”

Purposefully Luke plopped his rain-soaked hat beside him on the carpet and raked one hand through his hair. She looked so forlorn, like a lost kitten, and it was the most natural thing to want to wrap her in his embrace and protect her from whatever the hell was wrong. All things considered—things like his timing, and the fact that they weren’t alone—he reluctantly decided on a more formal approach.

“My apologies for dropping by unannounced, but I—”

He fired a glance at the police officer, who was watching them with open interest, then back to Rebecca’s worried face. Concern won out over formality, and he cut to the point.

“Somebody want to tell me what the devil is going on? I heard something about a boy being missing.”

“That’s correct,” the policeman replied, in a tone tinged with an arrogance that rankled Luke. Arms folded across his chest, the man leaned one shoulder against the white marble mantel.