Susan Amarillas (14 page)

The door swung wide. A portly man of about forty, with thinning brown hair, answered the knock.

“Mrs. Tinsdale. What a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting you. Please come in.” Smiling, he stepped aside.

“Mr. Handley.” Rebecca walked past him into the small, square entryway. “I apologize for the late hour but I’ve come to see you about that offer to buy the
Times.
”

He shot Luke a questioning glance. “I don’t believe we’ve met, sir. Frank Handley.” He offered his hand.

“Luke Scanlin. U.S. marshal for this region.” Luke wasn’t one for titles, but under the circumstances, he thought this was a good time to use his. Just to let the man know there’d be no deceptions—not tonight, not with Becky.

His handshake stopped in midmotion, and his gaze flew to Luke’s face. “Marshal? Did you say marshal?”

“That’s right. Is there a problem?”

“What? Oh, no.” He released Luke’s hand abruptly. “I was just startled, is all. Maybe I should ask you the same thing?”

“Everything’s fine...so far,” Luke returned politely, but didn’t bother to smile.

“Good. Well, please, since this is business, let’s go into the office.”

He led the way down the narrow, carpeted hall beside the stairs, to a room near the back of the house. The gas wall sconces were barely a flicker, and he turned them up, the gas flame hissing in response.

The office was barely ten by ten, just enough room for a small mahogany desk, one matching file cabinet and two Windsor chairs.

“Have a seat, won’t you?”

Rebecca took the chair by the warming stove.

“I’ll stand,” Luke said at the lawyer’s questioning glance.

“Suit yourself.”

“I always do.”

Luke folded his arms across his chest and leaned one shoulder against the smooth doorframe, effectively blocking the doorway.

The lawyer hardly hesitated. He was good, Luke thought with grudging admiration, and he should know. He’d seen enough of them over the years, what with trials and all.

Rebecca broke in. “Mr. Handley, about the sale.”

Frank Handley circled around his desk and sat down, his swivel chair squeaking as he twisted.

“I’ve brought the papers, signed.” She balanced them on her lap. “You had said cash. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Here. Now,” Luke clarified from his place in the doorway.

“Yes. I have the cash in the safe.”

Rebecca straightened, and Luke could see her sigh. There was even the barest hint of a smile. “Fine. Then we have a deal.”

She stood and offered him the papers, which he accepted. He glanced at the signature, then went to a safe hidden behind a painting—so obvious an idiot could have spotted it.

Thirty seconds, and the small door swung open with a squeak. He produced a tan envelope bulging with cash, which he handed to Rebecca.

“You’re welcome to count it, if you like.”

She clutched the envelope to her as though her life depended on it. In a way, it did. It
would
save her life, for God knew that if she lost Andrew, her life wouldn’t be worth living.

“No, that’s all right, Mr. Handley. I trust you.”

She started for the door. Luke blocked her path. They exchanged a glance. His gaze quickly flicked to the lawyer, the one who was Cheshire-cat pleased with himself. Something about the man bothered Luke. Maybe it was that there had been no haggling, no discussing, no questions. Maybe it was that the money had just been sitting there waiting, as though they’d known she’d sell.

Oh, hell, it was more likely that his suspicious nature was getting the better of him. After all, the offer had been made weeks ago, and, she hadn’t turned them down, so why shouldn’t the money be sitting here waiting?

Still, his male pride, pride that was all tied up in knots because he couldn’t reach in his pocket and produce the needed money, made him say, “You sure about this?” His tone was executioner-quiet.

“I am.”

He saw tears pool in her eyes, and that helpless feeling inside him quickly turned to rage.

He let her pass, though it felt more as if he were letting her go. Somehow he was going to make this up to her. Somehow he was going to make her see that even though he didn’t have thousands in the bank, he was still the one she needed.

The ride back to the house was somber. She had the money, but the cost he knew had been terribly high. The paper was her heart. Andrew was her soul.

“I’m sorry this is happening, Becky.”

She nodded, clutching the envelope to her breasts. “I have the money, that’s all that matters. Andrew is all that matters.”

The horse’s hooves click-clacking on the street and the hum of the buggy wheels irritated her already throbbing nerves. Houses, lights blazing, passed like soldiers in review, while oak trees stood shadowy sentry duty. There was no breeze, just the light gray misting of the incoming fog.

“You know, I can’t help wondering why that lawyer had the money on hand, instead of in a bank.” Luke shifted the reins to one hand.

“The offer said cash,” Rebecca explained. “It was supposed to be an incentive. No lengthy paperwork, no financing.”

“But cash? I mean, most people, when they say cash, they mean in a bank, write a check, that kind of cash.”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I know is, I’ve got
exactly
the amount of money I need. What time is it?”

He fished his watch out of his pocket and clicked open the cover, twisting it to catch enough moonlight to read it. “Eight. We’ve got an hour.”

He let her off in front of the house, and watched her hurry up the walk before he drove the buggy around to the stable.

“Put it away,” he told the boy. He saddled his horse and led him around to the front. There was at least one thing he could do. He could deliver the ransom. Walking into dark alleys was something he was all too familiar with. If someone was going to get hurt, it wasn’t going to be her.

The entryway was empty when he walked in. He went upstairs and found Ruth with Rebecca, in her bedroom.

The room was large, square, and conspicuously feminine. All soft shades of blue and green. There was lace at the windows and lace trim on the bed coverings. The furniture was cherry, polished to a gleaming shine. It looked just the way he would have imagined Becky’s room.

“You okay?” he asked, knowing she was far from it, but needing to say something, needing to let her know he was there for her.

“Yes.” Her back was to him. She was rummaging in her wardrobe cabinet. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Ready?” He arched one brow suspiciously. “Ready for what?”

Her head snapped around. “Why, to go, of course.” She pulled out a black riding skirt and a dark print blouse.

“Just where is it you think you’re going? I’m taking the money.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

“So?”

“I’m going with you.” She dropped down in a chair and hitched her skirt to her knees, then started undoing the buttons on her shoes as if he weren’t standing ten feet away, gaping at her stocking-clad ankle.

His mouth dropped open. He snapped it shut. The woman was more brazen, more stubborn, than most men.

He shot a help-me glance at Ruth, who shrugged helplessly.

Okay, then, he’d handle this himself. Taking a firm step into the room, feet braced, he gave her his sternest look. The one that had made Johnny Jenks think twice, then decide surrender was better than dying. “I—” he emphasized the singular word “—am making the delivery.
You
are not coming along.”

That fierce look of his failed miserably. The woman didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.” She tossed her shoes aside and pulled her blouse free of her waistband, shooting him an impatient look. “I am.”

“No,” he countered, as though he were talking to a headstrong child. “You aren’t. You don’t know what we’re dealing with here. I do this for a living, remember?”

With cold determination in her eyes, she advanced on him. He held his ground, though he’d seen kinder looks in the eyes of warring Comanches.

Ruth spoke up from her place near the foot of the bed. “I tried to tell her it was too dangerous.”

“Thank you,” he said, in a smug confirmation that didn’t slow Rebecca’s advance one iota.

“Now, you listen to me.” She jabbed the tips of two fingers in his chest, and he flinched in surprise. “I’m going. That’s
my
son. It’s
my
money, and—”

“I know it’s
your
money, dammit. I just drove you all over town to get it,” he snapped, still smarting from the frustration and the blow to his pride.

“Either you take me, or I go alone. But make no mistake, Scanlin—I’m going. Now...” She jabbed him again, and this time he retreated a half step. Comanches could take lessons from her. “You coming with me or not?”

“Dammit, Becky, you can’t—”

“Yes or no, Scanlin. Those are the only words I want to hear.”

“This is wrong. It’s dangerous as hell.”

“Yes or no.”

He didn’t doubt for one second that she was bullheaded enough to do exactly what she said. Trouble was, she’d probably get herself, and maybe that boy, killed in the process.

Every instinct he had was screaming that this was a big, big mistake.

He was cornered.

“All right!”

“What?” she countered, with a smugness that rankled his dangerously short temper.

“Yes, I’m coming with you.”

“Fine.” She turned away, already beginning to unbutton her blouse. “Now get out of here so I can change.”

Ten minutes later, Luke was still fuming.

He paced the length of the entryway. He’d had a Missouri mule once with a gentler disposition than her. He clenched his jaw so hard, pain inched down his neck and up behind his eyes.

Yeah. Okay. He knew she was worried about the boy. So was he. He knew she’d been frantic. He would be, also, if it were his son.

He kept pacing, his boots making hollow thuds on the polished planks.

Yeah, he also understood that sitting around doing nothing, waiting, wasn’t his style—or hers, obviously.

But this was dangerous, more dangerous than she could begin to understand, and he didn’t have time to explain the fine points of the outlaw mentality. How they were about as trustworthy and honorable as rabid wolves. Make that hungry, rabid wolves.

He should have been in that alley an hour ago. He should have gotten there first so that there would be no chance of a trap, no chance of being surprised. As it was, with all this running around trying to get the ransom, they’d make the deadline with only minutes to spare. That triggered a warning bell in his mind. He didn’t have time to think about it now, but later, after everyone was home, then... He nodded thoughtfully to himself.

For about the tenth time in as many minutes, he checked his .45, the one he had tied low on his right thigh. He hefted the gun, testing the cylinder, the weight and feel, as though he were shaking hands with an old friend. Yeah, he mused, slipping the weapon smoothly into the worn holster, sometimes this was his only friend. Tonight he also had a .32 in a shoulder holster under his jacket. Just in case.

He paced away again, this time to stand in the open doorway. The sky was filled with stars, like diamonds on a jeweler’s black velvet cloth. The moon was half-full, the other half faintly visible, like a shadow. It was hard to believe that something so terrible was happening on such a beautiful night. It was a night for lovers, just enough chill in the air for a man to put his arm around his girl under the pretense of keeping her warm.

Yeah, a night for lovers. Too bad he and Becky weren’t going out somewhere, maybe to a restaurant or a theater. He’d like that.

Instead, he was taking her into an alley on the Barbary Coast. If it weren’t so awful, it would be appropriately funny. They were about as opposite as the Barbary Coast and Nob Hill, he mused, not for the first time.

He sucked in a slow breath to calm his nerves. His heart pounded heavily in his chest, and his fingers curled and uncurled in a nervous gesture. Yes, he was nervous. The famous Luke Scanlin was downright scared.

He’d faced outlaws and Indians, robbers and range wars, but this was different. All those other times, nothing had mattered. He’d had nothing to lose but his life, which he’d always figured wasn’t worth much anyway. He’d had no family who’d miss him or mourn. Hell, he’d barely had enough money to get himself buried, whenever that necessity arose.

He leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb and settled his battered old Stetson a little lower on his forehead.

All evening he’d hardly been able to keep his thoughts on the business at hand. His mind had been on that revelation of hers. She’d said she had loved him. All those years ago, Rebecca had loved him.

He shook his head in disbelief. He could have had it all. This could have been his.

He made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. Not this, he thought, glancing over his shoulder at the mansion spread out behind him. But he could have had Rebecca. Maybe they would have had a child, a son.

Becky’s child. That thought settled gently in his mind. He’d like that—like that a lot.

He wanted her. He had realized after that first kiss that he had always wanted her, had come back to claim her. But was it too late?

Abruptly he lifted away from the doorframe. He had work to do, a child to bring home, and a woman—his woman—to protect.

His arm brushed against the gun securely tucked in the shoulder holster under his jacket. He adjusted it to a more comfortable position.

A glance at the clock on the mantel in the parlor showed it was twenty to nine. He’d already been to the stables and had another horse saddled for her. He stopped pacing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Becky—”

He broke off when he spotted her on the top step. She was dressed in a black split skirt that brushed the tops of her riding boots. The ebony buttons down the front were unfastened, revealing the split in the skirt. She wore another of those high-necked blouses, this one in a navy blue print. Her hair was down, tied back with a ribbon.

She looked a little pale, dark smudges obvious under her eyes. Her usually sensuous mouth was drawn into a thin line. She was tired, and more than a little afraid, he knew, and he remembered her tremulous voice when she’d admitted that weakness to him.