Susan Amarillas (6 page)

T
he sun was nothing but an orange glow in a gray sky when Luke got back to the house. That damnable rain had moved on about twenty minutes ago, and the clouds actually showed signs of breaking up.

He took his horse to the stable. It was white clapboard outside, dark stained pine inside. The place was fancier than half the hotels he’d stayed in, and this just for a horse.

“Well, boy,” he said with a chuckle, “enjoy it, but don’t get used to it.”

Four stalls lined each side. The familiar scent of hay and the acrid scent of horses greeted him. A pair of chestnut carriage horses peered at him over the wooden stall gates. A couple of saddle horses also poked their heads out to check out the visitor.

A young stable hand of about fifteen hurried to meet him. “I’ll put him away for you, sir,” he said, his sandy hair falling across his left eye. He shoved it back.

“No thanks. I always take care of my horse.” Spotting an empty stall, he asked, “This one okay?”

“Fine. Help yourself to whatever you want. Oats is there—” he pointed, “—and water’s over there. I’ll be in the back, working on some harness. You need anything, sing out.”

“Will do.”

With that, the boy turned and ambled away.

Luke stretched, trying to ease the tension out of tired muscles and joints. He shrugged off his slicker and tossed it over the gate.

It had been a hell of a day, and it wasn’t over yet, he thought as he unsaddled his horse and hefted the saddle over the partition. The stirrup banged into the wood, and he actually checked to see if he’d scratched it.

“Hell of a place to keep a horse,” he muttered.

Becky was waiting for him up at the house. He was stalling for time. He picked up a curry brush and set to work, but all the while he kept thinking about her.

It wasn’t the first time. Now there was an understatement. Since the day he’d ridden out all those years ago, hardly a day, or night, had passed when he didn’t think about her or dream about her or curse himself for leaving her. For a while there, he’d tried to convince himself she was just another woman, nothing more and nothing less than the others he had known.

It didn’t work. Knowing other women didn’t work. Nothing worked. It was always Becky.

Becky of the luminous want-to-drown-in-them eyes. Becky of the throaty voice that brushed his skin and his nerves like warm velvet. Vivid memories merged with lush fantasies, and all of them had to do with her naked in his arms.

He stopped dead, letting the sudden desire wash over him, enjoying the feeling.

Yeah, Scanlin, you’ve got it bad. There’s a name for “it,” you know.

Lust. That was it. Lust.

Sure, Scanlin. Sure.

His mouth pulled down in a frown. He went back to work, making long downward strokes with the brush. The horse shivered and sidestepped.

“Hold still, will ya?” Luke snapped, and ducked under the horse’s neck to rub down the other side.

Being with Becky was getting more complicated by the minute. First off, he’d never figured on her having a child. Second, he’d never figured on her son being in trouble. And no way had he counted on the sudden intense feelings, the fierce need to comfort her, the drive to protect her, and the desire—oh, Lord, the desire that heated and swirled in him every time she got within ten feet of him.

He stilled, remembering her today. She’d been so proud, so controlled, this morning. Most women—hell, most men—would have fallen apart under the strain of a missing child.

She hadn’t. She was strong, and he admired her strength. It was tough enough raising a child these days. Raising a child alone, a son, without a father to help her—that must be real tough.

The lady had courage.

But did she have enough courage to hear what he had to tell her?

He
could
tell her he hadn’t found the boy, apologize, then turn it over to the local authorities again. He’d be out from under.

Scared, Scanlin? Gonna run out on her again?

Jaw clenched, he curled his hands into fists. He was here, and he was staying. She needed him. This was his chance to convince her. This was his chance to assuage some of his guilt.

You looking for absolution, Scanlin?

Perhaps.

Or perhaps forgiveness had nothing to do with why he was staying.

Thirty minutes later, he knew he couldn’t stall any longer. He swung his worn saddlebags over his left shoulder. Slicker, bedroll and rifle clutched in his other hand, he headed for the house—and Becky.

His boots made watery puddles in the grass. The last of the rain dripped from the corners of the house. A blackbird, perched on the edge of the roof, watched his progress intently.

The evening air was as fresh and clean as it can be only after a rain, and it looked as though a fog bank was building over the bay. The street in front of the house was quiet, and as he rounded the corner he saw a light go on in the parlor.

Okay, Scanlin, what are you going to tell her?

Dragging in a couple of gulps of air, he reviewed the possibilities in his mind. Regrettably, there weren’t many.

If kids wandered off, they were usually found within a couple of hours, playing somewhere they weren’t supposed to be or with someone they weren’t suppose to be with. Becky had said they’d checked. There was one more possibility. The boy could be dead—accidentally or not. That
would
explain why there’d been no trace of him.

That very unpleasant thought didn’t sit well. Seeing a dead child—gunned down in a cross fire, killed in a Comanche raid—that was one thing he never got used to.

Besides, this was a city. Gunfights and Indian raids were pretty remote, especially in this neighborhood. He glanced at the mansion. In his work, he knew people did things like this only for money or revenge. He discounted revenge. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine Rebecca doing anything so terrible that someone would want to take it out on her son.

His brows drew down thoughtfully. That left money. The lady certainly appeared to have more than enough of that, and there was always someone who figured he was entitled to a share—without doing any work for it, of course.

It was a hell of a thing to have to tell someone, someone special, that her only child had been kidnapped. He’d rather face down all four of the Daltons than have to do this.

Maybe someone else found him.

After two days? Sure. And maybe cows could fly.

He clenched his jaw so hard the pain radiated down his neck. Well, there was nothing for it but to go in there.

Inside the entryway, he hung his water-stained hat and damp slicker on the hall tree. Water puddled on the polished plank floor, and he would have cleaned it up, but where the hell would a person find a cleaning rag around this place? He tossed his saddlebags down with a thud—caused by his spare .45—and dropped his bedroll and rifle right beside them. He’d take them upstairs later.

The house was quiet, still and lifeless. Any fleeting hope that someone else had found the boy disappeared in the funereal silence.

He saw Rebecca step through the double doorway of the dining room. Her hair was down, all golden silk, tied back at her neck with a blue ribbon in a way that made her look young, that made him remember her that way.

She’d changed into dry clothes since he’d left. She was wearing a high-necked long-sleeved blouse that was pale blue, with enough starch to effectively hide the gentle swell of her breasts, and at least a hundred tiny buttons that would take a man an hour to get undone. Her skirt was straight and black, and it drew flat across her belly, provocatively outlining her hips in a way that Luke couldn’t help appreciating.

She was head-turning beautiful, even in this tragic time.

She didn’t speak, just stared at him with those haunting blue eyes of hers. The ones he’d seen every night in his dreams—only then they’d been filled with excitement and passion. Now they were filled with so much sadness he had to look away from the intensity of it.

He tried to say something, something encouraging, something promising. God, he wished he had come home with the boy. He saw her straighten, as though bracing for a blow, and he delivered it with the barest shake of his head.

For a full ten seconds, she stood there motionless, and he wondered if perhaps she needed him to tell her.

“I—” The words wouldn’t come.

His hands drew up in a fist against the rage that filled him, that made his breathing a little harsh and his muscles tense. At that moment, he felt the loss as surely as if it were his child, and, without thinking, he crossed to her.

“Becky. Honey.”

Rebecca jumped, not having realized he was so close. “I’m all right.” It was a lie. Luke was her last hope, her certain hope. “All day, as the search parties returned...nothing. I kept thinking that you would—” She closed her eyes and turned away.

“I know,” he said softly. “Becky, answer me one question. Is there anyone who would have something against you? Anyone who would want to hurt you?”

Her eyes flew open, sparked with astonishment. “No. No one.”

“You’re certain?”

She shook her head. “No one. Why?”

“Then, since the boy hasn’t been found, all my experience is telling me that he’s been kidnapped.”

She didn’t move. Deep down, she’d known all along that was the truth; she’d simply refused to acknowledge it until now. She rubbed her eyes against the tears that threatened. “Why?” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “Why is this happening?”

“I don’t know, darlin’.” His tone was soft and easy.

Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. Dear God, hadn’t she cried enough? Rage and fear mixed and mingled until she started to shake, and the tears continued.

“I can’t—” Tears clogged her throat.

Wanting privacy, she started past Luke, but he blocked her way. He caught her face in his work-roughened hands and looked at her in that way that was uniquely Luke’s, and much too familiar.

He had the softest eyes she’d ever seen, and a way of looking at her that made the world spin away. She could drown in those eyes and not care. She felt her defenses dissolving, releasing the pain and fear she’d stored there since Andrew’s disappearance.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” His voice caressed her like the summer sun. “You need someone. You’re trying to carry the weight of the world on those slender shoulders of yours.” His hands traced the line of her shoulders. Her skin warmed to his touch. “Everyone needs someone. I’m here for you.” She didn’t resist when he pulled her into the fold of his arms and kissed the top of her head, resting his cheek there. “Tell me your fear.” He kissed the top of her head again. “It isn’t half so bad when you put a little light to it.”

That fear that had been circling in her mind grew fiercer, more intense. She slipped her arms around his narrow waist and pressed her cheek against the hard wall of his chest. He smelled like rain and leather. He felt like sanctuary.

Luke.

He was here, and she needed him.

“I—”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’m afraid Andrew is dead.”

With the words came a great sob, and all the horror she’d held in check came rushing forth, threatening to carry her away if not for Luke’s strong arms around her. Desperately she clung to him, her hands splayed against the soft cotton of his shirt, feeling the work-hardened muscles beneath.

“It’s all right, honey. You go on and cry. You cry all you want.”

And she did cry. Tears washed down her cheeks and stained the front of his shirt. She sobbed and cried, and he let her. Never once did he try to stop her.

“I’m here, honey. I won’t let you go.” He tightened his grip with one hand and rubbed her back with the other.

It felt so good to cry. It felt so good to be in his arms. When at last her crying slowed, she looked up at him.

“I shouldn’t—”

He covered her lips with the tips of two fingers. “Shh. Don’t.” He leaned back and brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Of course you should. Aren’t you allowed to have feelings? Aren’t you allowed to break down sometimes?” He cupped her face in his hands. “Hold on to me.”

And she did. Standing there in the entryway, she continued to cling to him, letting the strength of his touch and the slow, steady rhythm of his heart soothe her raw, aching nerves. All her earlier threats to send him packing were forgotten as she held on to him for dear life.

They stood like that for a moment or an eternity, she wasn’t certain. It didn’t matter. All she knew was that she felt safe and warm and protected. For the first time in two days, she felt good, and the fact that Luke Scanlin was the one who gave her that— Well, so be it.

He angled backward, and she craned her neck to look up at him.

“Luke, I can’t...” She started to pull away. He tenderly tightened his hold and smiled down at her. There was a lazy lifting of his mouth, a gentleness in his eyes that made her sigh. She made a halfhearted attempt to return the smile, grateful for his comfort and his concern.

He surprised her when he reached up with the pad of one finger and traced her bottom lip, then pulled the ribbon from her hair, arranging it over her shoulders. A shiver of anticipation fluttered through her. Her heart rate moved up ever so slightly.

Their gazes met and held for the span of two heartbeats, and then his slid down to her lips and lingered. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came forth. The world seemed strangely still, as though it were holding its breath in anticipation. She knew she wasn’t breathing. How could she? All the oxygen in the room had disappeared. He was going to kiss her, she was certain of that. She was also certain that she was going to let him.

Slowly his smile faded. He was very aware of the woman in his arms—every curve, every flat plane seemed custom-made for him, only him. “Becky. Darling Becky.” He dipped his head.

“Luke, don’t,” she ordered, and it stopped him for the span of one heartbeat. Hers.

His breath was warm on her cheek and lips, and she saw his eyes flutter closed an instant before his lips touched hers, lightly, lingering there only to lift away. It was a sensual invitation, one her body remembered even as her mind refused.