Susan Amarillas - Scanlin's Law

He’d felt a little disconcerted at finding his bed turned down when he walked in tonight. It was all very foreign, the thought of having people actually wait on him, except maybe in a saloon.

He rubbed his bare arms against the chill, turning his back for a little extra warming. He had to admit this was a pleasant luxury. He’d spent a lot of time cold and dirty, and there sure hadn’t even been anyone to light a stove for him or turn down his bed. Maybe that was why he’d barged in when he heard the boy was missing. If that kid was out there—and he was determinedly hanging on to that notion—then the little guy must be scared to death. Becky had said he was only seven. Poor little guy.

Whoever had him had better be taking real good care of the lad. Yeah, real good, he thought fiercely. If they hurt him...well, Luke wouldn’t take too kindly to that.

He knew firsthand about being alone and so scared that he cried himself to sleep, curled up in the back of some stable.

That first year after his old man ran off, Luke had scrambled for work. He’d swamped out saloons, mucked stables and even dug outhouses, anything for food and a place to sleep.

And scared—he’d never known a person could be so scared. Then, one day, it had been as though he just couldn’t be scared anymore. Pride had welled up inside him. He might be digging outhouses, but he wouldn’t take the cursing or the snide remarks anymore.

He’d decided he was never going to be put down again, by anyone. He gave an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage, and he expected to be treated with respect, same as anyone else.

But respect, he’d quickly discovered, came faster when he could demand it—and a six-gun was a great equalizer. Luke was a natural with a gun, men said. Fast, others added.

As he got older, he’d done a little scouting for the army, but he hadn’t liked all the rules. He’d done some bounty hunting later, and he’d been better at that—no rules and being on his own, he guessed.

He’d met Tom Pemberton in a saloon in Dallas. Tom had been having a little trouble with a gambler—apparently Tom had called the gambler a cheat, and the man had pulled a .32 out of his coat. Not liking gamblers much, and feeling sorry for the greenhorn who was about to have his head blown off, Luke had stepped in and laid his .45 upside the gambler’s head.

Tom had been grateful and persuasive, and when he went back to California, Luke had gone along. He’d never seen San Francisco or the Pacific Ocean. He’d figured he would stick around a few weeks, then head on back to Texas to meet a friend who was joining up with the Texas Rangers. Luke had thought he might give it a try, too.

He hadn’t known a man’s world could be turned upside down in a month.

He’d met Rebecca at a party. They’d danced, and talked, and danced again. Tom had told Luke she was practically engaged. But Luke had been young—okay, arrogant—and he hadn’t cared about rules, he admitted to himself now. She hadn’t been married and that was all that had mattered. Apparently it was all that had mattered to her, also, because she had come out to meet him every day during the next week.

He’d never known anyone like her. She’d been so beautiful—not as beautiful as she was now, but beautiful. She had been smart, and funny, and so alive. Everything had been an adventure with her. The most ordinary things had been exciting when he was with her. All he had known was that he couldn’t get enough of her, so it was no wonder that eventually he’d made love to her.

Seduced her, you mean, his conscience chided, none too gently.

Okay. Maybe. Anyhow, that was when everything had changed. Being with Rebecca hadn’t been just having sex, satisfying a physical need. No, with Rebecca he’d wanted to please her more than himself, to give more than he took. Feelings so new, so intensely powerful, had rocked him to the very core of his being, and he’d panicked.

Yeah, Scanlin, you son of a bitch, you ran off in the middle of the night like a skulking dog.

But it seemed there was no peace and no escape from those feelings.

His eyes fluttered closed, and instantly the memory of their kiss flashed in his mind and ricocheted through his body like a shot.

It felt as though he’d been doing penance for the past seven years. Deep down, he’d figured he deserved every long, guilt-ridden, stupidity-cursing moment of it.

But along the way he must have done something right, because the Lord was giving him a second chance. A chance to free himself, he’d thought when he walked in here. Obviously he’d been wrong.

He glanced over at the well-worn Bible lying on the round walnut table near the bed. The cover was creased, and one corner was torn off. It was his mother’s Bible. It was all he had of her. He’d taken solace in that book many a long, cold night by a campfire.

He chuckled and said aloud, “Never thought you’d get me to read it, did you, Ma?”

He could almost hear her laugh.

She’d had a nice laugh and a warm smile. The kind that made you want to laugh even if you didn’t know why.

Rebecca had that kind of smile—not that she had anything to smile about these days.

He started pacing. A vision of Rebecca filled his mind...the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen in a woman, and hair the color of sunshine.

Well, Scanlin, you gonna get it right this time?

* * *

Edward Pollard arrived shortly after eight that evening. It was really too late for a proper call, but he was confident that under these distressing circumstances allowances would be made.

He rang the bell twice and shifted anxiously from one foot to the other as he waited for the housekeeper to answer the door.

“Rebecca,” he said, his eyes widening at the pleasant surprise, “where’s Mrs. Wheeler?”

“Hello, Edward. She’s down with a cold,” she told him, stepping aside. Edward breezed past her. Oddly, her first thought wasn’t that she was glad to see him, but that he was wearing another new suit, gray gabardine with a matching vest. Edward was always the very picture of the well-dressed gentleman. “I’ve just heard the terrible, terrible news about your son.” He put his hat and gloves on the hall table. “I’m in shock. If only I’d been in town when this happened.”

She allowed him to lightly kiss her cheek. “Thank you, Edward. I appreciate your concern.”

“Is there any new information?”

“None,” she said, preferring not to discuss speculations with him. She led the way into the parlor.

Edward was a frequent visitor, and so made himself at home. “You poor dear.” He spoke as he walked to the liquor table by the hearth. “Let me get you something. Sherry, perhaps?”

“Yes, sherry,” she agreed, thinking a drink was just what she needed after the day she’d had.

Rebecca’s hand was surprisingly steady as she accepted the delicate crystal glass. She drank the thimbleful that Edward had poured her in one large swallow and handed him the glass. “Pour me another, please, Edward. Considerably more this time.” She held up her thumb and forefinger to indicate how much.

He looked surprised, but he obliged, returning a moment later. “Now sip that slowly. We don’t want it going to your head.”

“Edward, liquor doesn’t `go to my head.’” She wasn’t much of a drinker, but she never got that fuzzy feeling that people so often spoke of. Tonight, though, she thought she’d like to be fuzzy, or foggy, or anything else that would keep her from thinking of the man who was no doubt asleep in her guest room.

She leaned back against the fine rose silk of the settee, but she wasn’t relaxed. They sat in companionable silence for a long moment, and she absently adjusted the folds of her black skirt, making creases with her fingers where there shouldn’t be any.