Susan Amarillas - Scanlin's Law

“I’ll be back later.” She was reaching for the shiny brass doorknob when his hand on her shoulder turned her to face him again. His dark brows were drawn together in a frown.

“Back? What do you mean, back? Where are you going?”

“Out.” She made a show of tugging on her kidskin gloves while she slipped free of his touch. Darn those goose bumps.

Luke’s expression drew down. “Out? Why, for heaven’s sake? The police will be here in an hour, and then—”

“I’m going now.” She turned the knob and pulled the door partially open. The rain dripped from the roof and made noisy plick-plops on the wooden planks of the porch. The sudden draft felt blessedly cold against the side of her face.

“Look,” he started to say with a nod—a gesture Rebecca suspected was meant to pacify rather than to indicate agreement. He grasped the edge of the open door, holding it firmly, and looked at her in a way that was all too familiar, a way that brought better-forgotten memories rushing to the surface faster than lava in a volcano, and just as hot.

“This is crazy. We’re gonna cover the same ground in an hour.” He pushed on the door.

Rebecca held fast, as though this were a test of wills between them. Accepting help was one thing, surrender was another. This felt like giving in. “I’m going.” She pulled, and he released his hold on the door.

She slipped out and pulled the heavy oak door closed behind her. She knew he was watching her through the clear etched glass. Until thirty minutes ago, she had thought she’d closed the door on Luke Scanlin just as easily. It seemed she was wrong.

Rebecca took the front steps in five firm strides. She was angry, and it wasn’t until the rain splattered against her cheeks that she realized she’d forgotten to take an umbrella. Clenched-jawed and angry, she kept going. She’d drown before she’d go back in there. She’d had enough of him for now. She’d had enough of him for good.

Raindrops clung to her eyelashes, and she swiped them away with the back of her gloved hand, then yanked her hood farther forward—not that it did much good. It was raining like hell. By the time she turned through the gate, her coat was soaked and the wet had penetrated through to her dress. Goose bumps were prickling across her shoulders, and a shiver was inching down her spine.

She made a sharp left turn that would have been the envy of any military cadet. Thunder rumbled, but failed to silence the steady click-clack of her heels on the concrete sidewalk. Her coat flopped open with each step, further drenching her dress. Nothing and no one was cooperating—not the police, not the weather, and not even the good Lord, it seemed. She cast her eyes upward. “How could you do this to me? Luke? You sent me Luke?”

With a sigh of resignation, she increased her pace, and promptly stepped in an ankle-deep puddle for her trouble.

“Thanks,” she muttered, and kept going.

She passed the Johnson mansion, four colors of clapboard and geegaws in the latest style. Circus tent was the thought that flashed in her mind as she paused long enough to scan the yard and porch for the third time since Andrew had disappeared. The Hogans’, next door, was more sedate—plain, white siding and blue trim, the usually pale green roof shingles now forest-dark from the rain.

A delivery wagon rumbled past, splashing her with more water. “Hey!” she hollered, but the driver kept going. So did she, scanning the yard yet again.

All the while, she kept thinking that Andrew was out here and Luke was back there. She wished it was the other way around. She wished Luke was gone—back to Texas or Wyoming or Timbuktu, anywhere but here. Part of her wanted to deny it, pretend it wasn’t true, pretend that Luke Scanlin, the man who had changed her life forever, the one man who unknowingly had the power to ruin her life, wasn’t sitting in her parlor.

She stopped still. He’d be there tonight. He’d be sleeping down the hall. He’d talk to Ruth. Oh, no! Oh, no, this wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t going to take this kind of risk, not again.

When she got home, she was going to send him packing. That was all there was to it. She didn’t have to explain or justify herself to him. In fact, the more she thought on it, the more she thought she didn’t even need him.

Brody’s going to find Andrew, right?

Sure. “I’ll have the men keep an eye out,” he had said. Yes, that would go a long way toward finding Andrew, she thought, her heart sinking as she faced reality.

Okay, so Brody was unreliable. Luke’s take-charge attitude obviously was going to get the job done, she admitted—only to herself, and only because she was alone.

Since she was admitting things, she’d also admit she should have stayed at the house, should have waited for the search parties he was organizing. And yes, dammit, she was grateful for his help.

A smile tickled her lips. It had been something to see, watching Luke put that pompous Brody in his place. One side of her mouth actually curved upward in a sort of smile—not a real one, though. She wouldn’t give Luke that much.

Water splashed and soaked up her stockings as she stepped off the curb and crossed the street. What are you getting all worked up about? she asked herself. You can handle Luke Scanlin. You’re not affected by him anymore, remember?

Not affected by Luke Scanlin anymore? Yes, she remembered. That first year, she’d said it to herself more often than a nun would say the rosary.

She was entirely different from the way she had been at eighteen, a young girl whose head was full of adventure and romance. A young girl waiting for her knight in shining armor to whisk her away to his castle.

There were darned few knights in San Francisco, but a real Texas cowboy had come awfully close. She’d met Luke Scanlin at a party. He’d been a guest of Lucy Pemberton’s brother, Tom. The rumor had quickly circulated that Luke was a war hero, on his way to join the Texas Rangers.

He had been tall, dark and handsome— and forbidden. At least by her mother, who had reminded her that he didn’t have any social position, any name. In short, he wasn’t somebody.

Luke hadn’t seemed to know or care about such things, and that had made him all the more exciting. He’d been the stuff of Miss Pennybrook’s romantic novels—the ones respectable young ladies were not supposed to read.

Never mind that she had been practically engaged to Nathan Tinsdale. Never mind that she had been expected to marry and settle down to a respectable life that had been all planned out for her since the day she was born.

Nathan had been older than she by nearly twenty years, a man who had chosen to forgo marriage in order to pursue business. He hadn’t been nearly so appealing to a young girl as a cowboy who enticed her with word and touch until she surrendered to him.

Her hands shook, and it was from the memory, not the cold rain. She stopped still as feelings that were both deep and delicious washed over her. She remembered being in his arms. Her fingers brushed her lips as she remembered the sensation of his mouth on hers.

Excitement exploded in her like a shot. Despite the rain, her mouth was desert-dry. Her eyes fluttered closed.

Luke.

As quickly as the feelings had come, they were gone, replaced by guilt, gut-wrenching guilt. Dear God, what was the matter with her? How...how could she even think of anyone or anything else when her son, her baby, was missing?

She shook her head to clear away the cobwebs, send the ghosts back to their graves. What she and Luke had shared had been over a long time ago. Nathan was gone, but she had Andrew, and that was all she needed, would ever need.