Susan Amarillas - Scanlin's Law

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Rebecca chided gently. Wet leaves, stirred by the breeze, clung to their shoes and the hems of their dresses. “You know the doctor said you should rest and—”

“Dr. Tilson’s an old worrywart.” She didn’t have the strength to smile this time. “Besides, you can’t think I’d sit at home when Andrew is—” pain clenched in her chest like a vise, and her step faltered, but she recovered and continued on “—out here lost.” She gulped some air. That pain was increasing. Maybe she really had overdone it this time.

They turned onto California Street, and the house came blessedly into view.

Only half a block. Only half a block.

Ruth said the words over and over, counting the steps in her mind. Pretending she knew how many it was to the house made her feel better. All she needed was to sit down for a few minutes, maybe a cup of strong tea, and she’d be right as rain.

Poor choice of words, she thought, glancing up and getting a faceful of water for her trouble. Her dress was wet from the hem up and the shoulders down, the only dryness somewhere in the middle. She was cold clear through, and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.

Rebecca paused. “Slow down, there’s no hurry.”

But there was. Ruth was afraid that if she stopped she might not get started again. All she wanted was to get home. Funny how home was the ultimate remedy. And yet, with the house in sight, she was anxious. “Let’s keep going. This rain is getting worse.” She pressed on. One foot in front of the other. The pain was a constant now. “Tell...me about...Andrew,” she managed, a little breathless.

“The police didn’t find anything.”

Ruth nodded her understanding. “We’ll find him.” She ground out the words firmly, needing to believe them as much as she needed Rebecca to believe them.

Rain cascaded off the tips of the umbrella in delicate rivulets. Rebecca covered Ruth’s hand with her own in a reassuring gesture. They turned through the gate and up the walk. Ruth took the stairs slowly, one step, then the next, then the last. It hurt to breathe.

“I think...I’ll lie down for a little while,” Ruth said as Rebecca tossed the umbrella aside and started helping her with her coat. “If you’ll help me up the stairs.”

At the sound of the door, Luke glanced up from the large hand-drawn map he had spread across one end of the long, narrow dining room table. He wasn’t alone. Three policemen had arrived about five minutes ago, with a less than friendly attitude, which he was ignoring. He’d also rounded up several of the neighbors, who were more than willing to help and had brought as many of their household staff with them as possible. All in all, there were nine of them.

Keeping an eye on the doorway, he said, “Now, gentlemen, what I want is a complete and thorough search of these areas.” He pointed to the map, his fingers tracing the outline of an area approximately ten blocks square.

The policemen glared. “We covered that area,” one of them snapped.

In a voice filled with concern, Luke said, “Did you cover it as though it was your son out there?”

The policemen all looked sheepish.

Luke turned to the others. “I want a complete search, under every porch, inside every stable loft, behind every outhouse. Look in chicken coops, doghouses and tree houses. Look anywhere big enough for a boy to hide. Remember, he could be hurt, could be unconscious and unable to call out. It’s up to us to find him.”

Everyone, including the policemen, nodded, and Luke felt confident that he’d get a thorough search this time.

They were finishing, and he kept expecting to see Rebecca appear in the doorway. He was still angry—well, annoyed, anyway—that she’d gone out, but he figured that now that she was back, she’d want in on this discussion. When she didn’t come in, he said, “Excuse me a moment,” and, edging sideways between the police and the mahogany table, he strode for the hallway, his footsteps muffled by the carpet.

One hand resting on the door frame, he paused to see Rebecca and another woman. Obviously someone she knew. The woman was short, barely over five feet, he guessed. Her black dress made her seem more so. Her white hair was pulled back in a knot at the base of her neck. She looked pale and shaky.

“Becky? Everything all right?”

Her head snapped around. “Luke, help me.” She was struggling to help the woman out of her drenched coat. “Ruth isn’t feeling well, and—”

“I’m—” Ruth swayed slightly, then collapsed like a rag doll.

“Ruth!” Rebecca screamed, making a grab for her.

Luke was there instantly and caught her. He lifted her limp body in his arms. At the sound of Rebecca’s scream, the other men came thundering into the tiny hallway.

“What’s happened?”

“What’s wrong?”

Luke was already moving toward the steep staircase. “Where’s her room?” he demanded.

“Top of the stairs, first door on the left.” Rebecca hitched up her skirt to follow, but she hesitated long enough to address the neighbor standing closest. “Mr. Neville, please send someone for Dr. Tilson.”

“Of course. Is Mrs. Tinsdale—”

“I’ll let you know. Please hurry.” She turned and took the stairs as fast as her confining skirt would let her.

Careering through the doorway, she skidded to a halt as Luke put Ruth’s motionless body on the four-poster bed.

“I’ve sent for the doctor.” She started unbuttoning the tiny buttons down the front of Ruth’s high-necked dress. The foulard was wet and clingy, making the work difficult. “We’ve got to get her out of these wet things.”

He was already slipping one of Ruth’s shoes off. “Stockings?” he questioned.

She nodded and, lifting Ruth’s skirt slightly, he pulled off her silk stockings, then helped Rebecca remove Ruth’s dress and petticoats and corset. The woman was ill. This was no time to stand on formality. “What happened?”

“Bad heart.” She pulled up the coverlet and glanced frantically at the door. “Where’s that doctor?” It was a rhetorical question, born of desperation. She took Ruth’s hand in hers. “Ruth...” Rebecca rubbed her cold hand, trying to bring some warmth back. “Ruth? Can you hear me? Oh, Luke, she’s like ice. If anything happens to her, too...” She rubbed her other hand. “She isn’t moving.” Her voice rose. Wild-eyed, she turned on him. “Why isn’t she moving?” Terror welled up in her. “Oh, God! She isn’t—”

Luke touched the woman’s face, then checked for a pulse. “No, honey, she isn’t dead.”

Muscles relaxing, Rebecca swayed into him. “Thank God.” He held her, and she leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body, feeling the hard muscles, feeling secure. “She can’t die,” she murmured, and felt his fingers tighten on her shoulder.

“She’ll be all right, honey,” he said, with such confidence that she believed him.

She angled him a look, seeing the sincerity of his expression, and she was tempted to stay here in his partial embrace. It felt so good, too good. It would be too easy to give in to it.

She couldn’t. She couldn’t trust him, or herself, evidently. Dragging in a couple of lungfuls of air, she straightened slightly, and he released his hold, leaving her feeling strangely alone.

“Okay?” he asked softly.

She forced her chin up a notch, shoved the wet hair back from her face and said, “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he said, and headed for the warming stove near the window. He made quick work of starting a fire.

Rebecca tucked the comforter more securely around Ruth and dragged a Windsor chair over to the bed.

“You oughta get out of those wet clothes yourself,” Luke said as he closed the stove door with a bang.