Susan Amarillas - Scanlin's Law

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Barbara Musumeci, a dearest friend who is far away but close to my heart. This one’s for you. There’s nary a horse in sight.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

San Francisco

October 1880

What the hell was he doing here?

Luke Scanlin swung down off his chestnut gelding and looped the reins through the smooth metal ring of the hitching post. Storm clouds, black and threatening, billowed overhead. Rain spattered against the side of his face. It caught on his eyelashes and plastered his hair to his neck. He shivered, more from reflex than from cold.

Three days. He had been in town three days. It had been raining when he finally stepped off the train from Cheyenne, and it was raining now. Aw, hell, he figured it was destined to rain forever.

Fifty feet away, the house, her house, stood like some medieval fortress. It was gray, and as intimidating as any castle. Three floors high, it was as impressive as the other Nob Hill mansions that lined both sides of California Street.

A wry smile played at the corners of his mouth. A princess needs a castle, he thought. But if she was a princess, then what was he? Certainly Luke Scanlin was nobody’s idea of a prince.

That blasted rain increased, trickling off his drooping hat brim and running straight down his neck. “Damn,” he muttered as he flipped up the collar of his mud-stained slicker. He was cold and wet and generally a mess, and still he stood there, staring up at the house.

His hand rested on the hitching post, two fingers on the cold iron, three fingers curled around the smooth leather reins. He ought to mount up and ride away, logic coaxed for about the hundredth time in the past hour. His muscles tensed, and he actually made a half turn, then stopped.

This was pathetic. Here he stood like some schoolboy, afraid to go in there and see her.

Well, she wasn’t just anyone.

When he rode away that day eight years ago, he’d been so certain he was right.

The breeze carried the scent of salt water up from the bay, and the rain intensified, soaking the black wool of his trousers where they brushed against the tops of his mud-spattered black boots. Oak trees rustled in the breeze, sending the last of their golden leaves skittering along the street.

Beside him, the gelding nickered, his bridle rattling as he shook his head in protest at being out in the storm.

“Quiet, Scoundrel.” Luke soothed the animal with a pat and stared up at the house once more.

Well, what’s it going to be? You going to stand here all day?

He sighed. What was he going to say to her after all these years? Pure and simple, this was flat-out asking for trouble. Leave well enough alone.

But trouble was something Luke had never shied away from. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. In fact, he and trouble were old friends.

He started toward the house.

* * *

Rebecca Parker Tinsdale strode into the parlor of her home shortly past nine in the morning. The distant rumble of thunder accompanied her arrival. The storm-shrouded sunlight gave the white walls a grayish tinge, and the rich rococo-style mahogany furnishings only added to the dark and ominous feeling of the day. A pastoral painting by Constable hung over the fireplace, but the scene—a picnic on a bright summer day—seemed inappropriate, given the ominous dread that permeated the house.

She managed to keep her expression calm. Inside, fear was eating her alive. Her hands shook, and she buried them in the folds of her dark blue dress. The faille was smooth against her fingers.

In four carefully measured steps, Rebecca crossed the room to where Captain Amos Brody, chief of the San Francisco police, waited near the pale rose settee.

“Have you found Andrew?” She spoke slowly, struggling to hold the fear in check. Even as she asked, she could tell the answer by his grim expression.

If anything happened to Andrew... If he was hurt or...

Steady. Don’t fall apart. Andrew needs you.

“Well, Mrs. Tinsdale...” Brody began, his rotund body straining at the double row of brass buttons that marched down the front of his dark blue uniform, “I’ve had two men searching all night. They’ve looked everywhere, and I’m sorry to say there’s no sign of the boy.”

“Keep looking, Captain.”

“Oh, you can rely on us,” Brody returned in an indulgent tone. “I’ll personally tell the men on the beat to keep an eye out.”

Rebecca stiffened. She and Brody made no secret of their mutual dislike. That series of articles she’d been running in the Daily Times on police corruption was leading a path straight to Brody and half of his department. Still, he was in charge and, like it or not, she had to deal with him.

“Captain, I expect you to do more than keep an eye out. This isn’t a lost kitten you can dismiss and hope it eventually finds its way home. This—” she emphasized the words, as though to drive them into his thick balding skull “—this is my son. And you will help me find him.”

She saw him bristle—saw his Adam’s apple work up and down in his throat.

They faced each other, the refined lady and the harsh man, each appraising the other. Rebecca had wealth, and she published a small newspaper. That gave her power. A mother’s fear gave her determination. She knew Brody was the one who ultimately made the assignments, determined how and when and where things were done. It galled her to have to ask the man for help. If Brody chose to make only a halfhearted effort because of their feud, she might not know until it was too late for her—for her only child.

Outside, the rain spattered against the lace-curtained front window, drawing Rebecca’s attention. Silvery streaks of water cascaded down the glass. Andrew was out there somewhere, cold and afraid. He was only seven, so small, and so fragile since his illness last year. Terror, stark and real, swept through her, and she advanced on Brody. “Whatever it takes, Captain. Send more men, ten men, a hundred—”

“I’d like to do that, Mrs. Tinsdale, but I can’t.” Brody punctuated his statement with a nonchalant shrug that pushed her rapidly rising temper up another notch. “Finding one boy is small compared to the job of protecting this city. With less than two hundred men on the force, well, I have an obligation to all the citizens of this fair community,” he finished, in a pious tone that would have made her laugh at any other time. “As it is, I’ve taken men from other areas to search, and—”

“I don’t care about other areas.” Condescending bastard, she thought as she paced away from him, her rage too great for her to remain still. She talked over her shoulder. “I don’t care about other citizens.” She turned back, her hands balled into tight fists, feeling the perspiration on her palms. “I don’t care about anything or anyone but finding my son. I’ve been out there all night myself. Dammit, Captain, I expect you to do the same.”

Brody nodded and held up his hand in a placating gesture that only aggravated her dangerously short temper.

“Mrs. Tinsdale, I know you’re upset and all, but I’ve handled this sort of thing before and I know what I’m doing.”