Susan Amarillas Page 3

  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.

  It had been a fearful thing when she learned she was expecting. But somehow things had worked out, and from the first moment she set eyes on her baby, she’d thanked the good Lord for giving her this child. Andrew was a joy in her life, sometimes the only joy. Her world was built around him. Without him, there was a giant emptiness where her heart should be.

  You’ll find him. You’ll get him back.

  With a great sigh, she started walking again, startling a blackbird perched on a nearby picket fence. She watched as the bird took flight, and wished she could fly away from her troubles as easily.

  Light gray clouds warred with darker ones, and it didn’t take an expert to know this storm wouldn’t be letting up anytime soon. She skirted a parked carriage whose shiny blue wheels were dulled by mud and crossed the street, turning left on Taylor.

  She scanned the area, but she already knew Andrew wasn’t there. She had covered this whole section twice yesterday. Still, she called out. “Andrew! Andrew, are you there?”

  No answer.

  She focused on the narrow houses that lined the street like ornately painted dollhouses. Straining to look between them, she clung to the faint glimmer of hope. Perhaps...

  A mother’s instinct told her that he wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere she’d searched already. Brody’s admonition about Andrew being kidnapped circled in the shadows of her mind, and she held it off with the bright light of hope.

  They needed a methodical search of the area, not some ragtag hit-or-miss stroll through the neighborhoods. And yes, Luke was right.

  He’d been here less than an hour and already he was taking over. Luke had a way of taking over, she thought, remembering how it had been with them.

  He’d taken over her life back then. She’d wanted to be with him every minute, and when she wasn’t she’d been thinking about him, planning how to slip away to be with him. Then, two days after they made love, Luke Scanlin had gotten on his horse and ridden away. Just like that. A brief note saying he was off to Texas. He hadn’t even come by in person to tell her.

  Her heart lurched as she remember the devastation, the hurt. She’d feigned illness and locked herself in her room for a day. It had seemed that most of that time she spent crying, or cursing his name, or praying it was a mistake and he’d return for her.

  A month later, she’d given up on that idea. She’d known the truth then, about Luke, about trusting him.

  Well, she thought, her chin coming up a notch in a defiant gesture, she’d done a lot of growing up that month, and she’d made some difficult choices.

  Thunder rumbled, and a single bolt of lightning slashed across the sky, seeming to dive into the bay.

  It had rained the day she married Nathan. What a dear, sweet man he’d been. Even if theirs had not been a marriage of passion, it had been a good marriage. She’d cared for and respected Nathan. She was eternally grateful to him.

  She could still remember how frightened she’d been when she told him...everything. He’d been so understanding, telling her that he was not so free of sin that he could judge her. At that moment, Rebecca had felt her life was beginning anew, and she’d been grateful to Nathan for giving her that chance.

  They had spent their honeymoon in Europe, and it had been a wonderful time, spent visiting wondrous museums in England, dining at romantic sidewalk caf;aaes in Paris, going to the opera in Italy. Then they’d returned to San Francisco, and she’d moved into the home he shared with his mother, Ruth. A warmth came over her at the thought of Ruth. She was the dearest person Rebecca had ever known. She’d welcomed Rebecca to the family with a love and affection that had never failed through all the years since.

  Then a slick street, a steep hill, a horse that lost its footing, and Nathan’s carriage had turned over, killing Nathan, the driver, and two pedestrians. It had been an awful, tragic time. This only a year after her father’s death. When it seemed things couldn’t get worse, her mother, too, had passed away, only six months later.

  It had been more than she could bear. Confused, overwhelmed by it all, she’d withdrawn into herself, refusing to leave her room, refusing to see anyone, refusing to eat or sleep.

  It had been Ruth who had stood by her, forced her to eat, sat with her while she slept, cared for Andrew when Rebecca wasn’t up to the task. It had been Ruth who gave her hope and love and slowly brought her back and, yes, it had even been Ruth who insisted that Rebecca keep and run the small newspaper that was part of Nathan’s estate.

  Somehow Ruth had known that working would give Rebecca the focus, the purpose, she needed. With that purpose, she’d recovered, devoting her life to Andrew and Ruth and the paper.

  They were her world, and they’d been there for her through it all, good and bad.

  She owed Ruth her life, and the debt was more than she could ever repay.

  She pushed a lock of water-soaked hair back from her face and stopped, staring hard at the dark silhouette of a woman standing near the corner on the opposite side of the street. Dressed in a black coat and holding an equally black umbrella, she was a dark form against the gray-black sky. Rebecca took another step and saw the woman sway, then clutch an oak tree for support.

  “Ruth!” she yelled. Hitching up her skirt, Rebecca ran flat out to help. Jumping over the rivulet of water near the curb, she grabbed Ruth by both arms. “Are you all right?”

  Ruth looked up. She was cold, soaked to the skin, and her whole body seemed to be shaking with the force of a small earthquake. It was the painful, frantic beating of her heart that was scaring the devil out of her. At seventy, a body had to expect such things, she supposed. At least that was what that quack Doc Tilson kept telling her. Trouble was,
she kept forgetting that she was old. In her mind, she was still twenty, and she had a lot to live for, like her grandson and Rebecca.

  So, gulping in a couple of deep breaths, she forced a shaky smile and said, “I’m fine. Just a little winded.”

  “Sure you are!” Rebecca obviously didn’t believe her for a minute. “Stay here. I’m getting the buggy.”

  Rain trickled down from the oak tree, spattering on the walk.

  “No.” Ruth shook her head. “I’m fine, or I will be. I need a minute to catch my breath.” She straightened to prove her point, and was rewarded with a sharp pain that started in the center of her chest and shot down her left arm, making her fingers tingle. She clenched her teeth, refusing to reveal the pain. Rebecca had enough to worry about.

  “Come on,” she said firmly, reaching out. “I’ll just take your arm.”

  “No chance. I’m getting that buggy, then we’re calling the doctor.” She made a half turn to leave.

  “I’m not helpless.” Ruth started walking. Her steps were slow and measured, but she was determined to keep going. Rebecca had no choice but to snatch up the umbrella and fall in step with her.

  “At least let me help you,” she chided gently. “You’re more hardheaded than...than...”

  “A mule,” Ruth put in with a smile that was forced. She took Rebecca’s offered arm.

  “Than a mule,” Rebecca returned. Holding up the umbrella, she managed to give them both a little protection from the steady downpour. They stepped off the curb and crossed Taylor Street. “If anything happened to you, I—”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Ruth told her, knowing what Rebecca was going through. She loved Rebecca like a daughter. Rebecca had been exactly the right one for Nathan. She’d been patient and kind and loving to Ruth’s only son. Since Nathan had died, they’d been through a lot together. “Believe me. Nothing is going to happen to me. I’m too old and too cantankerous to die.”

  “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.

  “As soon as the doctor comes.”

  “You’ll catch your— You’ll catch a cold.”

  “Soon,” she murmured, holding Ruth’s hand. “Where the devil is that doctor?”

  Luke crossed back to stand at the foot of the bed. “I take it this isn’t a new problem.”