Susan Amarillas Page 4

  “It’s her heart. She’s had trouble the last couple of years, but nothing like this.” She craned toward the doorway. “Why doesn’t she open her eyes?”

  “Well, I’m no doctor, but I do believe that the Almighty has a way of taking care of things. As long as she’s asleep, she’s not moving around and she’s not in pain.”

  Rebecca nodded her understanding. “This is awful. I feel so responsible. She hasn’t slept since Andrew disappeared, and—”

  “Neither have you I’ll wager, and you aren’t responsible for her, or for whatever has happened to Andrew,” he said firmly.

  She was only half listening, her gaze focused on Ruth. “I should never have let her go out there. I should have insisted.”

  “You take on a lot of responsibility. Seems to me the lady had something to say about things. You didn’t push her out the door, you know.”

  She sighed. “I know you’re right, but...”

  The crackle and pop of the fire seemed to warm the room as much as the actual burning log. The sweet scent of pine saturated the damp air.

  “Where’s the extra blankets?” Luke broke the silence.

  “Cedar chest.”

  Luke retrieved a heavy blue quilt and covered Ruth with it.

  Rebecca kept staring at her mother-in-law, rubbing first one hand, then the other. “Ruth. You’ll be fine.” She said it like an order, or perhaps a prayer.

  Luke watched from the foot of the four-poster bed, one hand wrapped around the smooth, cool mahogany. “This is your mother-in-law, right?”

  Rebecca nodded. “It was too much for her.” She turned to him with soulful eyes. “It’s Andrew. She loves him so. He’s her only grandson. They’re very close—best friends, I guess.”

  Luke closed on her, rubbing her shoulder in a familiar way. “Don’t give up on her.”

  “Never,” she said firmly, glancing up at his downturned face. “She’s my best friend, too.” Her voice cracked, and she swiped at the tear that suddenly slipped down her cheek. “I feel so helpless.”

  “I know, honey. Why don’t you come over here and get warm, at least?” He gently led her the few steps to the stove.

  The pale green drapes were pulled back, and she could see the storm continuing in all its fury outside. Lightning flashed across the morning sky, followed by a clap of thunder so loud it made her jump.

  Her gaze swung back to Ruth, who didn’t move. “Does it look like her color is coming back?” she asked cautiously.

  “A little,” he agreed.

  She dragged in another deep breath, as though she hadn’t breathed at all since they’d walked into the house.

  The warmth of the stove reached her skin through the water-stained fabric of her dress. She instinctively turned and rubbed her hands together, letting the warmth inch up her arms. When she glanced up, he was staring at her.

  Their gazes locked. His was dark and knowing, as though he could see inside her mind, as though he could touch her soul. Feeling awkward, she asked, “Why are you here, Luke?”

  “I told you. I came to see you.”

  Absently she rubbed her hands together, this time refusing to look at him. “Why now?”

  He seemed to consider her question, then said, “Truth?”

  She stilled. “Truth.”

  “Because I had to know if the reality was as good as the dream.”

  “What dream?” She slanted him a look, not trusting herself to do more.

  He crooked one finger under her chin and turned her face fully toward his. She looked into his eyes, eyes that were bottomless, soft, inviting. He brushed a wisp of hair back from her face, and her skin tingled from his touch. He was so close. Her control seemed to be slipping away.

  His gaze rested on her lips. His voice was a husky whisper. “You, Princess. You haunt my dreams.”

  His words were explicit. Tiny sparks of electricity skittered across her skin, warm, exciting, stirring a familiar longing much too quickly.

  Stop this—now! The words ricocheted in her brain, but her body refused to move, somehow refusing to give up the nearness of him. The air was ripe with sudden anticipation.

  His mouth pulled up in a slow, lazy smile. “I’ve missed you.”

  Rebecca didn’t move, held as she was by his hypnotic gaze. Her breathing got a little ragged. At least she thought she was breathing. She wasn’t actually sure. He was too handsome, too charming, too dangerous. Oh, yes, he was very, very dangerous.

  It was the danger that sparked her to say, “I haven’t missed you.”

  If he took offense, he didn’t show it. In fact, he seemed amused.

  “Never play poker, honey. You can’t bluff worth a darn.”

  The man was too arrogant for words. But she was about to try anyway, when there was a knock at the door. Almost in the same instant, a voice, a male voice, called, “Mrs. Tinsdale?”

  Her chin came up a notch and, with a little smile of her own, she turned and called, “Yes, Doctor, in here.” She went to meet him.

  Luke introduced himself to the doctor and quickly left. She didn’t even bother to glance up. If he thought she was at all bothered by him, well, he was wrong.

  Never mind that she was distracted enough that she had to ask the doctor to repeat a couple of questions. What was wrong with her? Guilt twisted knife-sharp in her stomach. Ruth was lying in a sickbed, and here she was thinking about Luke.

  No, she wasn’t thinking about Luke. She was wishing he’d go to—well, to wherever it was marshals went to.

  In the meantime, she had to get her mind back on the people who mattered.

  Twenty minutes later, the doctor was ready to leave. He had prescribed bed rest, and laudanum for pain—which Ruth, who had awakened shortly after his arrival, adamantly refused to take.

  “All right,” she finally said, in a tone that reminded Rebecca of Andrew when he had to take a bath. It was good to see her awake and snapping at the doctor. It was good to have her back.

  Feeling much relieved, she walked the doctor to the door.

  “Now try to keep her in bed,” he admonished quietly.

  “I heard that,” Ruth called, and they both smiled. “She’s gonna be all right, Mrs. Tinsdale,” the doctor said, with a reassuring grin and a pat on the shoulder. “She’s gonna be fine.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Rebecca grinned. “Do you mind letting yourself out?”

  “Not at all. Not at all.”

  Still smiling, Rebecca turned to find Ruth sitting—not lying—in the bed. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” She crossed the room, pausing long enough to get Ruth’s nightdress from the closet.

  “I’m getting up, of course.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Rebecca countered, with an emphatic shake of her index finger. “We’re going to finish getting you undressed and then get you back into bed.”

  Ruth screwed up her face in protest, but she did put on the flannel nightdress. “What about finding Andrew?” She fumbled with the bone buttons, and Rebecca helped her.

  “I’ve got help.” She pulled back the covers and coaxed Ruth to lie down.

  “What help? You mean Brody? Bah!” She fussed with her pillows until she was propped up.

  “No, not Brody.” Rebecca smoothed the covers. “Someone—”

  “Can I come in?” a decidedly male voice said from behind her. She didn’t have to turn to know Luke was there, in the doorway. She sucked in a breath and mustered her best formal pose. She needed all her composure when it came to Luke.

  “Come in, Marshal Scanlin.”

  Rebecca was sitting in the Windsor chair and holding Ruth’s hand. She was still wearing her navy dress, and Luke could see that she was drier now, though he figured that she was soaked to the skin underneath.

  She should have changed, but she was stubborn to the end.

  “Why, thank you, Becky.” He used her familiar name, disregarding her formality. He saw the irritation flash in her eyes, and he had to figh
t the smile that tugged at his lips.

  He stopped at the foot of the bed. “Ma’am,” he said politely. “I’m glad to see you are feeling better. I saw the doc downstairs, and he said you were doing better, so I thought it would be okay for me to stop by.”

  For a long moment, Ruth didn’t speak, didn’t even move. She just stared at Luke. Feeling uncomfortable, he shifted his stance and raked one hand through his hair. “Ma’am, is something wrong?”

  Ruth blinked, then blinked again. “No...Marshal, is it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Luke Scanlin. I’m the marshal for this region.” He gave her his best smile.

  “Have we met before, Marshal?” She kept on studying him. “You look like someone...” She shook her head, and Rebecca stilled.

  Luke arched one brow in question. “Who?” He shoved one hand through his hair again.

  Ruth’s face drew up in a puzzled expression. “I...” Slowly her eyes widened. “So it’s you...” Her gaze shot to Rebecca, then back to Luke. The color drained from her face.

  Rebecca surged from her chair. “Ruth? Are you all right? Shall I send for the doctor?”

  Luke made a half turn, as if to do just that.

  “No.” Ruth’s voice cracked. “No,” she repeated, holding up one hand. “I’m all right.”

  “Maybe I’d better go,” Luke said.

  “No, Marshall, stay,” Ruth countered, more firmly. She adjusted her position on the propped-up pillows behind her back. Rebecca helped her.

  “So it’s me what, ma’am?” Luke asked.

  “What? Oh, so, it’s you who helped me to my room,” Ruth answered quietly.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The marshal is new in town,” Rebecca said, smoothing the covers before sitting down again.

  “Well, that explains a great deal.” Ruth’s tone was thoughtful. “Under the circumstances, Marshal, I think you know me well enough to call me Ruth. `Ma’am’ sounds so old, and—”

  “And old is twenty years older than you are...Ruth,” he filled in, grinning.

  “Marshal, I think I like you. I always did have a weakness for charmers.”

  “Not me. I’m telling the truth,” he teased innocently.

  Ruth laughed. “So this must be the help you said you had.”

  “Yes” was all Rebecca said.

  “Well, Marshal, we are thankful for all the assistance we can get. Aren’t we, Rebecca?”

  “Grateful. Yes.”

  Luke came around to stand close to Rebecca. “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances. I hope I can help find Becky’s boy. Actually, one of the reasons I came up here was to tell you that the search parties have gone out and I’m going myself, right now.” He touched her shoulder lightly in a familiar gesture. “They’ll come back here as soon as they’ve covered their assigned areas.”

  Rebecca spared him a look that didn’t last as long as a heartbeat. “Thank you.”

  He headed for the door.

  Ruth’s voice stopped him. “Marshal Scanlin.”

  “Yes.” He didn’t turn, only looked back over his left shoulder, one hand braced on the edge of the door frame.

  Her expression and tone had turned serious. “It’s very important that you find Andrew.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I know.”

  “I wonder if you do,” Ruth said gently.

  Chapter Three

  The Barbary Coast was only a few short blocks from Nob Hill, but it might as well have been the other side of the earth. The Coast was several square blocks of the seediest, raunchiest real estate anywhere. It was the reason San Francisco was the most dangerous city in America.

  Sin was for sale on the Barbary Coast. A man could name his pleasure and be certain to find it. He could lose his money in the gambling halls and saloons, lose his virtue in the brothels, or lose his life in the opium dens along Pacific Street. All in all, there were over five hundred concert saloons serving alcohol, and anything else, to the unsuspecting.

  The good people of San Francisco gave the Barbary Coast a wide berth. The trouble was, so did the law. “Enter at your own risk,” said some. “Let ‘em kill each other, and good riddance,” said others.

  So it was only natural that when a man wanted something done that was, well, less than lawful, he’d come to the Barbary Coast.

  That was exactly what Frank Handley had done last week, and tonight he was back, seated at a table near the back wall of Fat Daugherty’s.

  It wasn’t much of a saloon, he thought, taking in the long, narrow room. The ornate mahogany bar took up all of one wall, and the mirror behind the bar had a couple of cracks as big as earthquake fissures. A bartender with a handlebar moustache and greasy hair was serving rotgut that the patrons didn’t seem to mind consuming.

  Cigarette smoke grayed the air, and the planked floor was sticky from too many spilled drinks and too much tobacco juice.

  The place was doing a brisk business, though, he noted with a bit of surprise. Nearly two-thirds of the tables were taken, by groups of sailors—whalers, most likely—and wide-eyed farmers and cowboys in town to “see the elephant” before going home flat broke, if the cardsharps had their way. They usually did. Hell, Will and Finck were actually putting out a catalog of devices for the professional gambler who didn’t mind using a little sleight of hand to ensure that he won. Yup, cheating was an industry, he thought, somewhat amused.

  A man dressed in denim pants and a buckskin shirt edged past on his way to the bar, bumping into Frank with a thud, then glaring at Frank as though he were the one doing the bumping.

  “Sorry,” Frank muttered.

  “Yeah,” the man growled, and blessedly continued on his way.

  Frank released the breath he’d been holding. He felt as out of place as a rabbit at a wolf convention. But he was here now, and he had business, so he leaned back in his chair and tried to look calm and composed.

  The chair wobbled pretty much like Frank’s confidence. One of the back legs was shorter than the others, so he leaned forward again, forearms on the edge of the table. His finely tailored gray suit was in sharp contrast to the stained and gouged surface of the square table.

  He was waiting for the Riggs brothers, who were late. Where were they? All he wanted was to say his say and get the hell out of here. This was not his sort of place, after all. Frank had finer tastes. He preferred saloons like the one on Montgomery Street—slate billiard tables, gilt-framed paintings and glittering chandeliers.

  If it weren’t for his job, he wouldn’t spend five seconds in a place like this.

  Music started up from the out-of-tune piano. An argument broke out at the table next to him. A man shouting at another about fixed dice in a game of high-low-jack. The two lunged for each other, and Frank shrank back against the wall, praying he wouldn’t get involved, or hurt.

  The bartender scrambled over the bar, wielding an ax handle, and effectively and efficiently ended the dispute with a resounding blow across the shoulders of one man. Frank winced as the man sagged to the floor.

  “I ain’t puttin’ up with no fightin’ in here,” he snarled, the saloon suddenly quiet. He waved the ax handle in the air to punctuate his order. Grabbing the unconscious man by the shirt collar, he dragged him toward the door. His boot heels left trails on the filthy floor. For the span of two heartbeats, no one moved. Then, as if nothing had happened, everyone went back to doing what they had been before.

  Heart pounding, Frank slid back into his wobbly chair. If the Riggs brothers didn’t show up soon, he was leaving. Instinctively he patted the envelope that was making a small bulge in his jacket pocket. Damn. He couldn’t leave.

  But, hell, he was a lawyer, not some street ruffian. Oh, sure, there were some who’d put his profession close to a criminal’s, but they’d be wrong, emphatically wrong.

  Lawyers were hired by someone to do a job that that same someone didn’t want to do, or couldn’t do themselves. And that was exactly what Frank was doing. Okay, so ma
ybe it wasn’t exactly legal, or ethical, but it paid well, very well, and no one got hurt. Frank had his code, too. It was simple. In business, everything was fair as long as no one got hurt—physically hurt, that is. Financially, well, that was another story.

  Frank nodded to himself, pleased with his code of ethics. Across the saloon, a ruddy-faced man in a lopsided top hat kept pounding out music on the badly tuned piano. One of the saloon girls, dressed in nothing but white pantaloons, black stockings and a bright yellow corset, decided to sing along. The sound was reminiscent of fingernails on a chalkboard, and made his skin prickle and his ears ache.

  He craned his neck, searching the room. God, where were they? He scanned the crowd again and flinched as the singer hit a particularly painful note that didn’t exist on any known musical scale.

  It was reflex that made him pour a glass of whiskey from the bottle he’d ordered when he came in. Good sense stopped him from drinking it. The liquid was the color of a polluted stream and smelled like the contents of a chamber pot. He grimaced.

  He’d take Irish whiskey any day. Still, he toyed with the glass, hoping he looked at home. Where the hell were the Riggses? Five minutes. He’d give them five minutes, and boss or no boss, he’d—

  “Evenin’,” a male voice said, and Frank jumped at the sound, it was so close.

  “We scare you?” Bill Riggs chuckled as he and his brother Jack circled around each side of him in a flanking maneuver. They dragged up chairs opposite him and sat down.

  “You’re late,” Frank told them, feeling more than a little intimidated by the two hard-looking men.

  “Sorry. I was—” Bill glanced at his brother, then back to Frank “—detained.” He lounged back. “Upstairs.”

  Frank grimaced. “Take care of that stuff on your own time. Did you finish the job I hired you to do?”

  “Sure.” Bill smoothed the lapel of his rumpled brown suit. His white shirt was open at the neck and had no collar.

  Jack leaned forward, his lean face grim, his blue eyes hard as winter. “You got the money?”

  With a furtive glance at the nearest table, Frank discreetly slipped the envelope from his pocket and placed it squarely in front of him, his fingers resting lightly on the edges.