“Sure. Sure.”
“I’ll be across the street, at the Bella Union. Bring me the bag, and you’ll be paid the balance owed you.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” said Bill, with a casual wave of his grimy hand. “We understand.” He cleared his throat and winked at his brother. “Don’t we understand, Jack?”
There was a smugness to his tone that made Frank’s stomach clench nervously.
“Sure, Mr. Handley. We understand,” Jack said.
The two men stood, almost in unison. “By the way, are you expectin’ any trouble makin’ the exchange?”
“Trouble?” Frank mirrored their stance, already eyeing the door. “What kind of trouble?”
Jack shrugged. “You know—law, for one, or them decidin’ not to pay, that sort of thing.”
Frank shook his head. “No, there should be no trouble. I’m certain she’ll pay. She may come herself, or send a messenger. Either way, take the bag and turn over the boy, and no one is to get hurt.”
“Okay. Okay. We’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
He started past Frank, then stopped when Frank said, “Don’t mess this up. If you do, if you get caught somehow, you’re on your own. If you tell anyone that I’m involved, I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
The two men didn’t seem to take offense, and they certainly didn’t seem concerned. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Handley. We’re not gonna get caught, and nothin’s gonna go wrong.”
Chapter Four
The sun was nothing but an orange glow in a gray sky when Luke got back to the house. That damnable rain had moved on about twenty minutes ago, and the clouds actually showed signs of breaking up.
He took his horse to the stable. It was white clapboard outside, dark stained pine inside. The place was fancier than half the hotels he’d stayed in, and this just for a horse.
“Well, boy,” he said with a chuckle, “enjoy it, but don’t get used to it.”
Four stalls lined each side. The familiar scent of hay and the acrid scent of horses greeted him. A pair of chestnut carriage horses peered at him over the wooden stall gates. A couple of saddle horses also poked their heads out to check out the visitor.
A young stable hand of about fifteen hurried to meet him. “I’ll put him away for you, sir,” he said, his sandy hair falling across his left eye. He shoved it back.
“No thanks. I always take care of my horse.” Spotting an empty stall, he asked, “This one okay?”
“Fine. Help yourself to whatever you want. Oats is there—” he pointed, “—and water’s over there. I’ll be in the back, working on some harness. You need anything, sing out.”
“Will do.”
With that, the boy turned and ambled away.
Luke stretched, trying to ease the tension out of tired muscles and joints. He shrugged off his slicker and tossed it over the gate.
It had been a hell of a day, and it wasn’t over yet, he thought as he unsaddled his horse and hefted the saddle over the partition. The stirrup banged into the wood, and he actually checked to see if he’d scratched it.
“Hell of a place to keep a horse,” he muttered.
Becky was waiting for him up at the house. He was stalling for time. He picked up a curry brush and set to work, but all the while he kept thinking about her.
It wasn’t the first time. Now there was an understatement. Since the day he’d ridden out all those years ago, hardly a day, or night, had passed when he didn’t think about her or dream about her or curse himself for leaving her. For a while there, he’d tried to convince himself she was just another woman, nothing more and nothing less than the others he had known.
It didn’t work. Knowing other women didn’t work. Nothing worked. It was always Becky.
Becky of the luminous want-to-drown-in-them eyes. Becky of the throaty voice that brushed his skin and his nerves like warm velvet. Vivid memories merged with lush fantasies, and all of them had to do with her naked in his arms.
He stopped dead, letting the sudden desire wash over him, enjoying the feeling.
Yeah, Scanlin, you’ve got it bad. There’s a name for “it,” you know.
Lust. That was it. Lust.
Sure, Scanlin. Sure.
His mouth pulled down in a frown. He went back to work, making long downward strokes with the brush. The horse shivered and sidestepped.
“Hold still, will ya?” Luke snapped, and ducked under the horse’s neck to rub down the other side.
Being with Becky was getting more complicated by the minute. First off, he’d never figured on her having a child. Second, he’d never figured on her son being in trouble. And no way had he counted on the sudden intense feelings, the fierce need to comfort her, the drive to protect her, and the desire—oh, Lord, the desire that heated and swirled in him every time she got within ten feet of him.
He stilled, remembering her today. She’d been so proud, so controlled, this morning. Most women—hell, most men—would have fallen apart under the strain of a missing child.
She hadn’t. She was strong, and he admired her strength. It was tough enough raising a child these days. Raising a child alone, a son, without a father to help her—that must be real tough.
The lady had courage.
But did she have enough courage to hear what he had to tell her?
He could tell her he hadn’t found the boy, apologize, then turn it over to the local authorities again. He’d be out from under.
Scared, Scanlin? Gonna run out on her again?
Jaw clenched, he curled his hands into fists. He was here, and he was staying. She needed him. This was his chance to convince her. This was his chance to assuage some of his guilt.
You looking for absolution, Scanlin?
Perhaps.
Or perhaps forgiveness had nothing to do with why he was staying.
Thirty minutes later, he knew he couldn’t stall any longer. He swung his worn saddlebags over his left shoulder. Slicker, bedroll and rifle clutched in his other hand, he headed for the house—and Becky.
His boots made watery puddles in the grass. The last of the rain dripped from the corners of the house. A blackbird, perched on the edge of the roof, watched his progress intently.
The evening air was as fresh and clean as it can be only after a rain, and it looked as though a fog bank was building over the bay. The street in front of the house was quiet, and as he rounded the corner he saw a light go on in the parlor.
Okay, Scanlin, what are you going to tell her?
Dragging in a couple of gulps of air, he reviewed the possibilities in his mind. Regrettably, there weren’t many.
If kids wandered off, they were usually found within a couple of hours, playing somewhere they weren’t supposed to be or with someone they weren’t suppose to be with. Becky had said they’d checked. There was one more possibility. The boy could be dead—accidentally or not. That would explain why there’d been no trace of him.
That very unpleasant thought didn’t sit well. Seeing a dead child—gunned down in a cross fire, killed in a Comanche raid—that was one thing he never got used to.
Besides, this was a city. Gunfights and Indian raids