He dragged in a deep breath, and another. It didn’t help. When had it gotten so hot in here? Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he made to stand, but her hair ribbon, lying on the night table, caught his eye. He picked it up, letting the satin glide over his callused palm. Instantly he remembered pulling it from her hair, the cool smoothness of her hair entwined around his fingers.
No matter what she said, she’d liked that kiss, liked it as much as he did. He might not understand a lot of things, but he understood when a woman wanted him, and she did. She absolutely did.
But there were a few small obstacles; she’d made it clear she wasn’t about to cooperate, and, of course, she was distraught over her son’s disappearance. Then there was the little matter of their past history.
Okay, Scanlin. What are you going to do about it?
“How the hell do I know?” he muttered to the empty room.
She had money, position, power. He had the horse he rode, about five hundred dollars in the bank, and no more clothes than he could stuff in a couple of saddlebags. Not exactly the sort of man she was used to, he thought with a rueful glance around the tastefully furnished room. He squirmed; the damned feather bed was starting to make him uncomfortable.
He’d been a loner most of his life. Being with Becky, he was having thoughts about things like settling down, having a son. Yeah, a son. He’d like that. He’d like it even more if it was Becky’s son. He’d be a good father, too, not like his old man.
He’d been fourteen when his mother died on that dirt-poor ranch they had down in Amarillo. A week later, his father had stopped coming home. Not that Luke had minded much, considering his old man had spent most of his time either drinking or beating on Luke. So Luke had waited two days, and when he asked in town, the bartender had said Luke’s father had taken the afternoon stage for Lubbock with one of the girls from the Gilded Garter. He had never seen or heard from his father again.
Ain’t fatherly love wonderful?
His muscles tensed abruptly, and he felt suddenly edgy. Standing, he crossed over to the white porcelain warming stove tucked neatly in the corner of the room, near the window. The carpet was green as grass and just as smooth against his bare feet.
There was already a fire going in the stove—the maid, he figured. There was a maid, an upstairs maid, he’d learned. There was also a cook, and a housekeeper, who was down with a cold, which was why no one had answered the door this morning.
He’d felt a little disconcerted at finding his bed turned down when he walked in tonight. It was all very foreign, the thought of having people actually wait on him, except maybe in a saloon.
He rubbed his bare arms against the chill, turning his back for a little extra warming. He had to admit this was a pleasant luxury. He’d spent a lot of time cold and dirty, and there sure hadn’t even been anyone to light a stove for him or turn down his bed. Maybe that was why he’d barged in when he heard the boy was missing. If that kid was out there—and he was determinedly hanging on to that notion—then the little guy must be scared to death. Becky had said he was only seven. Poor little guy.
Whoever had him had better be taking real good care of the lad. Yeah, real good, he thought fiercely. If they hurt him...well, Luke wouldn’t take too kindly to that.
He knew firsthand about being alone and so scared that he cried himself to sleep, curled up in the back of some stable.
That first year after his old man ran off, Luke had scrambled for work. He’d swamped out saloons, mucked stables and even dug outhouses, anything for food and a place to sleep.
And scared—he’d never known a person could be so scared. Then, one day, it had been as though he just couldn’t be scared anymore. Pride had welled up inside him. He might be digging outhouses, but he wouldn’t take the cursing or the snide remarks anymore.
He’d decided he was never going to be put down again, by anyone. He gave an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage, and he expected to be treated with respect, same as anyone else.
But respect, he’d quickly discovered, came faster when he could demand it—and a six-gun was a great equalizer. Luke was a natural with a gun, men said. Fast, others added.
As he got older, he’d done a little scouting for the army, but he hadn’t liked all the rules. He’d done some bounty hunting later, and he’d been better at that—no rules and being on his own, he guessed.
He’d met Tom Pemberton in a saloon in Dallas. Tom had been having a little trouble with a gambler—apparently Tom had called the gambler a cheat, and the man had pulled a .32 out of his coat. Not liking gamblers much, and feeling sorry for the greenhorn who was about to have his head blown off, Luke had stepped in and laid his .45 upside the gambler’s head.
Tom had been grateful and persuasive, and when he went back to California, Luke had gone along. He’d never seen San Francisco or the Pacific Ocean. He’d figured he would stick around a few weeks, then head on back to Texas to meet a friend who was joining up with the Texas Rangers. Luke had thought he might give it a try, too.
He hadn’t known a man’s world could be turned upside down in a month.
He’d met Rebecca at a party. They’d danced, and talked, and danced again. Tom had told Luke she was practically engaged. But Luke had been young—okay, arrogant—and he hadn’t cared about rules, he admitted to himself now. She hadn’t been married and that was all that had mattered. Apparently it was all that had mattered to her, also, because she had come out to meet him every day during the next week.
He’d never known anyone like her. She’d been so beautiful—not as beautiful as she was now, but beautiful. She had been smart, and funny, and so alive. Everything had been an adventure with her. The most ordinary things had been exciting when he was with her. All he had known was that he couldn’t get enough of her, so it was no wonder that eventually he’d made love to her.
Seduced her, you mean, his conscience chided, none too gently.
Okay. Maybe. Anyhow, that was when everything had changed. Being with Rebecca hadn’t been just having sex, satisfying a physical need. No, with Rebecca he’d wanted to please her more than himself, to give more than he took. Feelings so new, so intensely powerful, had rocked him to the very core of his being, and he’d panicked.
Yeah, Scanlin, you son of a bitch, you ran off in the middle of the night like a skulking dog.
But it seemed there was no peace and no escape from those feelings.
His eyes fluttered closed, and instantly the memory of their kiss flashed in his mind and ricocheted through his body like a shot.
It felt as though he’d been doing penance for the past seven years. Deep down, he’d figured he deserved every long, guilt-ridden, stupidity-cursing moment of it.
But along the way he must have done something right, because the Lord was giving him a second chance. A chance to free himself, he’d thought when he walked in here. Obviously he’d been wrong.
He glanced over at the well-worn Bible lying on the round walnut table near the bed. The cover was creased, and one corner was torn off. It was his mother’s Bible. It was all he had of her. He’d taken solace in that book many a long, cold night by a campfire.
He chuckled and said aloud, “Never thought you’d get me to read it, did you, Ma?”
He could almost hear her laugh.
She’d had a nice laugh and a warm smile. The kind that made you want to laugh even if you didn’t know why.
Rebecca had that kind of smile—not that