Susan Amarillas by Scanlin's Law Page A

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 were pretty remote, especially in this neighborhood. He glanced at the mansion. In his work, he knew people did things like this only for money or revenge. He discounted revenge. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine Rebecca doing anything so terrible that someone would want to take it out on her son.
    His brows drew down thoughtfully. That left money. The lady certainly appeared to have more than enough of that, and there was always someone who figured he was entitled to a share—without doing any work for it, of course.
    It was a hell of a thing to have to tell someone, someone special, that her only child had been kidnapped. He’d rather face down all four of the Daltons than have to do this.
    Maybe someone else found him.
    After two days? Sure. And maybe cows could fly.
    He clenched his jaw so hard the pain radiated down his neck. Well, there was nothing for it but to go in there.
    Inside the entryway, he hung his water-stained hat and damp slicker on the hall tree. Water puddled on the polished plank floor, and he would have cleaned it up, but where the hell would a person find a cleaning rag around this place? He tossed his saddlebags down with a thud—caused by his spare .45—and dropped his bedroll and rifle right beside them. He’d take them upstairs