But the Stanleys had fallen on hard times, and what little was left had been finished by the war. Analise had been raised to be a spoiled belle, only with no money and no society left in the South, well, there had been no one to spoil her—except Papa. What little money he had, he spent on her.
So, they’d married. What a pair they had made—the underpaid college professor and the society belle. Mama was constantly after Papa to work harder, demand raises, demand promotions, and Papa, so engrossed in his books and his research he’d never even noticed that other, younger men were passing him by.
It was no wonder, then, that Mama had gotten more than a little desperate. One day she’d simply announced that she’d decided they were moving to California. There was gold in California. Not that she expected Papa to go prospecting. Heavens, no, that would be beneath them. No, she expected Papa to get a position in some nice school, and she expected Rebecca to attend one of those same nice schools, but for an entirely different reason.
You see, there was no society in California, at least not anything like in Virginia, where families had been on the same land for generations. No, in California, things were new, rules were...flexible, and the daughter of a schoolteacher and a disadvantaged Southern aristocrat had as much chance as anyone to marry up, to marry into society.
Yes, that was the life Analise Stanley Parker had aspired to. That was the life Rebecca had been trained for, educated for and told in no uncertain terms would be her destiny.
As far back as Rebecca could remember, she’d been taught the important things—how to arrange flowers, serve a formal tea or a formal dinner, play the piano and dance the latest dances. She’d been required to be well versed in the latest fashions, theater, gossip. Oh, yes, gossip was most important. One had to know who was in—and who was out—in this newly forming society. It wouldn’t do to be seen associating with the wrong person, Mama would admonish her.
Rebecca lifted her head away from the wall and sat up straighter. What it had all boiled down to was how to fawn and simper over some man—the right man—until he offered for her.
It was planned, pretentious and preposterous. She had hated every minute of it, but she had loved her mother, so she had tried. But when she couldn’t stand one more minute of fine embroidery, she would slip off to her father’s study and its book-lined walls—just like these, she thought with a ghost of a smile.
Standing, she strolled over to the bookcases on the far wall. Sunlight filtered through the curtains and caught the smooth surface of each leather spine. Lightly, lovingly, she ran the tips of her fingers along the row. Her father’s books. He’d left them to her when he died. It was all she had of him. That and a few faded tintypes.
Her hand paused on a volume of Plato’s Dialogues. How Papa had loved to discuss philosophy. How she had loved her father, and now these books. Each one was like an old friend. Each one, a special memory of a time shared with her father.
Many had been the night they had stayed up well past midnight. Ensconced in his tiny study, they had explored the world through the pages of these books. They had shared views on education and women’s rights and argued politics. He’d taught her all she knew about ethics and honor, about caring and loving.
Perhaps it was naive, but she had thought all men held the same high codes and principles. Perhaps that was why she had risked so much with Luke, or perhaps it was as simple as rebelling against a lifetime of rules and plans. Whatever it was, it was a mistake, she thought with stomach-clenching certainty.
A mistake that seemed certain to engulf her and drag her down, down the way a tidal wave engulfs an otherwise safe harbor.
Oh, in the endlessly long hours after Luke left, after she realized what had happened, the logical part of her mind had said that Luke hadn’t made any promises. And it was true.
But certain things had been implied, even if they had remained unspoken. Hadn’t they? A woman didn’t give herself to a man unless she loved him. Luke had to have known that. He had to.
And if she believed that—and she did—then he had betrayed her at the most intimate level.
So now what? He was here. Right in the middle of her worst nightmare. She could send him packing, but she knew she needed him. Andrew needed him.
A cold chill raced down her spine at the thought.
Abruptly she stooped and started to gather the papers scattered across the floor. The white pages were smooth and cool against her fingers. She glanced up in time to see a hummingbird pause briefly near the open window, then dart away.
Rebecca wished she could leave her troubles behind as easily and as quickly.
But, like before, she had to face it through. Luke would not stay. She was certain of that. So all she had to do was keep him at a distance, and pray that Andrew was returned soon.
Once Luke realized that this time he couldn’t get what he wanted, what she’d given so freely, so trustingly, before, he’d move on.
She gathered the last of the papers and tapped the stack lightly on the floor to even them in her hands.
She sat back on her haunches, her skirt flowing around her legs as she stared at the grouping of photographs on the top of her desk. One, in particular, in a small silver frame.
Luke Scanlin would never know of her heartbreak—or anything else. That was a vow she would not break.
Chapter Seven
Another man might have been angry. Another man might have taken her little speech to heart. Not this man. No, Luke was smiling as he stepped off the porch and headed for the stable. The sun was shining. Song-birds chirped in a nearby oak tree.
The lady was something. Her words said one thing, but her kisses, the way she melted into him every time he pulled her into his arms, told an entirely different story. He was right this time. She did want him. Lord knew he wanted her. It was only a matter of time.
Lady, there’s no escape. You’ve met your match.
A smile lingered on his lips as he saddled his horse and rode out. He was headed for the Barbary Coast.
He was becoming more and more convinced that the kidnapping and the corruption were connected. How, he didn’t know—yet. But he was going to find out. He was going to get that boy back. He was going to get the woman, too.
While you’re at it, why don’t you bring in the James gang. That seemed about as easy as the tasks he’d set for himself.
Twenty minutes and he was on “Terrific Pacific” Street. Gin mills, dance halls and bordellos greeted him.
It was late afternoon, and already the narrow streets were filled with milling people—men, mostly. The Coast was hardly a place for ladies—except certain kinds of ladies, he amended, spotting a woman dressed in nothing but pantalets, black stockings and a corset as she lounged near a saloon entrance across the street. His mouth curved upward in an appreciative smile. Hey, he was a man after all. He could look.
Get your mind on business, Scanlin. Time to do a little of that undercover work you’ve been recruited to do.
His hand rested naturally on the worn handle of his .45 as he pushed open the rickety doors of the Midway Plaisance and walked in. The place was large and square. It had been a long time since the floor had seen the business end of a mop. The scents of tobacco, whiskey and unwashed bodies made his nose crinkle. God, how many of these kinds of places had he been in the past few years? Too many came the reply.
A roulette wheel clattered an invitation, which he ignored. Nearby, a dark-haired man dressed in black dealt faro to a table of miners.
Luke shook his head. They had a better chance of striking the mother lode than they did of winning. Too bad they were too drunk to know it.
Edging between the tables, he headed for the mahogany bar that ran the length of one wall. It was scarred and worn, and the brass footrail hadn’t been polished since the day it was delivered.
Wedging in between a cowboy and a sailor, he caught the eye of the greasy-haired bartender. “Whiskey.”
The man quickly complied.
Luke tossed a two-fifty gold piece on the scarred surface. “Busy place,” Luke commented absently to the man as he sipped the rotgut.
“First time?” the bartender commented. He spit in a glass, then wiped it clean with a bar towel that was as black as a witch’s heart.
“Yeah.” Luke thumbed his hat back and surveyed the room. “Couldn’t come to town and not partake of a little...sin.” He laughed, and the potbellied barkeep joined him.
“Well, if’n it’s sin you’re lookin’ for, this here is the place, all right. You name it, we got it. If’n we don’t, wait ten minutes—someone’ll get it for you.”
They laughed together. Luke helped himself to another drink. It burned like lit kerosene.
A bald-headed man was pounding out a melody on a piano so out of tune it made him want to grind his teeth. Luke guessed that was what the whiskey was for. A couple more of these, and he wouldn’t even notice. Sure as hell looked like no one else minded.
The tables were crowded, and getting more so every minute. Cardsharps and working girls seemed to be appearing in proportion to the increase in the crowd. They must have a sixth sense about these things, he mused, turning to lean back, his elbows on the bar. He lingered for a few more minutes, long enough to get a feel of the place, before he decided to move on. There were a lot of saloons and brothels, not to mention opium dens. Those he planned to stay far away from.
He strolled casually down the sidewalk, pausing to glance in a window or two. He wandered down a couple of alleys, getting the lay of the land, so to speak.
After three more saloons and more rotgut than he wanted, he wandered into the Fat Daugherty’s. It was pretty much like the others, a little squarer, a little fancier, in a run-down sort of way. There was still a bar along one wall. This one had a mirror behind it, adorned with a crack big enough to put your fingers in. On the wall opposite, there was a painting of a woman, generously endowed, and naked as the day she was born.
Located conspicuously under the painting was a roulette wheel, next to a table for dice. A bunch of slick operators were dealing cards at other tables scattered nearby.
Luke strolled over to the bar. He cringed, forced a smile and said, “Whiskey.” A man should never switch horses in midstream, but next time he was going to ask for buttermilk!
A ferret-faced bartender served up the murky-looking liquid. “Thanks,” Luke said casually, and plunked down a silver dollar.
He’d been making the rounds all afternoon. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but he’d know it when he saw it. How’s that for vague? he thought.
But that was what police work was. He couldn’t just walk up to someone and say, “Pardon me, do you know anyone who kidnaps children or bribes officials?”
No, he just hung around, chatting occasionally, drinking as little as possible and watching. In the past few hours, he’d seen more faces from wanted posters than he had in three years. Obviously he’d been wasting his time down in Texas. All the scum of the world was here.
Speaking of scum, there were a couple of men at a corner table that he’d been watching in the mirror for several minutes. They were dark, and unwashed, judging by their greasy hair, and they looked like they had slept in their clothes.
These two he didn’t recognize. Yet something about them pricked his lawman’s instincts. There was enough of a resemblance that he thought they might be related, but what had caught his attention was that, unlike everyone else in the place, they weren’t gambling or cursing or playing cards. They had consumed an incredible amount of liquor, judging by the two empty whiskey bottles on the table and the one they were working their way through now.
Even with that, these two had their heads together like they were planning to rob the Central Pacific and they didn’t want any one else to know. Now, he realized that this was a modern day Sodom, and the two could be discussing anything from drugs to whores, but still, they intrigued him.
And since he was in no hurry, he settled down at a table in the shadows at the end of the bar.
Shortly before dark, the bartender lit the gas lamps along the opposite wall, keeping the flame low enough to hide the faded pattern on the wallpaper. Why the devil would anyone put wallpaper in a saloon? Luke mused, taking another sip of his drink.
About that time, a woman with hair in a shade of red God never made sidled up to him. Having known a few whores in his day, Luke figured she was twenty-five going on forty.
“Hi, honey,” she said, dragging out a chair to straddle, which left absolutely no question about her intentions. Not that he’d had any, anyway. She was wearing a dress that was above her knees and nearly below her nipples. She had enough rouge on her cheeks to make a rose jealous.
She was looking at him with what he guessed was her come-hither stare. “Buy a girl a drink, cowboy?”
Luke wasn’t interested in whores. But he knew what kind of a life these women lived, and though he knew it was their choice, he also knew most women didn’t have a lot of choices.
Become a whore or get married to some dirt farmer. The result wasn’t much different. They still aged ten years in one and died way before they should. It was more sympathy than interest that made him say, “Sure.” He signaled the bartender for another glass.
The woman leaned forward, pressing her breasts against the back of the chair in a blatant invitation, which Luke ignored. Okay, sort of ignored.
He sipped his drink. She downed hers in one swallow and wiggled her glass for another. He obliged.
Around them the crowd was getting thicker and noisier. Someone was yelling for another drink at the bar, and the bartender was threatening to cut off a vital part of his anatomy if he didn’t shut up.
A sailor, too young to know what a razor was for, wandered over to fondle the girl.
“C’mon...” he managed to slur. He half fell across her shoulder, and she gingerly pushed him back.
“Not now,” she told him sharply. “Can’t you see I’m engaged?” She grinned at Luke.
The sailor stared, bleary-eyed, from the girl to Luke and back to the girl again. With an unsteady shrug, he wandered off in search of new sport.
“Business is good, I see,” Luke said, half teasing.
“Not bad,” she returned, emptying her glass again. “Could be better, though. If you get my drift,” she added, her hand gliding up his thigh toward his crotch.
Smiling, Luke covered her hand with his, stopping her. “Thanks,” he said softly, “but I’m not really interested. No offense.”
“What’s the matter, handsome?” she said, with a lilting tone to her voice. “If there’s a problem with the...” Her hand inched closer to his crotch. He stopped her again. “Millie is just the one who can cure you.”
Luke laughed. “Darlin’, believe me, there’s nothing wrong.” Hell, every time he kissed Rebecca, he was painfully aware there was absolutely nothing wrong.
“How about you just keeping me company?” he asked, knowing that whores and bartenders knew everything that was going on. He also knew a whore’s time was money, so he shoved a ten-dollar gold piece in her direction. “Just so your time’s not wasted.”
She looked genuinely surprised, and this time, when she smiled, he could tell she really meant it. She helped herself to another whiskey.
“So what brings you to town?” she said amid the din.
“Oh, nothing much. Just a cowboy up from Texas. Only been in town a couple of days, and thought I’d check things out.”
She raked him with an appraising stare. “Honey, if you’re what Texas cowboys look like, I think I might have to head south.”
Luke chuckled at the flattery. “Thanks.” He poured her another drink. “So tell me, is the Barbary Coast as bad as everyone says?”
She toyed with the drink. “Worse. You name it, it happens here. Shootings, gambling, opium, women...” She sliced a glance at him. “Boys, if that’s your interest.”
“Not mine,” Luke assured
her.
She seemed relieved.
“How’s it all keep going on?” he inquired casually. “I mean, down in Texas, about the time things are getting to be fun, some upstanding citizen complains, next thing you know there’s women’s betterment leagues campaigning for temperance and such.” He shook his head in disgust.
She laughed. It was a harsh, tinny sound. “Ain’t it the truth? Everybody knows a man has to have a place to...let off a little steam. Too much...steam is bad, don’t you think?” Her hand found his thigh again.
“Exactly.”
Luke poured her another drink, then lounged back casually. “You know, I was riding around today. I noticed some mighty fine-looking houses not too far from here.”
“Ain’t that a sight? Them big mansions, not ten blocks from here.” She shifted and fussed with a lock of hair that had come loose from her combs. Her arms were raised to give him an ample view of her full breasts, straining dangerously near the top of her dress. “Used to be Fern Hill, before them swells built up there. Lately folks have taken to calling it Nob Hill. Oughta be Snob Hill, if you ask me.”
If she moved another inch, Luke was certain, she was coming out of that dress. Not that he’d mind entirely. All things considered, he figured she wouldn’t mind.
Business, remember.
Taking a big slug of rotgut, he winced and said, “So don’t they get pissed, looking down here and seeing all that’s happening?” He screwed his face up in a frown. “Please, tell me there’s no women’s bet-terment league. I’d hate to see a fine place like this disappear.”
She laughed. “Ain’t no chance of that, honey.”
“Why?” he asked nonchalantly, turning his empty glass in his fingers. “If there’s some secret, I’d sure like to know, so I can tell the boys what we’re doing wrong...when I get home.” He gave her his best smile, all dimples and charm.
The woman swilled her whiskey and leaned closer. In a conspiratorial tone, she said, “You gotta know who to pay, is the secret.”
Luke’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “You mean like government fellas and such?”
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