Free Susan Amarillas by Scanlin's Law

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