Broken Vows (13 page)

      
She rose shakily with his help. “It always comes back to Amos Wells, doesn't it?”

      
“Until he's out of your life. You will send him away, won't you, Rebekah?”

      
She looked at his earnest yet wary expression. He was jealous and afraid. Afraid of losing her to an older, wealthier man from her parents' world. This was her Rory again, her love, the man she had felt such a bond with from the first moment they had met. Her proud, yet frightened Irishman. “Yes, Rory. I will send him away,” she echoed, so filled with the awe of his love and his vulnerability that she ignored the monumental difficulties in keeping such a vow.

      
“I'll be here at the river every evening this week. Try to slip away and meet me.”

      
“It will be difficult with Mama watching me, but I'll try.”

      
Her hand reached out tenderly, and he took it in his. Together they walked past the willows and up to where her fat old mare grazed contentedly.

      
“It's getting late. My parents will be up, and I'll have to explain where I've been if I can't slip in before they notice I'm gone.”

      
He helped her mount the sidesaddle and then took her fingers and planted a soft kiss on them before releasing her. “I'll be waiting for you, darlin'.”

      
His voice echoed as Rebekah rode toward town.

* * * *

      
Rebekah adjusted the collar on her dress, surreptitiously slipping her finger inside the neckline to ease the stricture. She was so nervous that she felt as if she would choke, sitting in the family parlor waiting for Amos Wells to arrive. Her mother fussed with a starched lace doily on the pedestal table in front of the window.

      
The room looks like I do, forlorn and threadbare, Rebekah thought. The chairs and sofa were faded and mismatched, acquired as donations from parishioners. The various tables in the room, although polished painstakingly, were of poor quality, each covered with a doily and cheap knickknacks Dorcas had collected over the years. A small tea table sat in the center of the room with her mother's pride and joy atop it, a sterling tea service that had been a wedding gift from Ephraim's cousin Noah, a prosperous Montana cattleman. Its luster made the frayed blue brocade of the sofa look even more washed out. The lace curtains hanging crisp and white on the windows were thin from repeated launderings, and the lace was mended in many places.

      
The parlor reeked of genteel poverty, as did the dress she had chosen. Of course, Rebekah's reason for choosing it was not to emphasize her lack of the finery a man like Amos could provide, but to discourage him with her prim, dowdy appearance. The gown was an ivory silk sprigged with tiny green leaves. The leg-of-mutton sleeves and pleated bodice were fashionable, as was the high lace collar, but the overall effect was unflattering. A castoff of Celia's, it had been taken in for Rebekah's slimmer figure. The fit was still too loose, and the color made her gold hair seem dark, her complexion sallow and washed out. And the high collar was as prim as any schoolgirl's father could wish.

      
Dorcas had wanted her to wear a pale pink dress of Leah's which was newer and fit her better, but could not dispute the fact that this dress was, after all, silk. Rebekah owned mostly castoffs, and both mother and daughter were acutely aware of their poverty. Dorcas had set her face in a stern, disapproving expression and stalked off after admonishing Rebekah to mind her manners with Mr. Wells or the consequences would be dire.

      
As if she did not already know that! Just then, a light rapping sounded at the front door, and Ephraim answered it. Rebekah could hear the two men exchanging pleasantries as they walked down the narrow hall into the parlor. After constrained greetings and a few nervous remarks on the weather, Ephraim and Dorcas excused themselves, leaving Rebekah seated on the edge of her chair, facing Amos across the tea table. His gray eyes were veiled, his expression revealing nothing.

      
She took a deep breath for courage, then plunged ahead at once. “I owe you an apology, Mr. Wells, for what happened yesterday. It was not my intention to embarrass you, only to give my friend Celia the opportunity to share her basket with you. She is quite smitten with you.”

      
“And you are not.” It was not a question, but his voice was surprisingly gentle.

      
She met his eyes and saw them crinkle in amusement at her discomfiture. Feeling as if she were walking a twisty path through quicksand, she ventured, “I would be less than honest if I used the word smitten. You are a fine-favored man, Mr. Wells, and many of the ladies in town—the single ones, that is—would be honored by your attentions—not that I'm not. Honored, that is.” She ground to a halt, realizing that she was sinking deeper into the quagmire with every word.
Please don’t let him be angry.

      
Wells smiled thinly. “So, you're honored, yet you told me your basket would be trimmed in pink, then switched to rose ribbons.”

      
“It was childish of Celia and me to switch.” What else should she say? Do? Prostrate herself at his knees like some harem slave?

      
“Yes, Celia is an impulsive young lady. Rather used to getting her own way. Unlike you, who under the Reverend Sinclair's upstanding moral guidance, are used to a more self-sacrificing life.”

      
“You give me too much credit and Celia not enough,” she said in her friend's defense. “The switch was at my instigation.”

      
“So that Irish stable hand could purchase your basket?” His eyes were cold now, all traces of good humor suddenly erased.

      
“No! That is, I didn't know he would even be at the picnic. I certainly had no idea he would bid on my basket.” That at least was the truth. If only he did not ask if Rory knew it was hers—and how he had come to learn that fact.

      
Wells seemed to relax his menacing posture, and his expression softened. “I am relieved to hear that. The attentions of a man of his ilk would greatly distress your family. I will be very honest with you, Rebekah. I know I'm a good deal older than you, but I find you to be most ideally suited to be my wife.”

      
“But why me?” she blurted out in spite of her attempt to be cautious. “I—I mean, we scarcely know each other, and there are so many more attractive, wealthy ladies in all the big cities you visit.”

      
“You underrate yourself greatly. You are highly intelligent and well read—thanks to your father—and you are skilled in the domestic arts because of your mother's fine Christian efforts. You also show promise of great beauty.”

      
One hand flew to her cheek in genuine surprise. “Beauty? Me? My sister Leah is the beauty of the family. Besides,” she said, quickly recovering and remembering her father's admonitions, “beauty is of the soul. The body is only an outer shell of far less importance.”

      
“It is nevertheless a decided asset for a politically ambitious man to have such a fine ‘outer shell’ on his arm, provided she is also bright and ambitious herself. As I'm certain you know, the Nevada legislature will most probably name me to the United States Senate. I need a wife to accompany me to Carson City and then on to Washington.”

      
“You do me a great honor, Mr. Wells, but it is all too sudden and overwhelming.” J
ust as it was with Rory, yet I fell in love with him at once!

      
“Your affections are not otherwise engaged, and you've had no gentleman callers as yet. I fear, as an older man, that if I were to wait another year to press my suit, you would select someone younger. Why not give us the opportunity to get to know each other?”

      
What could she say without revealing that her heart was engaged? If he even suspected that it was the Irishman she loved, his vanity would suffer a terrible blow. The reprisals against her family could be terrible. But he had not really seemed threatening tonight, just afraid of looking the fool—an older man who needed an ornamental young woman to further his political career. He had been honest with her. And she had—at least by omission—not been as forthcoming with him, nor dared she be...
Make no mistake
… She wet her lips nervously. “As long as you understand that I will never marry a man I do not love.”

      
He nodded, “Yes, at your age love seems all important. I was wed when I was scarcely older than you. The first Mrs. Wells passed on after twenty-one years. She was a dear lady, and I have missed her sorely; but it is the companionship, not some grand passion, that one truly comes to value in a marriage. I expect someone like Celia Hunt would not have the maturity to appreciate that. But you, my dear, I think, could, given time.”

      
Rebekah nodded mutely. This was not going at all as she had hoped. “Might I offer you some tea, Mr. Wells?” She gestured to the table laden with her mother's treasures, trying to think of a way to extricate herself from his web.

      
“That would be charming, my dear. You make a gracious hostess.”

      
Struggling to hold the heavy pot steady, she poured.

* * * *

      
Rory had waited by the river every evening for the past week, hoping Rebekah could slip away. But she had not come. He knew her parents kept a strict watch over her, especially since he had come into her life. Amos Wells' threats and overtures worried him. The man had a fearsome reputation in the Comstock towns as a ruthless mine owner who manipulated men's lives as easily as he did stocks.

      
Rebekah was being harried, a lamb at the mercy of a wolf, yet she insisted that she had to fight this battle alone. He feared discouraging Wells would not be easy, especially considering how strongly her parents encouraged the match. Wells had all the ammunition he needed—power, wealth, social standing. Everything Rory did not possess.

      
He had spent the past five days working with some of the finest thoroughbreds he had seen since leaving Ireland. Normally, after a backbreaking week, he would take the pay he had just collected and head to the nearest saloon to celebrate, but no more. He was going to have to change his ways if he expected to win Rebekah, and that meant not only giving up carousing but saving his money as well.

      
The thought that Rory Madigan would ever become such an industrious and sober man brought the hint of a mocking smile to his lips. It was a wonder what a woman—the right woman—could do. Morosely, he considered his chances as he climbed the stairs to his spartan quarters above Jenson's stable.

      
“Madigan, some kid delivered this for you while you were gone,” old Wilt Blevens said, scratching the half dozen or so greasy gray hairs straggling across his scalp as he hobbled across the livery floor toward the stairs.

      
Rory turned and reached down to take the piece of paper from Blevens' hand. Who would be sending him messages? Rebekah? Mumbling his thanks, he hurried upstairs as he unfolded the note. It was only two lines, hastily scrawled, unsigned.

      
Be at the river road south of town around half past seven. You won 't like what you see.

      
A prickly sense of warning raced up his spine, causing the hair at his nape to bristle. What was going to happen, and who was setting him up to see it? Somehow, deep in his gut, he knew it had to do with Rebekah. He crumpled up the message and tossed it into a corner, then sprawled across his bunk and stared at the cobwebs woven through the crude rafters overhead. Should he go?

* * * *

      
“Are you ready, Rebekah? It's almost a quarter to the hour,” Dorcas called up the stairs, her voice cheerful.

      
Why shouldn't she be cheerful?
Her mother was getting exactly what she wanted. Amos was taking her on a ride around town to show off his fancy new George IV phaeton. He had called twice more at her home the past week, the soul of courtly kindness in front of her parents, seemingly impervious to her attempts to put off his suit. He had made no further veiled threats but rather had turned on his charm, making himself so vulnerable that to refuse this outing would have been tantamount to a churlish insult. As long as he remained polite and made no attempt to kiss or touch her the way Rory had, she would continue to see him. In time, he surely would realize that his plan was doomed to failure and become bored with the minister's prim daughter.

      
She was attempting to enhance that image by dressing as demurely and drably as she could without arousing her mother's suspicions. The yellow muslin dress with its gray jacket and ruffled trim was surely as ugly as anything she owned. She picked up a matching gray bonnet and started to tie it on her head. Ugh! No, it was simply so dreadful that her mother would become suspicious. When Elmira Priddy had given it to her, she had told Dorcas she would never wear the monstrosity. Hearing the carriage pull into their driveway, she tossed the hat aside and headed downstairs. The sooner they took the ride, the sooner it would be over.

      
Once they were out of town on the river road, Amos turned to Rebekah. “You seem distracted, my dear. Is anything wrong? Perhaps, I've been so anxious to show off my new rig that my driving is a bit too fast for you.” Amos reined in the matched pair of Morgans and leaned back against the rich burgundy velvet upholstery of the phaeton.

      
“No, the rig gives a smooth and splendid ride,” Rebekah admitted truthfully, running her hands across the lush cushions. A breeze from the river loosened a curl from the coil of hair at her nape. The evening was so beautiful and the carriage so grand that she would have loved to pull down her heavy mass of hair, letting it blow in the wind as the rig raced full-out across the open river road. But of course, she could never do that, not with a man like Amos. With Rory, though, she could fly, soar like the wind itself. But Rory would never own anything as expensive and elegant as a George IV phaeton.