Broken Vows (23 page)

      
She stumbled on a pumpkin vine and Amos took her arm to steady her. “Careful, my dear. You could fall on those pesky vines,” he said kindly.

      
No, her sister and brother-in-law would never have done that, for they wanted the match. And if Amos knew, certainly he would not have come calling with roses for her!

      
“I've given you time, but now I must go to Carson City to deal with the governor and the legislators. Securing an election to the United States Senate is not a simple matter. Then, there are my mining and banking investments to consider. I fear I must have your answer soon, Rebekah. We could be married quietly by your father here in Wellsville, then have a gala celebration to announce our nuptials in the capital.” He stopped at the edge of the garden beneath an elm tree and took her hand between his, waiting expectantly.

      
It's all wrong.
His touch felt cold, alien. There was none of the thrill, the tingling awareness that always flamed between her and Rory. But her Irishman was gone, off in Denver with his ill-gotten gains and his whores, leaving her behind to take care of herself and his child as best she could. Still, all she could manage was, “Marriage is very serious, Amos. Let me discuss this with my father. I'll let you know my decision tomorrow...if that is all right?” She looked up into his cool pewter eyes, unable to read what lay behind them.

      
He smiled and raised her hand to his lips for a brief, chaste salute. “I shall look forward to tomorrow.”

* * * *

      
Rebekah sat huddled miserably in her father's study, unable to meet his eyes, her head bowed, her own eyes red and swollen from weeping. “I'm so sorry, Papa, but I couldn't consider Mr. Wells' proposal without telling you the truth.” She wrung her hands and forced herself to look him in the face. “I don't think I can do as Leah suggested.”

      
“You mean you won't marry Amos?” He had feared this as her story came pouring out, shattering his very soul.
Why, oh Lord, not only me but my favorite child as well, prey to those heathen Irish?

      
“I mean that I must tell him about the baby. I can't enter into holy wedlock with a lie hovering between us. He'd learn the truth soon enough.” Her face reddened, but she was too numb with misery to really feel embarrassment.

      
“Maybe not,” Ephraim began cautiously. “Rebekah, there's an innocent life to consider here. That of your unborn child, a child destined not to know a father's love...unless we can provide one. Amos could believe the baby was his. He would treasure a child—the heir his first wife was not able to give him.”

      
Rebekah looked at her father in shock. “You—you actually mean lie to him—deceive him?” she blurted out, appalled. Her father had taught her about morality and truth, honor, justice—every value she held sacred.

      
Ephraim read the horror in Rebekah's eyes. “Put that way, it sounds wicked indeed,” he said with a sigh as he combed his fingers through his fine silver hair. “I've tried to think of what would save you from heartbreak and disgrace—and your child, who did not ask to come into the world under this stigma. And Amos, too, would be happier if he believed you wed him of your own free will, not because you needed a father for another man's child. I suppose some would call it sophistry, but you need tell no lies—simply omit the truth about who the father is. Certainly, Amos would never think to ask.”

      
“But...” Her cheeks reddened with mortification. “But the baby will come sooner than the normal time...at least, I think...” She could not look at her father now.

      
“A couple of months won't make that much difference. It isn't terribly unusual for babies to come sooner—and even when they do, often they can live. What if this whole sad mistake—or what seems a mistake with that Irishman—is really a blessing in disguise? This might be the Lord's own providence to see that you and Amos come together as man and wife.”

      
“You mean that it was meant to be—that Rory desert me this way?” Her voice almost broke in anguish. “How could a just or merciful God do such a thing?”

      
“Rebekah.” His voice grew stern and he straightened up, pulling his hand away from hers. “Do not blaspheme.”

      
“I'm sorry, Papa, but...I love him so much. We took vows, pledged ourselves to each other before we...” Her voice choked off and she lowered her head, unable to bear the pain of Rory's betrayal as it lashed at her again.

      
“Think, Rebekah. What kind of vows would a man like that consider binding? Only those made before his own priest in his Romish Church. No others hold any fear of retribution for people like them.” Ephraim hesitated as Rebekah stared out the window in mute misery. “There is something I have never told you or anyone else. It happened a long time ago, in Boston. Before I ever met your mother.”

      
A cold sense of dread seized Rebekah's heart. “Does it have something to do with why you seem to hate the Irish so?”

      
His mouth softened a bit and he said softly, “You have always been such a bright, perceptive child, Rebekah. Yes. You see, I fell in love with an Irish girl. She was a servant in my friend's home—a parlor maid. The first time I saw her, I was bewitched by her blue eyes and raven hair. They're the devil's own handsome race, the Irish.”

      
Rebekah's mind at once conjured up Rory's startlingly blue eyes and inky locks. Yes, they were indeed. Her father continued his tale.

      
“I was a young college student, just started in divinity school on a scholarship. As you know, our family was socially prominent; but the money, even back then, was almost gone. I disregarded the pleas of my parents and my peers and courted Kathleen.” He stood up and began to pace restlessly as his tale unfolded. “We—we became lovers, and like you and your Irishman, we pledged undying devotion. But she would not abandon her Romish faith and asked that I give up mine—convert for her. God forgive me, I almost succumbed. But your Uncle Manasseh found out about my trysts with her and told our father. When I was forced to examine my feelings under his more mature guidance, I realized that I could not give up the vocation that I had worked a lifetime to enter.

      
“Neither did I wish to give up Kathleen. Her lack of social station, her being an Irish immigrant—meant nothing to me, even though my family would have ostracized me. I went to her and explained that I had a calling and that I had to answer to the Lord. I asked her to come away with me and marry in my church. We would weather the bigotry of the social elite of Boston. I would even risk being disowned by my family. I still had my scholarship and could finish divinity school at Yale. She cried and she pleaded. She tried to seduce me again—anything to keep me from my resolve. When I said no—and it was not easy—she refused to wed me, saying our vows were not blessed by a priest and were therefore not valid.

      
“She entered a convent. When I tried to intercede, to prevent her from locking herself away for the rest of her life, the sisters there turned me away. Then, her brothers came after me, waylaying me one night on my way home from classes. They beat me within an inch of my life and threatened me if I ever went to the convent again. She took her final vows. I've never seen her since.”

      
Emotionally and physically drained, Ephraim sank onto the big chair behind his desk, shoulders stooped, head resting in his hands. Rebekah looked at him as the silence thickened around them.
He's still in love with her after all these years, and he doesn't even realize it.
That was why he hated the Irish when he was the soul of tolerance for all others. She rose, walked behind the desk, and placed her arms around his shoulders.

      
“Oh, Papa, I never understood. Now I do.”
You never loved Mama. You couldn't.
This also explained Dorcas's bitterness. Her parents had always had a loveless, mismatched marriage. And she was doomed to repeat the same tragic cycle all over again. More broken vows. More heartache.

      
Finally, Ephraim raised his head, and his eyes were filled with tears. “It will all work out for the best—you'll see, Rebekah. It did for me. I'd like to think I've made a difference with my work, serving the Lord. I've had a good and loyal helpmate in your dear mother, and I've been blessed with you and Leah. You can make a good life for yourself, too.”

      
The pleading look in his eyes broke her heart. Never in all her life, not at the funeral of his best friend, not even when her grandmother had died, had she ever seen her father cry.
I'll settle for a life of giving love, never receiving it, just as you have, Papa.
“You have made a difference in so very many lives—too many to count. I'd be proud to be half the Christian and the person you are, Papa. I'll marry Amos.”

      
He reached out and patted her shoulder, then pulled her into his arms for a fierce hug. “You'll see, Rebekah. It will be for the best.”

* * * *

      
The Howling Wilderness Saloon was busy that night. Virginia City was a town that never slept. The deep mine shafts employed heavy equipment to extract ore from rock hundreds of feet beneath the earth where temperatures soared up to one hundred and forty degrees. Miners worked in shifts, coming up at frequent intervals lest they pass out or even expire from the heat. The mining operations never stopped, going on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, when a new bonanza was discovered.

      
Breweries and distilleries were almost as lucrative as the mines. Saloons and their upstairs fancy houses never closed down either. All manner of men crowded into them to drink and disport themselves. The Howling Wilderness was an anonymous place where everyone pursued his own pleasures, and few were so foolish as to question other men about their reasons for being there.

      
He had grown to like it that way, like the smell of whiskey and sawdust downstairs and like the heady musk of cheap perfume and sex upstairs. As he approached the bedroom door for his prearranged assignation, he could feel himself getting excited. The thrill of the forbidden sent chills up and down his spine. English Annie would be waiting for him. He opened the door and stepped inside, then froze.

      
“You're not Annie.”

      
A slender brunette with slitted eyes as old and hard as the ore dredged up from the mines, stared unsmiling at him. “Annie got herself booted out. Too much 'o the pipe, ole Sauerkraut sez. She wuz doped out 'o her haid all the time. Couldn't keep up with traffic.” She sized up his expensive clothes. He was attractive and even clean. A small smile softened the harsh planes of her mouth but did not reach her cold, dark eyes. “I kin make yew happy, sugar. They call me Magnolia. I'm from Alabama.”

      
Her drawl was heavy but sounded more like East Texas than Alabama. He did not argue but closed the door, stripped, and sprawled on the bed. Her body was thin and angular, nothing like the soft pillowy flesh he was used to, but she was a whore—she had better know what to do.

      
Magnolia took off her robe without a flourish. Beneath it she wore only a lacy camisole. When she looked down at him, he was watching her expectantly. And his shaft lay shriveled and limp.

      
”Soo, yew one o' them boys whut's got the guilties over bein' here? Cheatin' on yer wife?” A mirthless laugh bubbled up in her throat, but after one look at his face, she swallowed it. She climbed on the bed beside him and went to work.

      
It was no good. She was no good. He cursed angrily and flung her aside, ripping out several greasy strands of dark hair in the process.

      
“Yew sonofabitch! I ain't no doped-up English Annie,” she spat furiously, rubbing her scalp as she scooted off the bed. “Cain't get it up so yew take it out on me. I don't take no crap from no man—man, hah! Maybe yew ain't a man at all, sugar. Some woman geld yew—yer wife maybe?”

      
He struck her with his fist, slamming her against the rickety chair beside the bed, overturning it. She stumbled back, a scream welling up in her throat, her eyes enormous with fear as she saw the killing rage etched on his face. He was on her before she could get out the cry for help, the fingers of one hand tightening around her throat while he slapped her with the other. She kicked and tried to claw his eyes, but he threw her to the floor as his fury boiled over.

      
“You invoke my wife's name—you, a dirty whore! Call me gelded! I'll see you in hell!” He fell on top of her, knocking her arms aside, but not before her nails scratched the side of his face. His fingers tightened on her windpipe, and he squeezed and squeezed until she was still.

Chapter Eleven

      
The wedding was a small, private affair, for which Rebekah was grateful. Her father married them in front of the altar just a week after Amos proposed to her. Only her mother, Leah, and Henry were present.

      
She had debated about asking Celia, but decided it was unwise. Her friend knew how she felt about Rory and would be upset that Rebekah was marrying Amos. There would have been too many difficult questions about the hurried wedding. In a jealous snit, Celia might even have blurted out something perfectly dreadful to Amos. Rebekah decided that once they were safely settled in Carson City, she would write to her old friend and make up some excuse for what had happened.

      
No one in Wellsville could have any knowledge that she was expecting a child until well after its birth. This perfectly suited Amos' plans to travel from the capital to Washington once his election to the Senate by the Nevada Legislature took place. Their departure also provided the perfect reason for the hasty marriage. Amos wanted to take his new bride with him to meet his influential friends.