Broken Vows (29 page)

      
Rebekah sensed the change in him. She had never seen her gentle father this way—like an Old Testament prophet. He must never learn the truth about her marriage. She knew he would blame himself. “No, no. Amos treats Michael as his son and heir.”

      
“Yet he hasn't allowed you to spend more than a few weeks at a time with the boy since he was out of diapers. All those governesses, then the fancy Eastern boarding schools. I know it breaks your heart every time you have to send him away.”

      
“It's what Amos wants,” she replied in listless misery. “He was raised in boarding schools himself, and he wants me free to travel with him and be his hostess for political functions.”

      
Ephraim stroked her back slowly, trying to soothe away the despair, knowing he was helpless to do so. “Perhaps if there were more children...having you and Leah helped your mother and me.”

      
When she made no response, he sighed helplessly. “That is no fault of yours, Rebekah. Amos had no offspring with his first wife either. A man can be infertile as easily as a woman.”

      
Thank God Amos could give her no children. If so, he would have disowned Michael. The thought made her blood run cold. “It's for the best, Papa. Perhaps, as you said once, it's God's will.”

      
“Sometimes human beings assume too much and tamper with God's will,” he replied enigmatically. Tentatively, he added, “Madigan's become an amazing success. Have you seen him in Washington?”

      
“Once, briefly, several years ago.” That awful, hateful scene in the embassy garden was etched in her very soul forever. “He's changed. Money and power do that to a man. I never really knew him at all. I was a naive seventeen-year-old girl when I thought I did.”

      
Ephraim sensed the bitterness in her voice. “God forgive me, I failed you.”

      
“You did the best you could for me, Papa,” she replied, trying to smile through the haze of tears as she gazed up into his beloved face.

      
It was starkly anguished as he replied softly, “Did I? Often, over the years, I've wondered.”

* * * *

Virginia City, June, 1878

      
Rory sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up against the heat of the day as he reviewed some accounts from the various mines that purchased lumber from him. Business was still booming, but he knew from previous cycles of boom and bust that the beginning of the end was in sight for the Comstock. The Big Bonanza of 1873 had resulted in such extraordinarily high stock speculation that in January of 1875, a panic set in and the bubble burst. Thousands of investors had been ruined. Some mines closed down and others ceased to pay dividends. The number left had shrunk dramatically.

      
Within a decade, the frenetic cities of the Comstock would become ghost towns. Never directly involved in mining operations or speculation, Rory was unaffected. His timber business already had a solid base of customers on the California side of the state line who purchased lumber for housing. The ranch he had begun as a small sideline now shipped thousands of head of beef and horses to fill lucrative army contracts in a four-state area. He also owned half interest in Jenson's racetracks and had gained quite a reputation as a breeder of prize racing stock. His winning horses brought in fat purses from Denver to San Francisco.

      
After two terms in the United States Congress, Rory had stepped down. His attempts to incriminate Wells in Washington had come to naught, although the strange note from Rebekah during his first term had been prophetic.

      
Possibly it was only a coincidence; but a few weeks after receiving that message, someone had taken a shot at him. It had been early morning, and he had been on his way home from an assignation with Dorothea Paisley when the bullet had grazed his shoulder. Rory had run down his inept assailant, but the assassin was killed in the fight that ensued. He was never able to learn if Wells or the lovely Thea's jealous husband had been behind the attack.

      
In the three years after the incident, he felt he was making so little difference in Washington that he grew increasingly more disillusioned. If he was going to destroy Wells, it would have to be on their home ground—Nevada. The corruption of the Grant administration had been replaced by “business as usual” in the supposedly “reform” administration of Rutherford Hayes. Like his well-meaning and personally honest predecessor, the general, the governor from Ohio was no match for the entrenched system in the nation's capital. Since he had backed fellow Democrat and New York governor Samuel Tilden in his unsuccessful bid for the presidency, Rory felt his usefulness in Washington was over.

      
Amos Wells' banking and mining interests always seemed to survive the vicissitudes of the stock market. He grew richer during the lean periods when so many investors lost everything. However, Rory had been working with influential men in the corrupt Nevada legislature who elected the state's United States Senators. By the time Wells was up for reelection, Rory's wealth was at last sufficient to back another candidate, who had defeated Amos. But to ruin him for good, Rory still needed to blow apart the ex-senator's sterling reputation by exposing the illegal means he used to raise and lower the value of mining stocks—means which had cost Ryan Madigan his life. Then, Wells would not only lose any chance to return to Washington; he would go to prison, possibly even hang.

      
Beau was late. Rory shoved back the ledgers impatiently and stood up, looking out the window. A familiar footfall sounded on the stairs to his second-story office overlooking bustling, raucous C Street. Beau Jenson's beefy red face appeared at the door. His jowls were slightly looser, and the paunch protruding over his belt had grown a bit; but otherwise the passage of eight years had changed him little.

      
Short of breath, Jenson fanned himself and sank onto one of the big leather chairs across from Rory's desk. “Hot as a Arkansas stump preacher talkin' 'bout hellfire.”

      
“Beau, you ought to take better care of yourself. Lose a little of that gut you're carrying around,” Rory said, pouring a tall glass of water, complete with the luxury of ice. He handed it to his friend.

      
“Y'all sound like my doctor,” Jenson replied, sniffing the cold, clear liquid suspiciously. “Gone temperance on me since y'all backed that Republican for senator?”

      
“I'm neither temperance nor turncoat, but you know as well as I that a Democrat doesn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of getting enough votes in the legislature. Forget politics. What about that note you sent?”

      
A crafty gleam lit Beau's eyes. ”Yer hunch was right, Rory—‘bout watchin' the bets Wells' mine supervisors make at our track. Sly Hobart's in debt up to his ass 'n he's a tall sucker to begin with.”

      
“I'm sure he knows about holding miners underground while Wells and his cronies buy and sell stock, but what specifically can he give us that will implicate his boss?”

      
Beau grinned and rubbed his jaw. “If’n I was to tear up his markers, he'd turn over some real interestin' readin'—instructions ‘bout keepin' men below ground until certain transactions was done.”

      
Excitement lit Rory's face. “These instructions wouldn't happen to be written by Wells' own hand, would they?”

      
“I dunno, but Hobart keeps a whole strongbox of illegal records, real secret like. Reckon he figgered to use 'em to blackmail Wells 'n his boys one day. Now, he done found hisself a better use fer ‘em. My boys can be real convincin' when they go to collect on a bad debt.”

      
“Tell him I'll sweeten the bargain with cold cash if he can get me more evidence. I want proof Wells has used explosives to seal off men in those shafts when a big strike was uncovered—proof he's not just a thief but a cold-blooded murderer ” Rory began to pace back and forth across the polished oak floor as his excitement built. “God, Beau, do you know how long I've waited to get a man inside his operation? We're so close I can taste it. He's going down, Beau—Wells and everyone around him.”

      
“And I can see how you relish it,” Patrick said from the doorway of his adjoining office. He had silently taken in the exchange between his brother and Jenson. Although he still spent most of his time in California, their business holdings had grown sufficiently that he also kept a suite in Virginia City, just as Rory had one in his building on the San Francisco waterfront.

      
Rory looked at Patrick and read concern as well as condemnation in his face. “Hello, Patrick. I didn't hear you come upstairs.”

      
Beau's eyes moved between the two brothers. They were a paradox, with faces as alike as if they'd been stamped from a single mold; yet where Rory was Black Irish, Patrick had the fiery red hair of some distant Saxon ancestor. It was Rory who had inherited the volatile temper to match Patrick's hair, while his older brother was calm and methodical.

      
Smiling sadly, Patrick replied, “I've been at the bank for the best part of the morning. I only just now came to the office.” He turned to Beau. “So you have some hard evidence now? When can you furnish it?”

      
They discussed how to handle Sly Hobart and set him to work spying for them. Finally, when the arrangements were made to the Madigan brothers' satisfaction, Beau departed with his instructions.

      
“Once we get enough evidence to send Wells and his friends to prison, it'll be over, Rory. At least, it should be.”

      
Rory's eyes met Patrick's. “What do you mean by
should
be?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and placing his feet on the desk.

      
“You can't deceive me, Rory. Remember who taught you to bluff at poker?”

      
“That was Sister Frances Rose,” Rory said as he toyed with a pencil.

      
“Don't play games, little brother. Your obsession with Wells is as much because of his wife as it is because of Ryan.”

      
Rory scoffed, tossing the pencil across the desk. “And what if it is?” His voice held a dare.

      
“What are you going to do to her? She has nothing to do with Wells' murdering ways.”

      
“You don't know her like I do, Patrick. Just leave her to me.”

      
“I understand they have a small son. He'll need a mother once his father's gone.”

      
Rory shrugged with seeming indifference. “She's had the boy in some fancy Eastern boarding school since he was scarce out of diapers. I doubt he'll miss her.”

      
“She must've really hurt you.” Patrick waited, hoping Rory might explain something of the canker that ate at him, but he could tell by his brother's closed expression that he would not do so.

      
“Since you've been courting your little German dumpling, you've grown too sentimental for your own good,” Rory said, trying to change the subject. His brother's first wife had perished in a cholera epidemic three years ago, leaving him with two small children to raise. Now, he had at last fallen in love again—with a sweet young German widow named Gerta Froelich. “How is Gerta these days? Busy planning the wedding?”

      
“Gerta is fine, and the wedding is all arranged for next month, as you perfectly well know. It might do you a world of good to start seeing some of the eligible young women in San Francisco instead of dallying with the class of females who live here in Virginia City.”

      
“What a prig you've become, Patrick.” Rory laughed mirthlessly. “The women in Virginia City are at least honest about what they do, unlike the fine ladies of my acquaintance from San Francisco to Washington.”

      
“That's because you've always gravitated toward women you knew you could form no lasting relationship with—whores or married society belles. You deserve better, Rory.”

      
“Ironic. Once I thought so, too. But I think I've found my own level. Maybe I like it that way. Be happy with Gerta, Patrick.”

      
“And leave you to destroy yourself? You know I can't do that.”

      
“You can't stop me.”

      
“Rebekah Wells just lost her mother last month—”

      
“Small tragedy in that,” Rory interjected sardonically.

      
“She'll see her husband imprisoned, and their fortune will be lost. Isn't that enough?”

      
“No. It is not.” Each word was enunciated with quiet finality, dropping into the thickening silence in the large office.

      
Finally, Patrick sighed in defeat and closed the door between them, leaving Rory alone with his memories.

* * * *

Carson City

      
Rebekah hugged Michael so tightly that he wriggled like a small fish, trying to get her to loosen her hold as she knelt beside him on the railway platform. The Virginia and Truckee Railroad train was preparing to leave the station.

      
“You're squishing me, Mama. I can hardly breathe!” Michael was tall for a seven-year-old, with a thick mop of curly black hair and wide blue eyes. Those eyes suddenly grew solemn when he saw his mother's tears. “Don't be sad. Miss Ahern will write you every week—and I'll be able to write in cursive myself real soon.”

      
Millicent Ahern, Michael's prim young governess, cleared her throat, indicating that it was time for them to board the train. A small brown wren of a woman, she at least seemed to be genuinely fond of the boy. That was more than Rebekah could say for the succession of nurses and governesses who had preceded her over the years—all handpicked by Amos.