Broken Vows (37 page)

      
“But he's my son, dammit,” he raged to himself as he pounded his fist against the unyielding walnut desk in the study of his new ranch house. The two-story white stone building was grand indeed, but all that his money had been able to buy meant nothing now that he had a son he could not claim and a woman who still haunted his dreams, sleeping or awake.

      
Her accusations troubled him deeply. The more he had time to consider their parting eight years earlier from her point of view, the less of a crass monetary betrayal it seemed. She had been only seventeen, raised in a rigorously strict religious environment, with parents who hounded her to make an advantageous marriage to Amos Wells. Who could she have gone to when he was hundreds of miles away in Denver? How terrifying it must have been to find herself expecting a child with no husband.

      
Of course, he had pledged to return for her and had sent three letters during the time he was recovering from the attempt on his life. What if she never received them? He would certainly not put it past her conniving parents to have destroyed the letters. And he was gone long enough that she could have believed he would not return.

      
Over the years, Rory had never given much thought to the senselessness of that attack on him. He'd just assumed Bart Slocum and the mysterious companion who escaped after stabbing him were stupid cutthroats after revenge and his prize money. But now, their attempt on his life took on far more sinister implications. What if Amos Wells had dispatched them to get him out of the way, then arrived like a knight in shining armor to propose to Rebekah? Had her family known she was pregnant? They would have moved heaven and earth to make her wed Amos if they knew.

      
It was ironic. If his suspicions proved true, Rebekah had every reason to be as bitter and mistrustful of him as he had been of her. He had believed her to be a shallow fortune hunter. What if she believed he was a faithless philanderer who had seduced and deserted her and left his son at the mercy of a miserable cur like Amos Wells?

      
Rebekah had been fighting tears when she defended her separations from Michael, separations Rory was increasingly certain were forced by Wells, who used the boy to blackmail her. Now, it could appear to her that he was doing the same thing. She did seem to care deeply for her son. If only she were telling the truth about Wells never harming her or Michael.

      
All this may be a fool's wishful thinking. I never have gotten her out of my mind. It's as if she's robbed me of my very soul.
Although it was only late afternoon, Rory poured a glass of fine Irish whiskey and took a sip, savoring the mellow burning as it traveled to his gut, soothing the confused thoughts that tormented him.

      
The key to the tangle lay with Michael. Whether he was right about Rebekah's reasons for deserting him or not, Rory was determined to have his son. And in so doing, he just might learn a great deal about Michael's mother. He smiled and raised the glass in a salute as he gazed out the window at the big corral.

      
“Here's to you, Rebekah darlin'.”

* * * *

Carson City

      
“Please, Mama, please, can—may I go to the market with Miss Mulcahey?” Michael's young face was alight with excitement, which he tried to contain.

      
His precise speech and struggle to restrain his natural boyish enthusiasm made Rebekah's heart ache.
He's being robbed of his childhood by tutors and boarding schools.
“If you promise to do just as you're told, I suppose it will be all right,” she conceded, eliciting a shout of glee that would bring reproof from Amos if he heard it. But her husband was upstairs changing for the reception Hiram Bascomb and his wife were giving that afternoon. She, of course, had to accompany him and could not go to the market with the servants, a chore she normally enjoyed.

      
The market was a colorful hodgepodge, typical of Nevada, a state in which the foreign-born outnumbered natives. Italian and Slovak grocers vied with German butchers and French bakers. Jews, Serbs, Mexicans, and Chinese all hawked their wares amid the overflowing stalls. Rebekah's xenophobic mother had always hated Carson and Reno, not to mention the raucous Comstock towns like Virginia City, all filled with such heathen foreigners. Over the years, as she had broadened her horizons by traveling across the United States, Rebekah had come to appreciate Nevada's diversity. She wanted Michael to grow up in an environment without Dorcas Sinclair's intolerance.

      
Pressing several coins in her son's small hand, she kissed him. “That's to buy yourself a sweet at Mr. Silverstein's confectionery. You be sure to mind Miss Mulcahey.”

      
“I love you, Mama! I wish I never had to leave you or Nevada again.” He hugged her, then dashed off to the kitchen, not seeing the tears that glistened in her eyes.

      
Rory had been following Michael's routine for several days, waiting to approach the boy when his mother was not with him, but there had been no opportunity until this afternoon. He watched as the wagon pulled around the house from the servants' quarters. A small Chinese man drove the team and several domestics, including an imperious-looking Frenchman whom he knew to be the Wells' cook, were chattering as they rode in the buckboard.

      
Michael sat beside a mousy-looking little maid, his small face lit with excitement. Rebekah had allowed him to go for an outing at the capital market. He followed at a discreet distance, his heart hammering in his chest. What would he say to the seven-year-old son he had not even known he had until a few short days ago?

      
Michael loved going to the market. If only his mother could have come, too, it would have been a perfect day; but her young maid was very nice. She had asked him to call her Patsy, saying Miss Mulcahey made her feel too old. She didn't correct his grammar or try to teach him lessons the way Miss Ahern always did, either. Patsy giggled a lot and told him wonderful stories about growing up in Ireland in a family filled with brothers and sisters. Michael thought wistfully about having lots of brothers and sisters. How wonderful that would be. Once, he'd asked his mother why he didn't have any; but it had seemed to make her so sad, he never brought it up again.

      
“Now mind, don't be wanderin' too far,” Patsy instructed her charge.

      
“I'll only go as far as Mr. Silverstein's confectionery. I want to buy a peppermint stick with the money Mama gave me. Would you like one, Patsy?”

      
“Bless yer soul, but I think not today—sweets give me the toothache, you know. But you enjoy an extra one fer me,” Patsy replied, smiling as he scampered off toward the candy shop.

      
Michael secured his treat, then meandered down the busy street, gawking at the sights and listening to the magical sounds of foreign words. Two Chinese merchants were passing time with a game of dice while a fat German woman haggled with an Italian greengrocer over the price of his cabbages. Then, Michael saw the most beautiful matched team of milk-white horses hitched to a carriage across the street. Unable to resist, he stepped out into the dusty thoroughfare intent on looking at them close-up. He stood entranced, sucking on his peppermint stick in the middle of the road.

      
“Golly, they're beauties,” he breathed. Dared he approach and pat them? As he debated, Michael did not see the wagonload of beer casks and its whip-wielding driver rounding the corner from the opposite direction, headed straight toward him.

      
Rory had been working up his courage to approach his son when the scene unfolded in front of his horrified eyes. He jumped from the porch of the apothecary shop where he had been standing and raced down the block, yelling Michael's name. The boy turned in his direction just in time to see the cloud of dust the runaway horses were churning up as their drunken driver sawed ineffectually on the reins. Michael's eyes rounded with terror; but before he could react, Rory was there, sweeping him into his arms and leaping clear of the flying hooves.

      
They landed in the thick reddish dirt beside the boardwalk of the mercantile as the team and wagon thundered by. Rory shielded his son with his body until the danger had passed, then rolled over with Michael in his arms. He placed the breathless boy on his feet and knelt beside him. They both coughed from the dust. Rory trembled.

      
“Michael, boyo, are you all right?” He clutched his son by his slim shoulders, holding him at arm's length, barely able to speak.
I could’ve lost him forever!

      
“Yes—yes, sir. Thank you for saving me,” the boy said between coughs. His eyes focused on Rory curiously. “How did you know my name?”

      
Before Rory could answer, Patsy Mulcahey fought her way through the gathering crowd, screeching like a banshee. “Michael! Are you all right, lad! They said you'd near been run down!” She seized her charge by his arm and turned him to face her, then hugged him. “I told you a hundred times niver to cross a street by yerself.” She tried to sound stern but failed. “What were you doin’?”

      
“It was the white horses, Patsy. I wanted to see them better. They're so beautiful.”

      
“They near got you killed by them other brutes.”

      
“But this man saved me,” Michael said, remembering Rory, who still knelt quietly behind him. “This is Patsy Mulcahey, Mister—?” He waited for the stranger to give his name.

      
As Rory stood up, Patsy looked from the dark stranger's face to Michael's and back. Her eyes widened.

      
Before she could say anything, Rory quickly smiled and answered, “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Mulcahey. I'm Rory Madigan.”

      
“Sure and you are,” she said in wonder. “I've seen you from a distance—durin' yer last election campaign for the Congress. My brother Gabriel was one of yer organizers in the mines.”

      
“Gabe Mulcahey's sister. I should've recognized you,” he replied, hoping he had just made an ally in the Wells household.

      
“Aye, Irish family resemblances are easy enough to spot,” she replied, glancing at Michael. So much made sense now. Her mistress' desperate unhappiness married to a mean one like Amos Wells, and his coldness and lack of interest in his only son. She studied Madigan with shrewd brown eyes. “Mrs. Wells, as well as meself, will be wantin' to thank you for savin’ the boy.”

      
She knows.
The more time he spent around Michael, the more people would begin to remark on their resemblance, which only promised to grow stronger as the lad grew older. It would not matter once Amos was out of the way. But for now, he must be careful.

      
“No thanks necessary. I'm just grateful I was here.” He had a good feeling about Patsy Mulcahey. Turning on his charm, he decided to test the waters. “Gabe was one of my best campaign workers. I could always depend on him.”

      
“Yes, Mr. Madigan, and you can be dependin' on me as well,” Patsy replied with a soft smile.

      
Her meaning was not lost on Rory. “I appreciate that, Patsy. Please, a countrywoman like yourself should call me Rory.” She blushed and nodded. He turned his attention back to Michael. “You like horses, eh?”

      
“Oh, yes sir. I sure do!”

      
“It just happens I own a whole ranch full of them in Eagle Valley, and even part interest in the Jenson Racetrack outside of town. I have a pony or two just right for a lad your size. And one of them is pure white, too.”

      
“A white pony! Really? My father has a big stable but no whites and no ponies.” His expression saddened for a moment as he added, “Of course, it really doesn't matter because I'm not allowed to ride his horses anyway. The grooms are too busy to take me out.”

      
Anger churned in Rory's gut. A seven-year-old boy who'd never been on a horse! The servants had no time. What the hell was that bastard who called himself Michael's father doing that he couldn't devote a minute for his supposed heir? “Maybe one day I can teach you to ride. But first I have to convince your mother.”

      
Patsy chuckled knowingly. “With yer gift of the blarney, sure and she'll be agreein'.”

      
“What's blarney, Mr. Madigan?”

      
Rory struggled to explain. “Well, it's charm, I suppose—a way with people, to get them to like you and do what you want them to.”

      
“Will I ever have it?” the boy asked, his big blue eyes round and guileless as he stared up into his new friend's face.

      
Rory fought the tightening in his throat and ruffled his son's hair. “Yes, Michael, I believe you already do. Now, how about my buying you another of those peppermint sticks? It seems you dropped the one you were eating in the dust.”

      
They walked back to the confectionery, and while the boy went inside to make his selection, Rory took the opportunity to talk with Patsy.

      
“Yes, to your unspoken question. He is my son.”

      
“If I hadn't seen you two right together 'n you holdin' the lad for dear life, I might not o' realized the truth o' the matter.” There were unspoken questions in her eyes, but Patsy would not presume to ask. It was obvious to her that he cared deeply for his son.

      
“I never knew he existed until a few days ago,” he said simply.

      
“Ah, sir, how sad for you...and for Miz Rebekah, too. There's niver been any love lost between her 'n that devil man she married.”